The Fall

30

Sam had driven away from the man and found himself on a deserted country road. There was no traffic at all. Ahead the searchlights probed the sky.

He’d been driving for barely 20 seconds when he saw a woman walking along the darkened pavement in the direction of town.

The temptation was simply to keep driving into town in the hope he’d find someone else who could direct him to the Rookery. But it occurred to him that the air-raid warning would have driven everyone to the shelters. The streets would be deserted.

He pulled up alongside the woman, who was walking as quickly as she could.

‘Excuse me,’ he called through the open window. ‘I need some directions.’

‘And I need a lift,’ she said quickly. Before he could say anything she’d opened the nearside door and climbed into the passenger seat beside him.

‘What a stinking awful night,’ she said. ‘My bus never turned up. I’ve walked all the way from the base. I’ve done it before during the day but it’s murder at night.’

‘The base?’

‘RAF Casterton.’

He saw the uniform. ‘Oh? You’re a…’ He searched for the word. ‘A WAAF?’

‘That’s right.’ She smiled. ‘And you’re an American? Unless you’re a German spy, of course?’

‘No, right first time. American.’

‘New York?’

‘It shows.’

‘You are a New Yorker?’ She shot him a broader smile. Her lips were painted a vivacious red. ‘I thought I recognised the accent. I work with an American liaison officer from Brooklyn so I reckoned you must be from the same neck of the woods.’

Sam accelerated the car away. He could almost feel his watch against the back of his wrist, beating there like a tiny heart-beat, pumping away those seconds. Again, it struck him he might be too late.

‘I was delayed getting away from the base. You see, I wangled a 48-hour pass so I could be at my sister’s wedding tomorrow in Harrogate. She’s marrying a Canadian flight engineer. There’s a train leaves Casterton at 11; at least now I should make it with time to spare. Thanks.’

‘I need to get to someplace in town called the Rookery. Do you know it?’

‘Rookery, Rookery,’ she murmured, hunting through her memory. ‘Ah, yes. Swish houses on the north side of town.’

‘Houses?’ He’d assumed it was the name of one house.

‘Yes, there are a few of them built around a square. Wowee,’ she exclaimed. ‘Some car you’ve got here… Mr, uhm?’

‘Sam.’

She reached out to shake his hand. He noticed she wore blue cotton gloves to match the uniform. ‘Delighted to meet you, Sam. I’m Ruth.’ She grinned. ‘It’s short for Ruthless. That’s what my brothers always called me when I beat them at tennis.’ She looked back at the dashboard, the instruments all backlit now with a soft green light. ‘But, wow, what a car. I’ve never seen anything like this before.’

‘Latest model,’ he said, driving harder.

‘Military?’

‘Of course.’

‘Mum’s the word. Careless talk and all that. Mind if I smoke?’

‘Be my guest.’

‘You drive fast.’

‘Sorry, I’m in a hurry.’

‘Matter of life and death, huh?’

He nodded.

She sighed. ‘It always is these days. Look at those searchlights. Once they’ve got a Jerry plane in their sights…’ She pointed a finger at the sky as if it was a pistol. ‘Pow, pow. Of course, it’s either them or us.’

He drove along the deserted High Street, noticing that the windows of the shops and houses were covered with a crisscross pattern of sticky tape intended to at least minimise injuries caused by flying glass if a bomb landed close enough to shatter them.

All the street lights were out – deliberately extinguished because of the blackout. In fact, not a glimmer of light shone through the heavily-curtained windows of the houses. For all the world it could have been a ghost town, with no moving vehicles, no lights, no people.

Sam, driving on sidelights alone, hoped a horse or truck wouldn’t lumber out in front of him. At this speed there’d be a God Almighty mess.

‘Deserted again. Bloody air-raid; I hate it when it looks like this,’ she said. ‘Spooky, isn’t it? Oh, take a left here.’

He braked hard, swung the car, and the tyres slid on the ever-present horse droppings that formed a slippery mat on every street.

‘What do all these switches do?’ she asked, looking down at the dashboard as he accelerated along the side street.

‘Lights, heating, CD’

‘Seedy?’

‘No. CD.’ All he wanted to do was be at the house where the murder was going to take place; so without really thinking he hit the play button. Music boomed from the car’s four speakers, the massive bass sound vibrating the steering wheel in his hands.

Startled, Ruth looked round for where the sound was coming from. ‘Wow, that’s loud. Who’s the singer?’

‘Michael Stipe. He’s from an American band called REM.’

‘REM. That’s a new one on me. Is this kind of music popular in America?’

‘It will be.’ Sam gripped the steering wheel. His muscles were tense. He scanned the blackened street. ‘How far to the Rookery now?’

‘It’s just past that church on your right. There! There’s the entrance… just where that truck’s parked.’

Sam turned the Range Rover into another narrow street that opened onto a square lined with big detached houses. These, too, were all in darkness. The only movement was from the trees in the grassed area of the square. They swayed in the breeze.

Sam switched off the engine and killed the lights. There were no sirens now. Searchlights silently probed the night sky. Hanging directly above them, a barrage balloon revealed a silvery underbelly when touched by the million-watt beam of a searchlight.

‘My train leaves in three-quarters of an hour,’ Ruth said, almost warily, as if unsure about Sam now, and why he’d torn through the town’s streets to get here. ‘I’ll start walking.’ She climbed out of the car. Yet, despite what she’d just said, she stood there, holding a small suitcase in one hand as if reluctant to leave.

Sam walked slowly away from the car, all the time looking up at the darkened faces of the houses. It was one of these. This was where a man, a woman and their child would have their throats cut tonight.

Unless, that is, he could stop it happening.

But that would mean he would have changed history. The repercussions would be enormous.

Perhaps he should just walk away now. Let whatever would happen, happen.

Otherwise his actions would alter the future. Even if he could return to 1999, he might find the world completely different because of what he did tonight.

But is a little child going to trigger a nuclear war in 1955?

Would that child from a 1940s Britain have the power to change the world if her life was saved tonight?

Possibly. Often a single individual changed the whole course of history.

He shook his head as he scanned the silent houses. No. Forget the philosophical arguments. He had the opportunity to prevent three murders. That was the bottom line; that was all that mattered.

He couldn’t walk away from here now.

Already he could imagine those foetus-like creatures nodding wisely as their stunted little fingers pressed the keys on their time machine or whatever goddamned mechanism was controlling all this. Ah, yes, they’d say. The human being was a coward after all, and far too ignorant and weak to control events around him.

‘Bastard,’ he said glaring up at the sky. Again that rage he’d experienced earlier roared through him. It was a rage on the edge of insanity. Why are we being subjected to this? Whoever was responsible should have their miserable necks wrung, wrung hard until their eyes popped and they died black-lipped and pissing themselves… That dark engulfing wave of fury… boundless, insane fury swept down on him. ‘The bastards!’

Ruth took a hesitant step towards him. ‘Sam? Are you all right? Sam, don’t…’

But that was when he lunged at her, grabbed her by her jacket and dragged her into the bushes.

She tried to cry out; her eyes were bright with terror in the darkness.

‘Sam, please, I—’

He pushed his palm across her lipstick-red mouth, stifling the coming scream. Her eyes bulged in shock as he pushed her farther back into the branches where no-one would see them from the road.

He looked into those bulging eyes to see a premonition of her own agonising death written there.

‘Shh…’ he whispered. ‘They’ll hear you.’

From the way she blinked Sam saw she wished whoever they were would hear her, then come running to free her.

He didn’t release his grip, holding her in a bear hug with one arm while his other hand still sealed her mouth; he could feel the frightened exhalations from her nostrils blowing against his hand. Her eyes were locked on his, clearly expecting at any moment to feel his hands around her throat.

‘Shh,’ he whispered again, still not taking his hand away. ‘There’s going to be a murder committed tonight.’

Her frightened eyes went impossibly round, like milk-white discs.

‘No,’ he whispered quickly. ‘It’s not you. Don’t be afraid of me. Listen. A family are in danger in one of those houses across there. Do you understand?’

She nodded as best she could with his hand across her mouth.

‘I’ve just seen a man come out of the front door and leave a sack or a bag in the garden. I think he’s robbing the place, so that must be the house. But… but I’m afraid… I’m afraid I might be too late. Now, do you follow me?’

She nodded again. Her eyes looked less terrified now and were fixed intelligently on his.

‘Now, I’m sorry I frightened you,’ he said gently. ‘But I don’t want that hoodlum to know I’m here. Okay?’

A nod again. The breath against his hand was calmer now. He let her go, noticing the lipstick had smeared against one cheek. ‘It’s that house across there. With the green door that’s slightly open.’

She nodded, then asked, ‘Are you a detective?’

He nearly lied and told her he was, then thought better of it. To explain why an American was serving in the British police would become just too convoluted. ‘I was told about this in a bar.’ He shot her a look. ‘I’m just trying to be a good citizen, that’s all… Now… shh… here they come again.’

A tiny amount of light was thrown back from the searchlights by the clouds. It revealed a bulky figure stepping furtively through the door. It carried a holdall of some sorts. Sam heard the clink of glass. The robber was obviously clearing as much as he could carry from the house.

But where were the occupants?

A cold sensation slipped through his stomach. They weren’t making a fuss about being robbed.

That was far from a good sign.

The cold sensation intensified as Sam ran lightly across the street and peered through the hedge between the front garden and the pavement.

Hell, this didn’t look good at all. A man lay slumped through the front doorway. Even in this light he could see that the man wore a grey cardigan. A curved pipe that he must have been smoking when he answered the knock on the door lay on the lawn beside a flower border. A pool of something dark and sticky stretched out around the man’s head on the concrete path.

Sam, peering through the hedge, saw the bulky figure appear again. It didn’t step over the fallen man. Instead the figure stood on the centre of his back as if he was a stepping stone and came out into the garden carrying a large brass bowl.

Sam ducked back as the figure approached the hedge from the other side. He heard the clink of the bowl being carefully eased into the sack to rest among glassware.

But there was another sound too. Sam cocked his head to one side, puzzled.

There was the sound of sizzling. Almost like bacon gently frying in a pan. No, not quite. More like sand being drizzled onto paper. The faint sizzling was continuous. And it was certainly coming from the bulky figure on the far side of the hedge.

Sam glanced back at the crouching WAAF, her eyes bright in the darkness.

She shook her head, as if she’d heard the sound, too, and didn’t know what to make of it.

When the figure had returned to ransacking the house, Sam whispered back. ‘Ruth. Go and wait for me in the car.’

‘Why? You’ll need help here.’

‘No, go back and wait there. If I don’t come out by, let’s see… four minutes from now, sound the horn; it’s the big round button in the centre of the steering wheel. That should bring people out of their houses.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure. Didn’t you hear the air-raid sirens? Everyone’s going to be tucked up in their Anderson shelters.’

‘Well, shout, yell. Do anything to bring the people out.’

‘Call the police, Sam, you can’t—’

‘There’s no time. As I said, I might be too late already. Now, go.’

He waited until she ran crouching back to the car.

Then, crouching himself, he slipped in through the garden gate, up the path, past the prone body of the man (Sam’s shoes made sticky kissing sounds as he stepped in the pool of blood) before he was through into the hallway of the house.

These were big houses.

The staircase curved upwards into the darkness above.

Silence.

Nothing to tell him where the robber would be.

And dark, oh, so dark. It was gloomy enough outside, but here he could see nothing at all.

He turned until his back was against the wall. There he stood for a moment, his heart hammering like a runaway motor.

Where was the robber now? He could be standing there in the darkness, watching Sam while easing a knife from his pocket.

Sam raised one hand to his throat to protect it from any slashing attack from the darkness.

He eased sideways, deeper into the house, his back still to the wall.

Oddly, a smell of wet wool hung on the air. Underpinning that was a sharper tang of body odour. It was far from pleasant and certainly seemed out of place in this upmarket residence.

He worked his way carefully round a table, feeling the boxy shape of a Bakelite telephone and the plaited strands of the fabric-covered handset cable. Then he touched cold metal.

Again it was a boxy shape, with what appeared to be a funnel attached to one side. Like a blind man he allowed his fingers to slide over the object, sensing its metallic smoothness. Then his finger bumped against a lump at one end. A switch… electrical equipment…

Bicycle lamp.

The words flashed through his mind.

Thank God for that, he thought with relief. He gripped the lamp in one hand, then moved forward, muscles tense, ears straining for the smallest sound.

The intruder must be in here, Sam told himself as he inched forward along the hallway. He must be in one of the rooms, plundering more loot.

He licked his dry lips.

The fallen man in the doorway must have been the father. He might already be dead. That left the mother and eight-year-old daughter. Now where were they?

By touch alone he moved deeper into the house.

Ahead lay the greyish tombstone shape of an open doorway.

Cautiously he moved through it, expecting at any moment to hear a yell as the robber saw him.

He found himself holding his breath; his chest ached, and it seemed his heartbeat went thumping through his ribs to echo with horrifying loudness throughout the house.

His eyes adjusted to a little light coming through an uncurtained window-pane.

It took only a moment for him to realise that the glass was set in a door. Strict wartime blackout regulations would have stipulated that every window should be heavily curtained to prevent any interior lights being seen by enemy aircrews, so why was this uncurtained?

Then he saw that the curtain had been torn down and lay in a dark mound on the kitchen floor.

He breathed in at last – and recoiled at the sharp smell of vinegar in the air.

As his eyes adapted to the dim light being admitted by the glass (again covered with a diamond pattern of sticky tape) he saw what looked like flour spilt on the tiled floor. A glass jar lay broken in the centre of a pool of watery liquid: that was probably where the smell of vinegar was coming from. There were newspapers, too. He could just make out a page of The Times with the headline: ALLIED FORCES LAND AT ANZIO.

From the newspaper ran a trail of liquid. It looked black in this meagre light, but he knew instinctively it was blood. As if someone had used a broad decorator’s brush, the dark streak ran across the floor tiles.

Sam’s gaze followed it. He saw a pair of women’s feet; they were bare. He saw trousered legs; then a dark sweater…

He swallowed.

The body of the woman lay face down. Her throat had been cut.

Blood spread out at each side of her head on the floor like inky butterfly wings.

The poor devil had been trying to escape when someone had pounced and slashed her throat. Sam’s eyes had begun to ache from staring into near-darkness and he was tempted to use the bicycle lamp. But a burst of its light would be a sure giveaway to the robber lurking in some other part of the house.

Hearing a sound, he looked up.

There was a rumbling, like distant thunder. He could even hear the faint cracking sound of the air being torn apart.

He knew that this was no thunder. The air raid had begun.

Through the glass he could see distant points of light moving up into the night sky like stars on the run.

That must be anti-aircraft fire. The troops manning the ack-ack guns around the town were firing at the advancing Nazi bombers.

A flicker of light lit the kitchen like lightning. Then came a rumble that rattled the cups on the draining board.

He looked down at the woman’s corpse again.

Where was the little girl?

But already he’d convinced himself he was too late.

So it is impossible to go back in time and change history, he told himself. At some point the newspaperman would take his photograph as he fled the scene.

But where was the killer?

Sam was certain the man was still somewhere in the house.

And the way Sam burnt with anger right now, he was ready to deal out some rough justice of his own.

He glanced at his watch. One minute to 10.30. Then Ruth would play merry hell with the horn.

Not that it mattered now.

He’d failed.

Three people dead.

If only he’d been quicker.

Damn. He clenched his fists.

At that moment, above the rumble of bombs falling far away, he heard another sound. Much closer.

A sizzling sound. The sound of dry sand falling in a steady drizzle on newspaper.

Sam turned to the kitchen doorway.

The sound itself made no sense. He couldn’t identify it. But he knew who was making it.

It was the robber.

He was approaching the kitchen.

Sam looked around for somewhere to hide.

The sizzling sound grew louder.

From behind a washtub and mangle he saw a pair of feet appear. In the darkness they were just ill-defined shapes.

The feet moved towards the door, then paused. The sizzling sound remained constant.

Again Sam had the mental image of sand pouring lightly onto paper. He gripped the bicycle lamp so tightly his fingers ached.

For a moment the feet didn’t move. Maybe the robber knew Sam was there?

Certainly the man seemed to be considering some problem.

Sam could even imagine him looking this way and that, half expecting to see a crouching figure.

But then Sam realised the man must be gazing down at that streak of blood on the floor.

It was puzzling him.

But why? Sam wondered.

Why should he break away from looting the house to come and stand looking at that streak of blood?

Obviously it had been made by the woman as she’d slithered across the floor, her throat cut, as she’d tried to crawl to…

To where?

It was rational to assume she’d make for the door out into the back garden.

If she’d been trying to escape, that was.

But no. She’d been crawling away from the door.

Sam risked looking round the end of the mangle rollers.

Damn. If only he’d brought a weapon of some sort. Then he wouldn’t have had to skulk here like a frightened puppy. Even though Sam was barely breathing he could smell the reek of wet wool again. Clearly it was exuded by the man.

The figure stood with its back turned to him. Just a humped, even headless-looking silhouette in the darkened room.

It appeared to be contemplating the streak of blood. Then it turned to look at a door set in the wall. Perhaps a door to a cupboard or a pantry.

The rumbling became louder. Somewhere a dog started a frenzied barking. A series of tremors from the exploding bombs raced through the house, rattling crockery and shaking the pictures on the walls.

Then a sudden silence fell once more. Sam could hear his own breathing.

At that moment he and the figure reached the same conclusion.

The woman with her throat cut had been trying to reach that low door set in the wall. Because—

The humped figure moved forward towards the low door.

Because that was where the little girl had hidden herself.

Sam stood up as a flash of light filled the kitchen. It was a cold, bluish light; it flickered, transforming what he saw into something resembling a scene from an old silent movie.

The walls switched from being brilliantly illuminated to being plunged into darkness then just as quickly lit again, as if a brilliant strobe light had been switched on outside the back door.

In an instant, the figure had dragged open the cupboard door.

Sitting on the pantry floor, knees hugged to her chest, was a small girl.

This was it.

Sam moved like he’d been shot from a cannon.

‘Don’t you touch her!’ he shouted as he ran across the kitchen floor.

The moment the figure turned to face him, the blue flickering light went out.

Instant darkness.

Sam stopped.

The only thing he had in his hand was the bicycle lamp. He pointed it towards where the figure had been while twisting the switch on top.

The yellow light flashed in the robber’s face.

The sizzling sound suddenly increased in volume.

Sam stared at the face.

A shout sounded in his ears.

And he realised that it had been he who’d made the sound. Because there, in the trembling light of the lamp, was the intruder’s face. The sight of it stopped him dead.

It was a large, distorted face; almost a demon-like caricature rather than recognisably human. The nose was beak-like and stubble bristled sharply across the jaw. A heavy blue tattooed line ran across the upper lip, following the same contour as a moustache would. More vertical tattooed lines ran from the bottom lip down to the line of the chin to create a blue beard effect.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. That wasn’t what shocked Sam Baker to the marrow of his spine.

Standing out from the man’s face were three snakes. They swung slowly from side to side, tongues vibrating from their mouths; that sizzling sound turning into an angry hiss.

Sam took an involuntary step back and thumped against the kitchen table.

He couldn’t take his eyes from that face.

The snakes protruded from it as if looking out of holes in a statue’s head.

One snake came out of the man’s temple like a rubbery horn.

A second came from his forehead, just below the hairline. A third – most shockingly of all – actually poked out from the man’s left eye socket, just where the eyeball should have been.

The little black bead snake eyes set in greenish snake heads were hypnotic. The tongues quivered as the hissing grew louder.

At the same time the man’s own tongue came out, aping the snake tongues, quivering too. His single eye stared at Sam: unwavering, mean, hostile.

The figure moved.

In one lightning movement, the man grabbed Sam by the throat. Effortlessly he pushed Sam back until he lay flat across the table.

The next second the man raised his free arm. Sam saw in the faint light the gleam of an axe head.

Sam knew he’d only a moment before his head was hacked from his body.

Falling bombs rumbled. Cutlery rattled like nervous creatures in the kitchen drawers.

Sam twisted his head while trying to reach up and grab the arm that held the axe. The arm was thick, muscular.

The man leaned over him, then brushed Sam’s hands aside like he was a child.

The snakes stretched out from the man’s head, trying to bite Sam’s face. The eyes glinted. The furious hissing seemed to drown out the sound of exploding bombs.

Suddenly music crashed through the house.

Sam shook his head, trying to make sense of it all.

The air raid. The snake-faced man.

Now the sound of Meatloaf’s ‘Bat Out of Hell’ was coming through the house in tumbling waves of crashing guitar chords. Pumping bass notes vibrated the windows, drums sounded like worlds colliding: it all came in one hellish extravaganza of sound. Then the operatic vocals came battering over the top of the music.

The music surprised the man, too.

His head jerked up as he listened.

Sam seized his moment.

With one hand free he reached up, grabbed the snake that grew from the man’s eye socket and pulled.

The man bellowed in pain.

Sam pulled harder; the snake’s body stretched as if it were rubber. He could feel it wriggling inside his clenched fist, squirming, contracting, expanding as that thick, warm body of muscle, bone and sinew tried to wriggle free.

He pulled harder.

The man screamed in agony. Even so, he brought the axe down wildly.

Sam jerked his head sideways as the blade glanced against the side of his face and buried itself deep in the wooden tabletop.

Now the man clawed at Sam’s hand. But Sam wasn’t quitting. He pulled at the snake, raising a pyramid of skin from the man’s face.

Now blood began to seep from where the snake body joined the flesh of the man’s face.

Sam tugged harder.

The blood trickled like red tears down one cheek. The man shrieked.

And as he shrieked he tried to drag the axe blade from the table.

The music grew louder. At least the drumbeat did, or maybe that was the sound of the exploding bombs fusing with the music.

‘Run!’ Sam shouted. ‘Run!’

Behind the snake-faced man came a light flurry of movement.

Sam lifted his head to see the little girl in her white nightdress run through the kitchen door.

The snake-faced man released his grip on the axe handle: the blade wouldn’t shift.

As if swatting away a fly, he flicked his hand across Sam’s cheek.

The blow knocked Sam’s head sideways. He heard his own teeth crunch.

Immediately, he let go of the snake.

Panting noisily, the man gripped the axe handle with both hands to rock the blade free.

Dazed, Sam rolled off the table and ran for the door. He was part-way through it when the blade buzzed through the air and smashed into the door frame.

Sam ran harder: out of the house, over the prone body of the girl’s father, down the garden path to the gate.

Running across the square was the little figure of the girl in white.

As he ran after her he saw another figure. It raised its hands.

He expected to see the axe again. But this time there was a flash.

Sam paused for just a split second to see the newspaperman he’d seen in the pub – the man with the Buddy Holly glasses. The man lowered his camera and stared at Sam, obviously fixing his face in his memory.

The newspaper man stepped back into the shadows as the burly shape of the intruder crashed through the gate, the axe in his hands.

Sam ran after the girl. The axe-man followed.