The Magic Cottage

COMPANY

WE WERE SITTING side by side on the bench around the back of the cottage, Bob and I, six-pack between us, the sun beginning to glow red. The evening was warm and bumble bees still droned, not yet ready for bed. Our girls were downstairs, tossing salad, slicing ham and probably making a lot of fuss over what was supposed to be a simple meal.

Bob poured himself another beer, surveying the darkening forest opposite. He shook his head. "It's so fucking rural."

I grinned at his discomfort. "I'll take you for a walk in the woods tomorrow morning."

"Not without a long string, you won't." He drank and settled back, squinting up at the sun, then quickly averting his eyes. "Don'tcha find it aggravating, all this peace and quiet? I mean, it's great an' all that, but doesn't it piss you off after a while?"

"You get used to it," I told him.

"Yeah, but don'tcha miss . . ." he searched for the appropriate word ". . . life?"

"There's plenty of that around here if you care to look."

"No, not that kinda life, not nature. I mean—life. Something to do."

"Funny enough, that hasn't been a problem. Sure, I get restless now and again—that's why I enjoyed our session so much this week—but we're close enough to Big Smoke to jump in the car and drive up for the evening."

"And how often have you done that since you've been here?"

"We've only just settled in, Bob. We haven't had time to start yearning for bright lights again."

He wiped a beer dribble from his chin. "Yeah, well, you could be right. This could be the ideal way to spend out your days, listening to the grass grow, watching the birdies build their nests. You could start weaving baskets for a bit of extra cash."

I chuckled at the wind-up. "If you think I'm gonna stand a whole weekend of this . . ."

He slapped my thigh, enjoying himself. "Only kidding, Mike, honest. I think you've made a good move, to tell you the truth. Might even do the same myself one day; I'll wait for a few gray hairs to come through first, though. Hey look, there's that bloody squirrel again. He don't care, do 'e?"

Rumbo had hopped into view from the embankment side of the cottage, obviously still curious about our company for the weekend. He'd been on the doorstep when Bob and his girlfriend had arrived an hour or so earlier, and had scuttled away, keeping his distance but not disappearing altogether. I was pleased that he seemed to have overcome his shock earlier in the week. However, I hadn't quite got over mine yet.

I'd toyed with the idea of confiding in Bob about what had happened on Thursday last, but somehow I couldn't imagine my old drinking buddy taking me too seriously. In fact, I knew bloody well he'd hoot his head off. Why hadn't I told Midge of my night excursion to confront that sinisterly beckoning figure? Because she was too full of a new expectancy (connected with Mycroft, of course), the episode with the "moving" painting already pushed to the back of her mind, and things between us were still a tiny bit strained. Press me harder and I'll tell you I had a few doubts about myself by now. I was no longer certain that I wasn't suffering from some form of mental aberration (call it new-environment neurosis if you like); it all seemed so unreal and fanciful in the cold light of day. To tell the truth, I'd decided to bide my time, see what developed. There was really little option to do otherwise, anyway.

Rumbo came closer, one eye on the stranger in our midst. Bob clucked his tongue as if encouraging a dog or a baby, and the squirrel's head jerked up; he regarded Bob with some curiosity for a short time, then boldly leapt onto the garden table where two empty beer cans had been left.

He peered into the triangular hole of one, almost toppling the can over. Steadying it witty his paws, he licked beer residue from the rim, much to Bob's delight.

"Love it, love it!" Bob shrieked. "An alcoholic squirrel. I can see you've done your best for pest control, Mike— turn 'em into alkies and let 'em drink themselves to death."

"Rumbo's no pest; he's one of the family."

Bob gave me an old-fashioned look, then grinned. He made no further comment.

I'd been looking forward to their visit, had, in fact, been slightly on edge with anticipation all day—a good feeling, I might add. Bob and Kiwi, and Big Val, who should be arriving at any moment, were our first invited guests to Gramarye, and Midge and I (despite her earlier reservations about Bob) were taking great pleasure from that. Now I was beginning to relax, the second beer and my friend's amiable company helping me settle. Rabbits had turned out for their before-bed frolics, although this evening they kept well clear of the cottage itself as if sensing there were strangers about, and a few birds flitted around like late-night shoppers. The breeze was minimal, and even that carried warmth with it.

I sipped beer and soaked up the atmosphere.

We had more drinks in the round room before dinner, all of us together this time, Midge sticking to lemonade and soda while the rest of us indulged in the stronger stuff. Her agent had arrived twenty minutes earlier, desperately in need of a stiff gin and tonic to help her get over the journey down. Big Val and Bob had met on one or two previous occasions and the banter between them had always been on a basis of jovial hostility. Bob liked women to be most definitely feminine and nonaggressive—Kiwi appeared to be a paragon in this respect—so Val was something of a problem for him. He started off by complimenting her on her heavy country brogues—"just right for yomping through pigshit," as he put it. She returned the compliment by admiring his pink leather tie—"ideal for throttling," she suggested.

Opening pleasantries exchanged, Midge and I toasted the health of our first "official" guests, and they in turn toasted our future happiness at Gramarye. We chatted generally for a while, but it was obvious that Val was impatient to inspect her client's latest work—her eyes had lit up when she'd walked in and spotted the drawing easel on the other side of the room—and she lost little time in sauntering over to it. The picture of the cottage was still taped there to the board, covered against dust by thin layout paper. I hadn't looked at it again since Thursday, but I watched the agent as she lifted the sheet, interested in her reaction. I don't know what I expected, but a frown wasn't it.

I caught the expression because I was watching closely; the frown quickly passed and Val smiled.

"Splendid," she opined. "Absolutely splendid."

For her, as a hard-bitten twenty-percenter, well used to works of excellence, that judgment was pretty nigh over-the-top, and Midge beamed gratitude.

"It's not for sale or anything," she said quickly. "Just something for Mike and me, a sort of reminder of our first weeks here. Gramarye's initial impact on us before we got too used to everything. You know how easy it is to eventually become blunted to even the loveliest things around you."

Val continued to study the painting as Bob and Kiwi crowded behind her.

"Oh yeah, that's something else!" Bob declared in his genuinely impassioned manner. "Take a look at it, darlin'. Now that's what you call bloody art. Not crumpet with one boob and three legs and a nose where an earhole should be."

"You obviously know what you like, Bob," said Val dryly.

Unsure of her, he nodded. "I like to know what I'm looking at.' And he looked too meaningfully at Val.

"How're the posters Midge did for the agency coming along?" I asked, to change the subject.

Val disengaged herself from the other two around the drawing board. "I've got first proofs in the car, actually— minis, of course, just for color correction. I thought we could look at them tomorrow, Midge, and you can mark any comments on them." She, too, was staying over, and working out sleeping arrangements hadn't been easy.

"Fine," agreed Midge. "Can't wait to see them."

"Bear in mind they're only first proofs. We've plenty of time to put them right."

"That sounds ominous."

"I know how particular you are. The art director's pleased, by the way. As a matter of feet, he's got more work lined up for you, but we'll discuss that tomorrow, too. Oh and Hamlyn want to discuss a new book."

"Seems like the heavy season's coming on," I remarked.

"That time of year, I'm afraid. Clients want to put work in progress before they go off on holiday."

"I'm still not ready to take on too much," warned Midge.

"We don't want you enjoying the leisures of country life for too long," said Val, flopping down on the sofa. "A lot of people would be very disappointed, especially your junior fans."

"Not to mention your friendly bank manager, God bless him," chimed in Bob, sitting deliberately close to Val so that she had to shuffle her broad bottom further along. "I suppose we are going to eat tonight, aren't we, or has Band Aid got to do another record? And I see the booze is running like glue." He waggled his almost empty glass at me.

With friends as obnoxious as Bob, any enemy could only be sweet. But I was used to him; he was an old habit with me, and they die hard, don't they? Besides, I knew part of his act was for the benefit of Val: he liked to rile anyone he couldn't get the hang of.

Kiwi tutted disgustedly at him, flicking her blonde hair back behind one ear. "Sometimes your manners are just an embarrassment," she scolded, nevertheless kneeling, then squatting on the floor beside him.

"It's my coarseness that makes me so lovable, am I right, Mike?"

I took the glass from him, replying, "Yeah, adorable. Same in here again?"

"A little heavier on the vodka this time. I'm not driving tonight."

"It makes a difference?"

He draped an arm around his girlfriend and smiled that close-lipped smug smile of his, the cat who'd not only had the cream, but knew there was more to come.

I sent out the mental message to him: Behave yourself tonight, pal, and don't let me down.

He didn't really. What happened later was only partly his fault.

Dinner was a great success.

The more wine we consumed, the more the conversation flowed. Bob and Val soon began to get the measure of one another, each jibe and riposte becoming more humorous and less antagonistic as the evening wore on. Salads were never my favorite fodder, but as Midge's agent was strictly vegetarian the menu had to suit all parties; besides, there was plenty of cold meat for us carnivores. The warm weather—we were seated around the kitchen table (spruced up somewhat by a lace tablecloth and red candles and things) with the outside door open wide to catch any breeze drifting our way—made such a meal even more appropriate. Kiwi proved to be a lot brighter than she looked (she refused to disclose how she had acquired that nickname, incidentally, but Bob hinted heavily and somewhat lasciviously that it had something to do with boot polish), and had no inhibitions whatsoever about telling us of her earlier years as a rock-band groupie (there's a great sociological study to be made some day by some learned professor on this particular species, because their motives are not entirely what you might expect).

More than once during the dinner I found myself watching Midge, her small-boned face transformed by candlelight from pixie to princess, almond eyes sparkling yet still soft with a beauty that came from somewhere inside. The steady flow of wine may have influenced my judgment to a degree, but the feeling was nothing new; I'd melted over the same indefinable quality many times before and in my most sober moments. So maybe I did put her on some kind of pedestal (and I was not alone in that), but I'd known her long enough for any cracks to appear in that column by now. None had, not ever. Don't take me for a besotted idiot, though: I was aware of her faults and weaknesses, and they only made her more vulnerable, more human. Let's say they brought realism to the dream, made her more accessible to me. And one of the things that tied me so closely to her was that she saw some goodness in me; and that somehow made me freer, allowed me to expose my feelings more easily than ever before. Call me a romantic fool.

I was a fool on another count that evening also, for Bob, he of the cast-iron bladder, had popped upstairs to the bathroom a couple of times during the course of dinner and it was only on the second occasion that I noticed he was chewing on something when he returned. It didn't occur to me until later, when he was giggling over the silliest remarks, that he was disappearing so that he could cut off tiny segments of cannabis resin, wary of lighting a joint in the presence of his hostess whose antipathy toward drugs was well known within our circles. He obviously felt the need for a stimulant other than booze, and no wonder he was in such hearty mood.

I let it go, although I was anxious that Midge shouldn't discover what he was up to: I'd taken enough stick over the matter of drugs that week, and wrongfully so. Fortunately, she appeared oblivious, presumably putting Bob's affable manner down to good wine, food and company.

It was pretty late when we finally closed the kitchen door against the cooler night air and took ourselves upstairs, Midge remaining behind to make coffee. I'd bought a good brandy from the village liquor store that day and poured for Val, Bob and myself; I was unable to produce a Malibu for Kiwi, so she settled for vodka with "lots and lots of lemonade."

I resisted bringing down the guitars, knowing that once Bob and I got started, we'd play all night until everyone around us was slumped in unconscious heaps; instead, I put on a tape, keeping the volume low so that our own voices wouldn't have to compete with the music.

Even Val seemed mellowed and more charming than I'd ever known her to be, and we had a good-natured debate along the lines of: Agent—parasite or provider? I think she came out ahead, and I didn't begrudge her that.

The first yawns started around one-ish—clean country air took the blame—although Bob was ready to talk the night away, and Midge, clear-headed as usual, informed our quests of the bedding arrangements, suggesting a sensible iota for the use of the bathroom. Bob and Kiwi would be sleeping in the round room on the sofa, which was the kind that could be pulled out into a bed, while Val would be in the spare room next to ours on a small fold-away cot we'd always kept for such occasions in our previous place.

Midge and I went back downstairs to clear the dinner things, while they all made themselves ready for bed. I chuckled when I heard Bob's voice through the ceiling doing his impression of Michael Jackson singing butch.

Midge and I also took time to stand on the doorstep and watch the stars, which looked more unreal and numerous seen through unpolluted air than in any space movie. We took time, too, to kiss and fondle, like teenagers home from a date. I was glad I didn't have a last train to catch.

When we gazed upward again, most of the stars had disappeared behind seeping black clouds. It looked as if there'd been a power cut in the sky.

I've no idea what time it was when the screams woke us.

We both shot upright in bed as though activated by the same spring. There was just enough light to make out Midge's outline and I felt her hands clutching fearfully at me.

"Oh God, Mike, what was that?"

"I'm not sure—"

The screams came again, high-pitched and terrible, impossible to tell whether they came from man or woman. I scrabbled for the bedside lamp, nearly knocking it over before finding the switch to flick it on. We were both naked and Midge lost no time in pulling on her nightshirt while I reached for my robe. We made it to the door together.

I'll admit it, though: I hesitated just a fraction before opening that door. The screams sent an iciness through me that seemed to reach down and frost my testicles. I turned my shudder into action by twisting the handle.

With no barrier between us, the sounds were even more intense and scary.

A lamp was on in the round room, Kiwi kneeling on the floor beside it: she was staring horror-struck at a crouching figure on the far side of the room. That crouching figure was Bob, his face even more horror-struck, ugly and disfigured, like one of those stone gargoyles you find jutting from cathedral ramparts. What made his appearance all the more shocking was that he was white. I mean it—totally white. From his face down to his chest and stomach. Down to the waistband of his pyjama legs. Even his arms. Not just pale, or ashen, but white.

He was looking toward the open doorway leading to the stairs, and his eyes were wider than seemed possible. His jaw was dropped almost to his throat, his mouth a huge gaping hole, now his screams no more than dry scratchy sounds.

I ran to him, calling his name as if that might drag him back from the madness that was evident in his stare, skidding to my knees before him. His hands, like stiffened claws, were held up to his face as though to block out a nightmare vision; but still his eyes stared insanely from behind bent fingers. He was trembling, the movement jerky stiff, his body somehow brittle.

"Bob, what is it? Calm down and tell me what's wrong!"

He didn't seem to hear; he tried to push himself further into the curved wall, bare feet scuffing at the carpet. I pulled at his wrists and they were like juddering steel rods, impossible to move. Somewhere in the background I could hear loud sobbing, and I hoped Midge was tending to Bob's girlfriend—I had enough to cope with without offering any comfort there.

"Bob, for Chrissake take it easy!"

I shook his shoulders, although I was almost afraid to touch their milky whiteness, and he flinched violently. I persisted though, matching his strength with a roughness of my own. This time I grasped his hands and wrenched them down, moving my head close so that he was forced to look at my face.

Maybe I should have realized there and then what part of the problem was, because despite the room's soft light his pupils were small, contracted, as though affected by bright sunshine. And there was a glassiness to his stare that overlaid the horror expressed there; I'd observed that same faraway look over the years on the faces of several acquaintances who'd gone beyond cannabis.

But the atmosphere was too charged, too frighteningly potent, for me to take cognizance of that right away. I kept my voice soothing and controlled as I reasoned with him.

"There's nothing happening to you, Bob, everything's okay. You've had a bad dream, that's all. Or maybe you heard something that scared you. Was it the bats? We didn't tell you we had bats in our belfry, did we? They scare the hell out of me sometimes and I'm used to 'em. C'mon now, Bob, we're all here and nothing's gonna hurt you.

I felt slightly foolish coaxing him like this, but it really was as though I had a terrified child on my hands.

For a brief moment, his eyes managed to focus on mine, and that seemed to help a little. He stopped struggling against me and tried to speak, but still that rasping sound emerged. He was having difficulty in closing his mouth to form words.

I looked away for a second to see how the others were and wished I hadn't. The round room somehow wasn't the same. Oh, everything was in place, the furniture hadn't changed, the carpet wasn't a different color, nor were the drapes: but I was somewhere else. Everything was cold— without touching I knew that everything was tomb-cold— and everywhere there were shadows where they shouldn't have been. And the musty, damp smell was back. I thought I saw bubbling fungi on the curved walls, but the shadows were too deep, too obscuring, to be sure. And the room was growing smaller, the walls closing in so slowly that I couldn't be certain, even when I blinked my eyes and looked again, I couldn't be sure, couldn't measure it. The shrinkage had to be imaginary, had to be! The mustiness clogged my throat, making it difficult to breathe.

Kiwi was wailing, Midge kneeling beside her with an arm around the blonde's shoulders, doing her best to calm her and having about as much success as I was with Bob. Kiwi was trying to tell us something, but I could only understand a few choked phrases here and there:

". . . thirsty . . . he . . . went downstairs . . . oh my God, I heard him scream . . . he saw someone down . . . there . . ."

More than enough for me to catch the drift, and centipedes fresh from the freezer crawled up my spine. Somehow I guessed what had confronted Bob in the kitchen.

Fingernails raking my chest returned my attention to my buddy lying propped against the wall, and I grasped his wrist to stop the painful scratching. His head was shaking like a palsied man's and his other hand was pointing generally toward the open doorway—I say generally because his arm was moving wildly, barely able to maintain any sure direction.

But I followed his gaze rather than his pointing arm, mesmerized by the stark insanity in his eyes: it was like following the dotted line in a cartoon, from eyeball to object.

There was no light on in the hallway, but a pale glow came from the bend in the stairs; from the kitchen itself, in fact. BOD must have switched on the light down there.

The room, seen only in the periphery of my vision, was growing smaller and the shadows darker, as if both conspired to crush those within. My subconscious sent the message that it was only imagination, my own fear, that was creating the effect; that fleeting realization afforded little comfort. I still gripped Bob's wrist, and now I was shaking as much as he. My jaw locked open as I watched through the open doorway.

A shadow was rising from the stairway. A bulky shape, ill-defined, inky dark. Coming up from the kitchen.

Rising. Lit only dimly from the back. Now in almost complete darkness as it rose higher, came around the bend in the stairs.

Slowly emerging into the soft light of the round room.