Max Goff's hand on his arm.
'You want to say something? Sure. Fine. Go ahead.'
Fay was not aware that Goff had actually asked the Colonel anything, but now the bulky man was coming slowly, quite lazily, to his feel and opening his mouth as if to say something monumentally significant. But there was no sign of the large, even, white teeth which normally shone out when the smooth mat of red beard divided. A black hole in the beard, Goff trying to shape a word, but managing only:
'Aw…'
And then out it all came.
He's being sick, said the sensible part of Fay's mind. He's been eating tomato chutney and thick, rich strawberry jam full of whole, ripe strawberries.
'Awk…'
A gob of it landed – thopp – on the blotter in front of Max Goff.
In the front row, Hilary Ivory exploded into hysterics and struggled to get out of her seat, something crimson and warm having landed in her soft, white hair.
Fay saw that Max Goff had two mouths, and one was in his neck.
He threw back his head with an eruption of spouting blood, raised both white-suited arms far above his head – like a last, proud act of worship. And then, overturning the table, he plunged massively into the well of screams.
chapter viii
His own light was in his eyes.
'You know, Mr Powys,' Humble said, 'Mr Trow was dead right about you.'
The hand-lamp was tucked into the cleft between two tree roots. Humble was sitting in the grass a few feet away from the lamp.
He couldn't see Humble very well, but he could see what Humble was holding. It was a crossbow: very modern, plenty of black metal. It had a heavy-looking rifle-type butt, which was obviously what Humble had hit him with. Back of the neck, maybe between the shoulder blades. Either way, he didn't want to move.
'What he said was,' Humble explained, 'his actual words: "Joe Powys is very obedient." He always does what he's told. Someone tells him to go to the Tump, he goes to the Tump.'
Powys senses were numbed.
'Well, that's how I prefer it,' Humble said. 'Making people do fings is very time consuming. I much prefer obedience.'
'Where's Andy?' Powys was surprised to discover he could still talk.
'Well, he ain't here, is he? Somebody indicate he might be?'
Humble lifted his crossbow to his shoulder, squinted at Powys. He was about ten feet away. The was a steel bolt in the crossbow.
Powys cringed.
'Pheeeeeeew,' Humble said. "Straight frew your left eyeball, Mr Powys.'
Powys didn't move. You live in fear of the unknown and the unseen and, when you're facing death, death turns out to be a yobbo with a mousetrap mouth and a lethal weapon favoured by the lower type of country-sport enthusiast.
'But it won't come to that,' Humble said. 'Seeing as obedience is one of your virtues. I won't say that's not a pity – I never done a human being with one of these – but if I got to postpone the experience, I got to postpone it. On your feet, please, Mr P.'
'I don't think I can. I think you broke my collar-bone.'
'Oh, that's where you keep your collar-bone these days, is it? Don't fuck with me please, get up.'
And Powys did, accepting without question that this guy would kill him if he didn't. Humble stood up, too. He was wearing a black gilet, his arms bare. Humble was a timeless figure, the hunter. He killed.
'Now, we're going to go down off the Tump, Mr Powys, on account you can't always trust your reactions up here, as you surely know. We're going to go down, back over that wall,
OK?'
'Where's Andy?' Powys said.
'I'm empowered to answer just one of your questions, and that wasn't it, I'm sorry.'
Powys tripped over a root and grabbed at a bush. 'Aaah.' Thorns.
'Keep going, please. Don't turn round.'
Powys froze. He's going to kill me. He's going to shoot me from behind.
Something slammed into his back and be cried out and lost his footing and crashed through the thorn bush and rolled over and over.
'… did tell you to keep going.'
As he lay in a tangle at the foot of the mound, Humble dipped down beside him, just inside the wall.
'I'll tell you the answer, shall I? Then you can work out the question at your leisure. The answer is – you ready? – the answer is
… his mother. Now get on your feet, over the wall and across to the old house.'
The night has gathered around Warren, and he's loving it. Earned himself a piece of it now – a piece of night to carry 'round with him and nibble on whenever he's hungry.
And he's still hungry, his appetite growing all the time.
He's off out of the back door of the town hall and across the square, into the alley by the Cock, the Stanley knife hot his right hand. Only it's not his hand any more; this is the Hand of Glory.
The ole box is just a box now, and what's in the box is just bones. His is the hand and his will be the glory.
Felt like doing a few more while he was in there. That Colonel Croston, of the SAS. That'd have been a laugh.
Incredible, the way he just walked in the back way and the lights had gone, dead on cue, like wherever he goes he brings the night in with him.
He has this brilliant night vision now. Just like daylight. Better than daylight 'cause he can see and no bugger else can.
Standing behind this fat phoney, big man on a squidgy little chair, glaring white suit – you'd have to be blind not to see him – and all the time in the world to choose where to put it in.
Didn't need to choose. The Hand of Glory knew.
Brilliant. Thought he'd be squealing like a pig, but he never made more than a gurgle.
Brilliant.
There's someone behind Tessa in the alley. Tall guy.
'Who's this?'
Tessa laughing. 'My teacher.'
'How's it going, Warren?' the teacher saying. 'How are you feeling?'
Warren grinning, savouring the night in his mouth, and his eyes are like lights. Headlights, yeah.
'Good lad,' says the teacher.
Minnie Seagrove was not too happy with the Bourbon creams.
It was long after nine when she placed a small china plate of the long brown biscuits on one of the occasional tables and set it down by the side of Frank's chair at just the right height. Putting the camping light on the table next to the plate, still dubiously pursing up her lips. 'I do hope they're all right, Frank. They're nearly a month over the sell-by date. I remember I bought them the day they took you into the General. They'd just opened that new Safeways near the station, and I thought I'd go down there from the hospital, 'cause it's not far to walk, take me mind off it, sort of thing.'
Tears came into Mrs Seagrove's eyes at the memory. 'I bought a whole rainbow trout, too. I thought, he's never managed to catch one, least I can do is serve him one up for his first dinner when he comes out.'
She turned away and grabbed a Scottie from the box to dab her eyes. They were Kleenex really, but Mrs Seagrove called all tissues Scotties because it sounded more homely.
'Had to throw it in the bin, that trout, well past its sell-by. Still, you did come back from the General, after all, didn't you, Frank?'
Looking at him through the tears, Mrs Seagrove had to keep blinking and on every other blink, Frank seemed to disappear. She applied the Scottie to her eyes again and sat down opposite him. He didn't look well, she had to admit.
'Eat your Bourbons, Frank,' she said. 'There'll be nothing left of you if you go on like this. I know, I'll put the wireless on – you can listen to the local news.'
Mrs Seagrove kept the wireless on the sideboard. To tell the truth, it wasn't her kind of wireless at all. Justin had bought it for them last Christmas but one. It was a long black thing with dozens of switches and you could see all these speakers through the plastic grilles, big ones and little ones, all jumbled up. Why they couldn't make them with just one speaker and cover it up neatly like they used to, she'd never know.