The Fall

24

The second Bostock spoke the words, Nicole Wagner saw his two ape-like arms appear at either side of her to grab her in a crushing hug.

She couldn’t believe someone could be so strong. She felt like a little child in his arms. He picked her up bodily so her feet were clear of the ground. Then he was carrying her, half walking, half running. Her head bobbed up and down; she tried to yell but he was holding her around the stomach so tightly she couldn’t even breathe properly.

Instantly she felt spearing pains in her chest.

My God, he’s going to break my ribs if he doesn’t let go, she thought in panic. I’m going to break like a stick!

But immediately after that came the realisation he was going to take her somewhere quiet. Far away from the others back at the amphitheatre.

Eyes bulging, she saw trees swing out at her, then past her as she was carried deeper into the wood.

Uh, and the pain. She felt sick with it. Her ribs and stomach ached so much she wanted to yell out and beg him to stop. Just stop. She’d promise anything.

But he didn’t stop. He carried her deeper into the wood.

To somewhere he knew they’d be alone.

Tears rolled down her cheeks; she was so light-headed; he was asphyxiating her with this murderous bear-hug.

She screwed up her eyes to protect them from whipping branches as he blundered through bushes. The shadows deepened; here and there a stray shaft of sunlight penetrated the canopy like a spotlight to illuminate a patch of earth; dizzy, she saw rabbit holes.

Bostock nearly stumbled when he inadvertently put his foot in one.

Please fall, please fall… she thought desperately. But he regained his balance and moved on. A dead rabbit lay in Bostock’s path; he kicked it savagely aside.

‘You’re too fucking clever for your own fucking good,’ Bostock panted. ‘Who do you think you are? Eh? Fucking Wonder Woman? Didn’t you know I’d be waiting for you, you stupid cow?’

Nicole tossed her head and her long blonde hair tumbled forward across her face.

‘Cat get your tongue, eh? Eh?’

He reinforced each ‘Eh?’ with a muscular hug. Now she felt the vertebrae of her spine grate together under the pressure. Her heart felt as though it was being squeezed like a sponge. Now she couldn’t breathe at all, never mind speak.

‘Here should do just fine,’ Bostock whispered madly. ‘Eh? Just fine, just fine, just fine. Mmm?’

He’d stopped in a small clearing. She rolled her head back; her skull seemed too heavy for her neck muscles to support it. Above her she saw an irregular patch of blue sky framed by branches. A white dove sat in the tree and cooed down at them as if they were fairytale lovers.

‘Just fine, eh? You fucking little bitch,’ Bostock snarled.

She felt his mouth rub against the side of her neck. It was like being nuzzled by a cow. His mouth was sloppy, wet. When he finally relaxed his grip a little, allowing her to breathe, she smelt his body odour, strong and sharply sweaty.

‘I think it’s time for a little play, don’t you?’ His hands rubbed her stomach. ‘A little play, mmm?’

Suddenly he pinched her stomach hard. She writhed in agony.

‘I said, it’s time for a little play. Now did you hear me, you stuck-up little cow?’

‘Yes… yes,’ she managed to murmur. Fear as much as asphyxiation had disorientated her; she felt dizzy, nauseous; the trees revolved around her as if she’d just been out on one hell of a bender.

‘Good,’ he cooed. ‘Now, these.’ He patted her hip where the lycra cycle shorts hugged her like a second skin. ‘Take these off for me, mmm?’

She breathed deeply, her mind clearing. She knew full well what he intended. If she could only get—

‘Ah, ah,’ he said, scolded. ‘No, you don’t. I’m hanging onto you, sweetheart dear. We’re going to have a little play. Then…’ His voice turned guttural with rage. ‘Then I’m going to break your fucking neck. D’ya hear me? Eh? I’m going to fucking break it, then I’m going to fucking bury you!’

‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘Please, don’t hurt me. There’s—’

‘Hurt you? Hurt you? You’re going to wish you were never fucking born. I’m going to—’

Bostock stopped suddenly and gave a little cough. Or at least it sounded like that. Almost the kind of cough you’d make to attract someone’s attention.

A moment later she realised he was no longer holding her. She simply stepped out of his arms.

Bostock was standing there in the centre of the clearing. His face was a picture of bewilderment. She saw him running his fingers over the side of his neck as if he’d felt an insect crawling there. When he took his fingers away and looked at them, his expression turned to one of shock.

She saw the fingers were red with blood. And as he stood there she watched his polo shirt turn from white to red from the collar downwards. Within seconds the whole left-hand side of the polo shirt had turned to that deep, bloody crimson as the blood soaked it.

Bostock’s eyes bulged in shock; his lips trembled as if he was trying to speak, but no words came out.

Stunned, Nicole looked round the clearing. She was alone with Bostock. So what had happened to him?

There was a blur of movement as a figure moved with such grace and speed she could barely take it all in. Instantly there came a swish as something like a stick buzzed through the air.

This time Bostock cried out.

The figure moved quickly to one side and she saw Bostock clutching that plump beer belly of his. He looked down at it as if he was about to witness something marvellous.

Slowly, with one shaking, blood-red hand, Bostock lifted the bottom of his polo shirt to see his stomach.

He gave a sudden shocked yell. Nicole closed her eyes.

But it was too late. The image had already burnt its way into her brain. Bostock standing there clutching his beer gut while his intestines slipped smoothly out through his fingers, sloppy with stomach fluid and blood.

It was quite involuntary. She didn’t want to do it. But her eyes snapped open.

This time she saw a tall figure standing over Bostock, who now lay flat on his back, grunting pig-like.

Again the figure moved with such grace and poise he could have been a dancer.

He was, she saw, holding a long, slender sword. Then, in a strangely delicate way, he assumed an odd pose, holding the sword by the pommel in his right hand, while steadying the blade with just the fingertips of the left hand. Almost comically, the little pinkie of his left hand was cocked outwards as if he was drinking tea at a royal garden party. His eyes were fixed on Bostock, who lay at his feet. Then she saw him jab the sword down at Bostock’s neck.

Bostock himself gave a huge shudder. His feet scuffed the grass as if he was suddenly trying to run as he lay there. Then he was still.

For one lunatic moment she thought the man who’d saved her was Lee Burton. The figure was tall; he wore a cloak. But as she looked again she saw it was no fancy-dress-shop Dracula cloak, but one in brown wool.

With that same grace he bent from the waist, tore up a handful of grass and wiped the blade of his sword clean before slipping it into a scabbard that hung from a strap across his shoulders.

Later Nicole would curse what she did next. It was naff, so embarrassingly clichéd, but it happened anyway.

She fainted clean away on the ground.

‘Is this your vehicle, sir?’ the policeman asked as he leaned into the car. The man’s face seemed huge. And Sam was so close to it he could see the shaving nicks and the lines of bristles that had escaped the blade. Rolls of fat nearly hid the knot of his tie. Sam also smelled the odour of onions beating out from the man’s mouth so richly that he found himself holding his breath, or at least trying to.

‘It is yours, sir?’ the policeman repeated.

‘Yes, officer.’

‘Oh, American, are we, sir?’

Sam gave a tight smile. He would have nodded but to do so would mean he’d end up head-butting the huge face in front of him.

The policeman looked searchingly at Carswell’s white linen suit, then at Jud’s golden waistcoat. Then he turned to look at the Range Rover’s hi-tech instrument panel and CD player.

‘Which button do you press to make it all fall apart, then?’

Sam felt his smile growing increasingly phoney the wider he forced it. ‘Fall apart?’ he echoed, wondering if everyone in 1946 was ever so slightly barmy. Already a crowd had gathered around the car. A boy of around ten had climbed onto the bonnet and was pulling faces through the windscreen.

‘It does fall apart, doesn’t it?’ the constable asked, liberally venting onion breath into Sam’s face. ‘My wife can’t stand ’em, but I’ll be bringing the kids. It’s the smell that puts her off, you know. Smells like dirty britches, she says.’

What the hell was the man talking about?

The man turned his red, razor-nicked face back to Sam so they were only about five inches from eyeball to eyeball. Sam found himself pressing his head farther and farther back into the head-restraint.

‘Although I’ve got to tell you one thing,’ the policeman said, his eyes bulging hypnotically into Sam’s. ‘You’ve come too far.’

Too far? Did the policeman know what had happened to them at the amphitheatre? That a hundred or so acres of dirt and grass had come adrift in time and were carrying with them 50 people, like shipwreck survivors on a raft? But how could he?

‘Quite a bit too far.’ The policeman looked back at the dashboard. ‘I bet this does all kinds of funny business, doesn’t it? Squirting water. Bangs, flashes, smoke. I love ’em. Kids love ’em an all. Pity the wife won’t come. It’s the stink she can’t stomach.’ He shook his head gravely. ‘Never mind, eh? One less won’t bankrupt you, will it now?’

Still smiling a fixed smile that was starting to hurt his cheek muscles, Sam shook his head in a way that he hoped humoured the mad policeman. On the bonnet the boy had stuck both fingers up his nose while shoving his tongue out against the glass, leaving spitty wet smears.

The policeman noticed. ‘Oi… clear off.’ He withdrew his head from the car and made as if to cuff the boy, but the boy had slithered off the bonnet and run into the crowd singing, ‘Nah-nah!’

‘Bloody tyke,’ grunted the policeman heavily and hitched up the belt of his trousers. Then he looked back at Sam.

‘Wouldn’t do to have this thing exploding all over the street, would it now?’

‘It wouldn’t, officer,’ Sam agreed pleasantly while thinking: Please God, won’t anyone tell me what on Earth he’s talking about?

‘Anyway, like I explained. Your lot turned left at the Buttercross. You can’t miss them, they’re all parked in the parish field. That’s the big one down by the bridge.’

Sam nodded and grinned; his cheeks ached outrageously.

He couldn’t stand much more of this lunacy.

The policeman continued, ‘Last I saw, they already had the Big Top up. Besides, you can always follow the elephant shit. Big as bloody cannonballs, it is.’

‘Ah, the circus?’ Sam almost shouted with relief.

‘Yes. You are with the circus, aren’t you?’

‘Of course, yes. We got held up back in… uh…’

‘In Selby,’ Jud chipped in helpfully from the back. ‘This car’s just been shipped in from America.’

‘America?’ The policeman gave an appreciative whistle. ‘It looks a fair piece of machinery.’ He ran his finger along the door frame. ‘Cost a bit, too, I expect?’

‘A hundred thousand dollars,’ Sam said, lying easily now; he felt the circus story would cover anything.

The policeman, however, stopped smiling. ‘How much?’

‘Just our little joke, constable,’ Carswell said.

‘Oh… right, right.’ The constable chuckled. ‘Right, best get you moving or you’ll be late for the show. You will be on tonight, won’t you? I’ve got seats on the front row.’ He touched his nose. ‘I had a word with your boss.’

‘Oh, we’ll be there, constable.’ Sam grinned. ‘You’ll be amazed what this car can do.’

‘I say, don’t over-egg the pudding, old boy,’ Carswell whispered into his ear. ‘Otherwise he’ll be asking for a demonstration right now.’

‘All right,’ the constable grunted. ‘Everyone back. Let the car back up the street. Oi, you!’ The boy had worked his way to the front of the crowd again. The constable used his meaty hand to cuff the boy round the ear. The crowd laughed and backed away as Sam, still smiling fixedly, slowly reversed.

‘Careful what you tell the natives, Sam, old boy,’ Carswell said, smiling and acknowledging the crowd with a regal wave. ‘In 1946, one hundred thousand dollars is an unfeasibly large amount for any kind of car. Even a circus car that squirts water and falls apart every night.’

‘Phew,’ Sam said with feeling. ‘I call that a stroke of luck, don’t you?’

‘Well, if he thinks we are with the circus, you should turn round and at least head in that direction.’

‘Jud,’ Sam said glancing back. ‘Have you seen any sign of Rolle?’

‘None.’

‘Well, I suggest we look long and hard, gentlemen.’ Carswell examined his fingernails. ‘As far as I can see, Mr Rolle is our only hope of extricating ourselves from our predicament.’

‘But the antiseptic cream—’ Jud began.

‘Sod the cream. If we go through many more of these time-slips there’s going to be no-one left alive to use the bloody stuff.’

Again Sam heard the sound of ice and steel in Carswell’s voice. He was a man used to getting his own way. ‘Turn left here,’ Carswell ordered. ‘We can park the car down near the Big Top where, hopefully, it won’t attract too much notice, especially now these hillbillies think we’re part of the fucking circus. Jud, take off that gold waistcoat. We don’t want to draw more attention to us than we need.’

As Sam pulled into the field where the circus had parked its trailers and trucks he noticed Carswell slip something from his jacket pocket.

‘Hell, Carswell. A gun? What the hell have you brought that for?’

‘Why do you think?’ Carswell slipped the cartridge clip from the butt of the automatic. ‘Hardly to show it the sights of 1946. This, dear boy…’ He clicked the clip back into the automatic. ‘This is our insurance cover. Unlike you, I don’t intend to stand arguing the bloody toss with these peasants.’

Sam exchanged looks with Jud as he climbed out of the car. Carswell was going to be big trouble. The only question was, would it be sooner or later?