Had Edgar and his friends just crumbled to dust out there in The Gulp, wherever they’d gone? Or had they lost their powers and aged in an instant. Were they older than they looked or not? Edgar had said something about them being around a long time. Patrick grinned. What did it matter? He had destroyed the man who made them. He needed to find his friends. They’d listen now, and they could leave.
He went back into his room thinking about how much other stuff he could take and decided to let his friends decide. They could pack if they wanted, or simply go. He had the most important stuff for himself and Ciara.
He went downstairs, headed for the kitchen and fixed himself a feed. An hour later he began to wonder if he should go out and look for Ciara, but The Gulp was a fairly big town. He could easily miss her. She would have to come back to the Manor at some point. If Edgar and the others had come to some horrible grief when old Bram had died, perhaps Ciara, Torsten and Simone had run into problems. If only their damn phones worked in this gods forsaken corner of Australia. Then again, Ciara’s phone was in the bag at his waist.
What if he was too late? What if Edgar had taken his friends somewhere and done away with them?
The days were short and it began to get dark a little after five. Patrick was beside himself with nerves, alone in the big house for hours, mind churning with possibilities. Just before six he heard voices outside. He jumped up and ran into the hall as the front door opened. The first person he saw was Edgar, looking hale and hearty. Behind him were his bandmates, and Ciara, and Torsten and Simone. His girlfriend and the Germans all looked thinner and paler than ever. He was reminded of his uncle, who had died from cancer in his fifties. The poor bastard had looked like Ciara looked now only days before his death. Patrick suddenly wished he still had the knife.
“We have to leave, right now!” he said.
Ciara frowned at him, again with the pitying look. Edgar half-smiled. “What have you done, Patrick?”
Patrick stood trembling as the group came into the hallway and Howard closed the front door.
“Where have you all been?” Patrick managed at last.
“Just into town, showing these guys around,” Shirley said.
“We saw the museum,” Ciara said. “Patrick, what is wrong with you?”
Edgar began to chuckle, shaking his head. He turned slightly, looked up the stairs, then back at Patrick. “You fucken killed him?”
Shirley, Howard and Clarke all seemed to still a moment, eyes turning up, then they looked back at Patrick too, all smiling. They were all healthy, all completely unbothered.
“Killed?” Ciara said, looking from Patrick to Edgar and back again. “Killed who?”
“You killed Bram?” Edgar said with a laugh. “Wow, fuck me dead, you mad bastard!”
“Fuck you!” Patrick shouted. “Ciara, we have to go!”
“The fuck is wrong with you, dude?” Edgar said, still laughing. “You murdered an old man!”
Patrick shook his head, felt tears sting his eyes.
“He was so old,” Shirley said. “Too old to even feed any more. Couldn’t hold himself together in the dreams, but he was happy up there.”
“He liked his books,” Clarke said. “You fucking dickhead. What did you think that would achieve?”
“Patrick, did you really?” Ciara asked. Her face showed her dismay, despite her obvious weakness.
How was Patrick the bad guy in all this? He didn’t understand. What should he do? “Ciara, please, leave with me now! Torsten, Simone, you too, yeah?”
“Your friends are feeding us well, every night,” Edgar said. “There’s a bit left in them still. A few more nightmares.”
“You see!” Patrick said, triumph in his tone. But Ciara didn’t react, like she hadn’t even heard what Edgar had said.
“Hey, we can finally convert the attic in to a practice space,” Howard said. “No more rehearsals in the cold garage.”
Edgar laughed. “Good point.”
Patrick snapped. He ran over, grabbed Ciara’s arm and tried to drag her back to the front door. He had the bumbags, all they needed.
She cried out, managed to shake him off, though she staggered with the effort. “Get off me, Pat! What is wrong with you?”
“Ciara, please, I love you. It’s not safe here!”
She shook her head, those pitying eyes again. “You’re so weak. Why did you have to be weak about this?”
“What?”
“What they give us, Patrick. You could have it too.”
He was incredulous. “They’re not giving you anything. They’re taking everything from you. Didn’t you hear him? There’s a bit left in them still, he just said. A few more nightmares. They’re going to kill you soon.”
“Oh, Pat. I really wish you’d been stronger about this.” She stepped back from him, reached out and Howard took her hand. “I’m staying. For the same reason as Simone.”
“What?” He felt numb, and stupid, saying the same word over and over.
“I’m fucking Howard, Patrick. He’s good! You go to bed early like a child every night and Howard is still here. And Torsten is with Shirley. It’s worked out really well. For us anyway. We’re staying, Pat.”
“Ciara!” His stomach roared, bile rose in his throat. “I want to marry you! I was going to ask you, after… When we got back home.”
She laughed and leaned into Howard. “It’s too late, Pat.”
“Too late for them,” Edgar said. “But remember what I told you? Sometimes The Gulp spits one out, mate.”
“You’re going to die!” Patrick shouted, staring hard at Ciara, trying to make her understand. “And you two are as well!” he said to Torsten and Simone. “Any day now, you’ll be dead and these fucking freaks, these monsters, they’ll probably bring other people home from their next gig. Fuck them and feed on them too.”
Edgar grinned, nodded enthusiastically. Ciara, Torsten and Simone seemed oblivious, just stared blankly back at him like he was speaking a language they couldn’t understand.
Patrick choked back a sob. He took off Ciara’s bag and threw it at her, and then he ran. He pushed out the front door, scrabbling in the bag still at his waist as he went for the campervan keys. He climbed in and it started on the first try. The tyres skidded on the gravel, then he was driving hard down the hill, away from the Manor. He turned left, past the bright white and green Woolworths supermarket, and onto the dark and straight Gulpepper Road.
What the hell would he tell people? That he and Ciara had a fight? They broke up? He last saw her in Monkton with their German friends after a gig? He knew damn well there was no point in trying to tell anything like the truth. No point in trying to send authorities into Gulpepper.
His vision blurred with tears as he drove. He reached the T-junction and turned right towards Enden. He sobbed, gripped the wheel hard, and didn’t dare look in the mirror again, planning to drive all night.
48 to Go
Blind Eye Moon pounded from a JBL Bluetooth speaker as Dace Claringbold guided the small boat through darkness close to shore. He threw a grin at Sasha in the passenger chair beside him, feeling good. She smiled back, long brown hair streaming in the wind, nodding subtly with the music.
“Hey, wanna stop for a spliff?” Dace said, loud enough to be heard over the music and the wind.
“Stop?”
“Sure. It’s relaxing out here, especially at night. No one around. We’re about halfway to Enden, the whole trip takes less than forty minutes. Got plenty of time.”