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

“What situation is that?” Martin was angry and expected an answer, but none came. Instead, the watchman motioned him to step ahead and lead the way across the Great Hall. Martin, on the verge of defying him, hesitated. And then it was too late. There was a hint of malice in the watchman’s steady stare that persuaded him to swallow his pride and obey. He went ahead, but it was a mistake. He felt like a schoolboy . . . or worse. The faint jangle of keys at his back compelled him to think of the watchman as his jailer which, in effect, he was. There was no way out of the Castle without him.

The lights in the exhibition cases suddenly went out and he stumbled. It betrayed his nervousness, and he felt foolish because there was enough pale greyness in the air from the arrow slits in the Castle wall to show him the way to the next chamber. He apologised for the stumble.

“And they call me clumsy!” There was a bitter edge to the watchman’s voice. “Some of ’em reckon I’m a bungler, but not one of ’em would do the job I do. Never. They haven’t the nerve.”

“I suppose it’s the night work they don’t like.” Martin was sympathetic, but the response was a laugh so harsh he felt the back of his neck crawl.

“It’s not the night they don’t like – it’s the morning! It’s what has to be done when the sun comes up – that’s what makes ’em go all lily-white.”

Martin manoeuvred so that the watchman was no longer completely behind him but alongside. “What is it they have to do . . . in the morning?”

“They have to open up the place, don’t they? But there’s one door in particular they don’t want to open, ain’t there?” The bristled head turned towards him. “And you know what door that is, I reckon.”

Martin did know. It was suddenly obvious what was happening. The nightwatchman had detected his anxiety and was putting him through something that happened several times every day. The old Castle, in more recent times, had been a prison and parties were conducted through what little remained intact of those brutal days. It was an entertainment. The guides made the prison tour as gruesome as they could, and there was one place in particular where to be told of the unlocking of a door at dawn gave tourists a ghastly thrill.

“It’s the door of the execution chamber,” said Martin.

“You got nerve, son. A lot of people in your shoes don’t want to know about it.”

“In my shoes?”

“You’re standing there talking about it when you know what’s coming.”

Martin was ignorant of what came next. It was his guide who knew what would happen.

“I can open that door and I don’t feel a thing,” said the watchman, “but some o’ them others always jib at it.”

The man loved his work. His grim pleasure was to make people fear him. Dread at being alone in the Castle with such a man must have shown in Martin’s face. Jack the watchman detected it.

“There’s nothing to worry about, son,” he said. “I’m good at me job.” His chuckle was a rasp as if he was clearing phlegm. “None of me clients ever complained . . . yet.”

Too much talk of death. Martin was caught up in the night-watchman’s world. He was losing himself, as if he was a scared child.

Too much like a child. He wanted to be safe at home . . . with his mother and father, as if they were still alive.

He and the watchman had entered part of the Castle where each room led into others in a confusing honeycomb. “It’s very late.” His mouth was dry and, like the terrified boy he had become, he had to lick his lips before he went on. “I don’t need to fetch my papers from down below, I’ll just leave straight away.”

He had begun to cross the room before he realised he did not know which way to go. The honeycomb was a maze and he was not sure which archway led to the foyer and the outer door. To take the wrong one would make confusion even worse.

He paused, and turned. The watchman had not budged.

“Lost your way, son?”

“If you could just point me in the right direction . . .”

“And even then you wouldn’t get far without these.” The watchman, smiling, held up his bunch of keys and jangled them softly.

The room was a picture gallery lit only by the blue glow of the emergency lights close to the floor. Martin felt its dimness close around him. He was trapped. Then the watchman spoke.

“Nothing to worry about, son. You’ll be out and away in just a few minutes. I can guarantee you that.”

And Martin’s head sagged with relief. Jack the watchman was playing a game with him. He was still acting out the daytime tour to give him an idea of what the Castle meant to those who were not allowed the privileges of scholars.

“I’m tired.” He yawned and his eyes were closed as he listened. The watchman was still playing his part. He had the voice for it; harsh and without pity.

“Some of them tell me they’ll be glad when it’s all over. After all that time down in them dark dungeons they come up here as quiet as lambs. They don’t even want to go for that little walk on the roof that we just had. Everyone knows I always offer – but some just don’t want me to take ’em.”

There was silence. Martin kept his eyes closed. The nightwatch-man would see that he was not afraid. The game was over.

“You know where you are, son.”

He did know. More than a hundred years ago this picture gallery had not existed. It had been part of the prison.

He felt a hand on his arm. Jack the watchman changed his tone. He gave orders. “You’ve had your walk, lad. Now it’s time to go.”

The grip tightened, and Martin opened his eyes.

The light in the room had changed, but that could only be the effect of having had his eyes closed. The light was yellow, like the pale glow of candles, and the walls were dull and seemed to have closed in. The ceiling, too, was lower, and in the centre of the room was something he had not noticed. At first he took it for an open doorway until he realised it was no more than a doorframe, freestanding in the middle of the floor.

He opened his mouth to ask a question when, from one side of the room, what seemed to be a group of people entered in single file, gliding silently until they stood behind the open doorway. It was then he saw that the framework was no door. It was a gallows. A noose hung from the centre beam.

It was all a trick. The figures were no more than a shadow show, a projection on the wall to entertain visitors. And only the nightwatch-man could have switched it on. Martin moved to tell him so, but before he could even look over his shoulder his arms were forced together behind his back and his wrists were bound.

He opened his mouth to cry out but the cord at his wrists was twisted and bit into his flesh with a spasm that arched him backwards.

“It’s no good, lad.” The watchman’s voice rasped in his ear. “You know you got to go through with it.”

He gritted his teeth. “Go through with what!”

“You should never have done what you done,” said Jack. “You knew this was coming.”

And in that moment Martin did know what lay ahead. Every sinew in his body tautened and he twisted. He felt his shirt sleeve rip, and he backed away. But he got no further than a single step. He stood against a stone wall. Cold stone. And the floor was stone. Except for the wooden flap of the trap in the centre, under the noose.

“It ain’t no use.” It was Jack’s voice.

There was no way out. He had slipped from century to century. Even his clothes were different. His prison shirt had been torn in his struggle. His feet were clammy in the cold leather of his shoes. The gallows were in front of him and there was nowhere to go.

“You know you got to go through with it, lad. You was a naughty boy, wasn’t you?”