Dark Terrors 3 (8 page)

I wonder what we did to deserve the Black Cat. I wonder who sent him. And, selfish and scared, I wonder how much more he has to give.

* * * *

Neil Gaiman
is one of the most acclaimed comics writers of his generation, most notably for his epic World Fantasy Award-winning
Sandman
series,
Death: The High Cost of Living
and
The Books of Magic.
His books include
The Official Hitch-Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy Companion, Good Omens
(with Terry Pratchett),
Ghastly Beyond Belief
(with Kim Newman),
Now We Are Sick
(with Stephen Jones),
The Sandman Book of Dreams
(edited with Ed Kramer), and various graphic novel collaborations with artist Dave McKean:
Black Orchid, Violent Cases, Signal to Noise, Mr Punch
and, most recently,
The Day I Swapped My Dad for Two Goldfish. Angels & Visitations
is a bestselling collection of his short fiction, while his novel
Neverwhere
is based on the BBC TV series he created. ‘There is nothing really I can add to this story,’ says the author. ‘The number of cats living with us continues to go up and down. Yesterday, for the first time, a stray dog arrived, a chocolate-brown Labrador, very friendly and enthusiastic, loving to anyone who isn’t a cat. He’s already demolished two doors trying to get into the house and love us and protect us from the feline menace. I hope we can find a home for him soon. We’re running out of doors.’

<>

* * * *

STORM CONSTANTINE

The residents of Willowdale Farm Estate were united in the opinion that Emma Tizard was
such
a nice girl. Nothing bad could possibly have happened to her because she was so sensible. She never walked out at night alone, never invited strangers beyond her security chain and would never, ever
dream
of stopping her smart new car on a deserted stretch of road at night. Her mysterious disappearance must have some straightforward explanation.

The first time anyone got to know Emma was actually missing was when her employer, Michael Homey, knocked on Cynthia Peeling’s door that Tuesday morning. Mrs Peeling lived in the bungalow next to Emma’s. Cynthia belonged to that breed of women whose hair became blonder as they grew older, whose clothes became more youthful, and who got away with it because of sheer panache. Michael explained that Emma hadn’t turned up for work the day before, hadn’t telephoned to give an explanation - which she always did if she was ill - and was still absent today.

‘It really isn’t like her,’ he said apologetically. ‘That’s why I felt I ought to come round. I know she lives alone and wondered, well, if she’d had an accident. There doesn’t seem to be anyone at home . . .’

Although Cynthia could hardly claim to be an intimate of Emma’s, she knew the girl sometimes disappeared for days at a time. Usually, she popped over to ask Cynthia to keep an eye on the bungalow for her, never giving any explanation for her absence, other than a bright remark such as, ‘Time to recharge my batteries!’ This made Cynthia think of open spaces, sporty pursuits. Emma always looked so healthy, and gave the impression she could look after herself more than adequately. Therefore, Cynthia was not that perturbed by Michael Homey’s worrying. She invited him in for coffee and Viennese fingers, in the hope of calming his fears. He refused to be convinced by Cynthia’s gentle arguments.

‘We should check she isn’t lying unconscious in the house,’ he said. ‘I would never forgive myself if something’d happened to her, and I’d done nothing to help.’

* * * *

Peering through the spotless windows of Wren’s Nest, they were joined by elderly Mr Godleigh from number 10 and young Mrs Treen with her toddler, Danny, from number 15. Everyone tried the windows, which were all sensibly locked from inside. The bungalow looked immaculate, not a cushion out of place, not a single item of crockery left on the kitchen drainer. In the bedroom, the pale grey duvet was undented and there were no clothes lying around. Admittedly, they couldn’t see into the bathroom, and curtains were drawn over one of the frosted windows. Through the garage door, the red gleam of Emma’s car could be seen. ‘Do you think we should break in?’ Lily Treen suggested.

‘That’s against the law,’ Mr Godleigh said. ‘Perhaps we should call the police.’

‘Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary,’ Cynthia responded hurriedly, visualizing Emma’s alarm should she turn up again. She really didn’t feel that Emma was inside but didn’t want to say so, not having any proper foundation for her feelings. ‘There’s bound to be a good reason why she’s not here. She might have caught a train to visit relatives, got a cab to the station. Do you know any of her family, Mr Homey?’

Michael Homey shook his head. ‘Perhaps Mr Godleigh is right,’ he said. ‘It’s better to be safe than sorry.’

‘I think we should wait until tomorrow,’ Cynthia insisted,
and her tone of voice brooked no argument. ‘Emma is a respectable young woman. I don’t think we should have policemen breaking her windows just yet.’

* * * *

At five past six that evening, a long ring on the doorbell disturbed the Peelings from their salad and quiche. Cynthia opened the door to a rather sinister-looking couple, who turned out to be detectives. They asked if the Peelings had a spare key to Wren’s Nest, as Emma Tizard’s parents thought they might.

Taken aback, Cynthia shook her head. Was anything wrong? Her guts, ahead of the subsequent information, began to churn. She could see two police cars parked at the kerb: uniformed officers were looking in through the windows of the bungalow next door.

Emma Tizard was dead. Her body had been discovered by children playing truant from school. It appeared she’d been brutally murdered, horribly mutilated as if with mindless fury.

If the police found any evidence in Wren’s Nest, they presumably removed it from the property. As the last car pulled away, the two plain-clothed detectives came back to interview the Peelings. Cynthia felt utterly sick, guilty for not having suspected something was wrong after all, and confused as to why her instincts hadn’t alerted her.

‘Did Miss Tizard tell you what she was planning to do over the weekend?’

Cynthia shook her head. ‘No. We weren’t that close.’

The male detective made a swift note on his pad.

The body had been found still clutching a handbag. The authorities had had no difficulty discovering who Emma was. ‘And you never met any of her friends?’

Cynthia uttered a brittle laugh. She was still deeply shocked. ‘No, no. None of us in Cherrytree Lane know much about Emma at all.’

‘So you don’t know what kind of interests she had?’ The female detective seemed to conceal an unpleasant implication in the words.

‘Art,’ Cynthia said, ‘History too. She borrowed books from me once, well, from my son. Ancient history.’

‘She never mentioned anything a little more...
unusual?

‘What kind of
unusual?’
Cynthia didn’t like the tone of the question.

The female detective shrugged. ‘Well, anything to do with the occult.’

Cynthia had to laugh. ‘What? Emma? Certainly not. She was a very down-to-earth person. What are you trying to say?’

The male detective cleared his throat. ‘Certain items in the house suggest she had an interest in that sort of thing. Books and so on . . .’

‘She must have used them for her art,’ Cynthia said lamely. She could think of no other explanation. Emma had been such a nice, ordinary girl.

The detectives wanted to know when Emma had last been seen. Cynthia couldn’t clearly remember, but thought it was before the weekend. ‘She used to paint and draw a lot. Sometimes we’d never see her at weekends. She used to work then, you see. She worked very hard.’ Cynthia felt tears come to her eyes, remembering the water-colour that hung above her bed, a haunting scene, painted by Emma. Soft Emma, gentle Emma; a quiet, artistic soul.

‘And there was never any mention of the time she lived in the city?’ The female detective’s voice had taken on a softer note as she registered Cynthia’s distress.

Cynthia shook her head. ‘No.’

‘It may just be a coincidence.’ The male detective carefully re-capped his pen. ‘But the young lady Miss Tizard used to share a flat with in London disappeared under strange circumstances too. Unfortunately no trace of her was ever found. Are you completely sure Miss Tizard never mentioned this to you?’

‘Quite, sure.’ Cynthia collected herself, straightened her spine. ‘How dreadful. Do you suppose the same person . . .?’ She shuddered eloquently, pressing a handkerchief to her lips.

The female detective shrugged. ‘It was several years ago. Perhaps, as my colleague said, a coincidence.’

* * * *

Numbed and troubled by this ghastly event in her life, Cynthia Peeling started sleeping badly. She had horrifying and revolting dreams, which left a sour taste in her mouth, but the details of which she had difficulty recalling. The only one she could remember was that in which she had witnessed a coarse and brazen Emma Tizard violently making love with Mr Peeling. To make it worse, Cynthia had enjoyed the dream. Her waking self found sex rather ridiculous and unnecessarily messy. Rodney Peeling had been puzzled by the peculiar looks his wife had given him over breakfast on Thursday morning.

The police could not solve the mystery of Emma’s death. During the next week, television reconstructions of Emma’s supposed last movements, and flashes of telephone numbers which people could contact to give information served only to remind Cynthia of the grotesque horror of her neighbour’s murder. The tabloid press found out about the occult angle, and lurid headlines suggested the dead girl’s involvement in Satanism, inferring she had been the victim of a ritual killing. Everyone on the estate who had known Emma agreed that the occult stories were rubbish.

* * * *

The day of the funeral dawned unexpectedly dull and overcast, after a week of sunshine. A sizeable group of Willowdale Farm residents gathered in cars around Wren’s Nest to escort the funeral cortege to the crematorium. Emma’s mother and father, who introduced themselves as Ruby and Steven, had arrived the night before. Ruby Tizard was a frumpy sparrow of a creature who wore grandmotherly hats. The Peelings had kindly offered them accommodation for the night, because Mrs Tizard was obviously too upset to spend it in her dead daughter’s bed, the only one available in Wren’s Nest. The Tizards were strangely reluctant to enter the bungalow at all. Cynthia supposed that was because of their grief, and was sorry she couldn’t offer them more comfort. She wondered whether she should comment on the newspaper stories, and make it clear how wrong they were, but decided it was too soon to broach such an intimate subject.