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

When he had wound it around his waist and tied it securely, he discovered bloodstains – small but noticeable – on the back of his barn coat. Eventually it would have to be burned, but a fire at this season would be suspicious in itself; a long soak in a strong bleach solution would have to do the job – for the present, if not permanently. Pulled out, his shirt hid the rope, although not well.

When he reached the well, he tied one end of the rope to a convenient branch and called softly.

There was no reply.

A louder “Kiara!” brought no reply either. She was still asleep, the horror writer decided. Asleep or, just possibly, unconscious. He dropped the free end of the rope into the well, swung over the edge, and began the climb down.

He had expected the length of his rope to exceed the depth of the well by three feet at least; but there came a time when his feet could find no more rope below him – or find the muddy bottom either.

His pen light revealed it, eight inches, perhaps, below the soles of his shoes. Another knot down – this knot almost the last – brought his feet into contact with the mud.

He released the rope.

He had expected to sink into the mud, but had thought to sink to a depth of no more than three or four inches; he found himself floundering, instead, in mud up to his knees. It was difficult to retain his footing; bracing one hand against the stone side of the well, he managed to do it.

At the first step he attempted, the mud sucked his shoe from his foot. Groping the mud for it got his hands thoroughly filthy, but failed to locate it. Attempting a second step cost him his other shoe as well.

This time, however, his groping fingers found a large, soft thing in the mud. His pen light winked on – but in the space of twenty seconds or a little less its always-faint beam faded to darkness. His fingers told him of hair matted with mud, of an ear, and then of a small earring. When he took his hand from it, he stood among corpses, shadowy child-sized bodies his fingers could not locate. Shuddering, he looked up.

Above him, far above him, a small circle of blue was bisected by the dark limb to which he had tied his rope. The rope itself swayed gently in the air, its lower end not quite out of reach.

He caught it and tried to pull himself up; his hands were slippery with mud, and it escaped them.

Desperately, almost frantically, he strove to catch it again, but his struggles caused him to sink deeper into the mud.

He tried to climb the wall of the well; at his depth its rough stones were thick with slime.

At last he recalled Kiara’s body, and by a struggle that seemed to him long managed to get both feet on it. With its support, his fingertips once more brushed the dangling end of the rope. Bracing his right foot on what felt like the head, he made a final all-out effort.

And caught the rope, grasping it a finger’s breadth from its frayed end. The slight tension he exerted on it straightened it, and perhaps stretched it a trifle. Bent the limb above by a fraction of an inch. With his right arm straining almost out of its socket and his feet pressing hard against Kiara’s corpse, the fingers of his left hand could just touch the final knot.

Something took hold of his right foot, pinning toes and transverse arch in jaws that might have been those of a trap.

The horror writer struggled then, and screamed again and again as he was drawn under – screamed and shrieked and begged until the stinking almost liquid mud stopped his mouth.

NICHOLAS ROYLE

Continuity Error

NICHOLAS ROYLE WAS BORN in Manchester in 1963. He is the author of five novels, Counterparts, Saxophone Dreams, The Matter of the Heart, The Director’s Cut and Antwerp , and one short story collection, Mortality (Serpent’s Tail). A novella, The Enigma of Departure , is forthcoming from PS Publishing.

Widely published as a journalist, with regular appearances in Time Out and the Independent newspaper, Royle has also edited twelve anthologies. He currently teaches creative writing at Manchester Metropolitan University.

“Much of what happens in the story did actually happen in so-called real life,” confirms the author. “I would like to acknowledge Rebecca Healey’s generous help with lip-reading and Michael Kemp’s kind permission to quote from his poetry.”

CHRISTINE RANG MADDOX on his mobile. A little accident, she said. A bump.

“Was anyone hurt?”

“No, no one was hurt.”

He made his way to the side street in Shepherd’s Bush where it had happened. A one-way street temporarily blocked off by roadworks at the junction with Goldhawk Road. Estate agent’s on the corner. Christine had reversed away from the roadworks and at five miles an hour hit a silver Toyota coming out of the concealed exit from the sunken car park behind the estate agent’s.

By the time Maddox arrived, the driver of the silver Toyota was in full magnanimous third-party mode, confident the insurance companies would find in his favour. Maddox hated him on sight. Too reasonable, too forthcoming. Like providing his address and insurance details was some kind of favour.

Maddox’s son Jack had got out of the car and stood staring at the small pile of shattered glass on the road, seemingly transfixed by it. Christine was visibly upset, despite the unctuous affability of the Toyota driver and Maddox’s own efforts to downplay the situation.

“It’s only a couple of lights and a new wing. No one was hurt, that’s the main thing.”

Two days later, Maddox and Jack were walking past the top of the side street. The roadworks had been removed and a car was exiting into Goldhawk Road without any difficulty.

“Is that where the accident happened, Daddy?” asked the little boy.

“Yes.”

Jack stopped, his big eyes taking in the details. The fresh asphalt by the junction, the concealed exit from the sunken car park behind the estate agent’s.

“Is it still there?” the little boy asked.

“What? Is what still there?”

“The accident. Is the accident still there?”

Maddox didn’t know what to say.

They were getting ready to go out. Christine was ready and Maddox was nearly ready, a too-familiar scenario. She waited by the front door, smart, made-up, tall in new boots and long coat, enveloped in a haze of expensive perfume.

“Are you nearly ready, Brian?”

That she added his name to the harmless query was a bad sign. It meant her patience was stretched too thin. But he’d lost his car key. He’d looked everywhere. Twice. And couldn’t find it.

“Where did you last have it?” she shouted up the stairs.

The unhelpfulness of the question grated against his nerves.

“I don’t know. That’s the whole point.”

He started again. Bedroom (bedside drawer, dressing gown). Jacket pockets. Kitchen.

“Have you looked in your box?”

“Yes, I’ve looked in my box.”

They each had a box, like an in-tray, in the kitchen. Christine never used hers, but always knew where everything was. Maddox used his, but still managed to lose at least one important item every day. Wallet, phone, keys. Chequebook, bank card. Everything always turned up, sooner or later, but in this case, not soon enough.

“I can’t find it. I’ve looked everywhere.”

Heavy sigh.

If the atmosphere hadn’t become tense he would jokingly accuse her of having hidden it, of trying to make him think he was losing his mind. But that wouldn’t play now. They were beyond that.

“It’s probably at the flat ,” she said, loading the word with her customary judgmental emphasis.