Stephen (ed.) - The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 18

“They all say that, son – but they go for the long drop just the same.”

“Do they, indeed?” Martin had not been aware that any suicides had chosen to leap from the battlements. He said so.

The man merely grinned. “There’s several been for the high jump hereabouts.”

“But surely not recently?” Martin had not seen the man before but he was obviously an attendant at the Castle. He had an air of authority, and at this hour all visitors had long since gone.

“Maybe not recently, but we do keep a record of all of them who come here to end it all.”

“That’s bizarre . . . I had no idea.”

“We keep a book.” The man was thin and his shaved head and hollow cheeks were frosted with a grey stubble. “We make a note of the names, and someone has to sign to say it happened. It’s our duty, Mister Glover.” The emphasis was deliberate and his smile seemed to invite Dr Glover, the scholar, to correct him, but Martin merely smiled back. It was too late in the day to stand on his dignity, and maybe he did look too young to hold a doctorate.

As a historian, he had been granted the freedom of the records kept in the Castle museum and he had been given space to work in what must have been the dungeons long ago. He had climbed to the battlements for a breath of fresh air before leaving. Now he glanced at his watch. It was later than he thought. “The Castle must have closed long ago!” he exclaimed.

“Locked and bolted some time back. Maybe you didn’t want to hear us making the last rounds . . . had your hands over your ears, maybe.” The man’s smile was watchful.

“Why should I not want to hear?”

“Matter of opinion, son. Some don’t want to hear me coming.”

Martin laughed. “People like me, you mean – too busy with their lives to want to stop work.”

“If that’s the way you want to think of it, son.”

The man’s dark clothes were slightly shabby, and not what Martin expected of a museum attendant, particularly the loose leather jacket, sleeveless and rubbed smooth with wear. Dress regulations were plainly relaxed for night staff.

Martin, suddenly embarrassed by his own silence as he studied the man’s clothes, said, “I have to apologise. You must have stayed on late to let me out.”

The attendant was amused. “That’s no problem at all, son. We keep a night watch hereabouts.”

“Nevertheless . . .” Martin began, then changed his tack. “Well I must be on my way and let you get on with your night’s work . . . your patrols, or whatever you have to do.” He nodded towards the large bunch of keys in the man’s hand, “Locking up, and that sort of thing.”

“Locking up . . .” The thin smile pushed up wrinkles that turned his eyes into watery slits that glinted in the last of the sun. “Plenty of that, oh yes.”

Martin grinned a shade uncomfortably with the golden glint of the eyes on him. “I hope you can unlock doors as well as lock them or I shan’t get home tonight.”

“Enjoy the fresh air while you have the chance, Mr Glover .” The man still mocked his name, as if to deprive him of his title.

Martin made a mild attempt to correct him. “You haven’t chased me off the roof,” he said, “so I imagine my name is on a list of people allowed behind the scenes.”

It had no effect. “There’s always a list, Mr Glover, always a list.”

“Well I’m very pleased to be on the right one.” Suicides were still on Martin’s mind. “But I’m afraid I don’t know your name, Mr . . .”

“Me name is Jack, but that don’t matter . . . you won’t be around when I’m here next.”

That could be true. Martin, the historian, had almost finished his work among the records kept in the old dungeons, but it rankled that the nightwatchman was dismissing him so curtly.

The man had turned away and the sunlight no longer showed his face. “We’ve had our glimpse of daylight,” he said, “so now it’s time to go.” Another order, but Martin had no reason to disobey. He had had a profitable day and his laptop held many files that would fill out the detail of his research.

He crossed the roof and began descending the stair into the heart of the Castle. Above him keys rattled as the door to the roof was locked. It seemed an unnecessary precaution. No thief could possibly scale the Castle walls to make an entry, but perhaps locking up was a measure to prevent people coming out onto the roof from below . . .

“Suicide . . .” The nightwatchman’s voice broke into his thoughts. “You’d be surprised at how often it’s in their minds when I bring ’em up here.”

Martin turned and looked up. A skylight at the top of the steep stair framed the foreshortened figure of the nightwatchman as he came down. He was as squat as a frog.

“As you work nights,” said Martin, “you don’t take tour parties up here so I suppose it’s only the odd person like me who is allowed on the roof alone.”

“That’s right. People just like you . . . but the ones you’ve got to watch is them who’ve got out of the habit of daylight, if you know what I mean.” No, Martin did not understand him, but the descending figure was pressing him and he had to turn and continue going down. “I take ’em up as a kindness, so as they can see the world spread out on every side, but it’s then I’ve got to watch ’em most of all . . . talk about trying to cheat the hangman!”

The nightwatchman was laughing as they came down to the open floor that had once been the Great Hall of the Castle. Martin pushed thoughts of suicide out of his mind, but for a moment he trembled and felt very small at the edge of the huge emptiness. Without its daytime visitors the Castle brooded on too many secrets, and even though the museum exhibits in their glass cases were still illuminated and shed a familiar and friendly glow, the ceiling high overhead was a shroud of darkness.

He turned to the watchman. “I wouldn’t blame you if you kept these lights on all night.”

“Not up to me, son. They go off all by theirselves.”

“Then I imagine you are pretty lonely, Jack.” It was the first time he had used the man’s name, but it sounded ingratiating as if he sought companionship in facing a childish fear of the dark.

“I wouldn’t say lonely. I’ve always enjoyed my work.”

“I mean there are so many strange things here to work on the imagination.” Martin turned and marched swiftly to where an iron grating was set in the centre of the floor. “Take this, for example.”

They stood on each side of the grating and looked down. A vertical shaft had been cut through the rock and they gazed down through the long funnel that had been rigged with lights but nevertheless ended in darkness far below.

“I know it’s only a well, but it’s dark down there at the bottom. Gives me the creeps.” Martin shuddered. The well had always made him uneasy even when, feeling like a child himself, he had stood among crowds of children kneeling on the grating to let pennies fall into the darkness. He stepped back. “Too big a drop for me,” he said.

The watchman did not appear to have heard him. He stood with head bent, contemplating the depth of the pit, and the light from below emphasised his heavy brow, the spread of his nostrils, and the severe line of his mouth as he concentrated. “Yes,” he said, and blew out his breath in a grim chuckle. “I’ve seen men sprung apart in a drop not half so big as that.”

“Sprung apart? What does that mean?”

“Don’t ask . . . or I might tell you.” The watchman lifted his head and the shadows flung up from the light below distorted his smile. He was gloating at the thoughts he had put into Martin’s mind. “It’s not something a young feller would want to know about – not in your situation.”