Tales From The Wyrd Museum 1: The Woven Path (13 page)

Frank gave a good-natured laugh and his companion shrugged his shoulders.

‘Ah,’ he said, you're right. I oughta stick with the Valentino image, he had real class, same as me. ‘Sides, if I change now it might break the charm.’

In the shadows of the shop doorway, Ted peered out at the retreating backs of the airmen.

‘Would you just look at that no-hoper!’ the bear said scornfully. What a schmuck! The boob don't realize what a geek he is. Do he really think he looks like Rudolph Valentino? He ain't as pretty as he likes to think. Look at him in that flying jacket—it's way too big. A pint-sized Romeo is all he is. Jeezus, it's embarrassin’.’

‘You know them?’ Neil muttered.

‘I did once, kid,’ he replied darkly, ‘but that were a lifetime ago, a lotta things've changed since then. You mind if we follow them a little ways more? I promise this won't take long.’

‘I'm in no rush to go back to old lemon face,’ Neil answered glumly. So keeping well out of sight, he set off up the high street.

Halfway towards home, Jean Evans was still angry at herself for letting her grandmother goad her into leaving Daniel that evening.

‘I tell you, Kath,’ she grumbled, ‘one of these days I'll walk out and won't never come back. That cow gets right up my nose.’

Tottering behind, finding it difficult to keep up with Jean's bracing pace in her high-heeled shoes, Kath was in full agreement.

‘Can't you do something really horrible to her?’ she asked mischievously, following her friend round a corner and off the main road. ‘Like putting sawdust in her porridge or mouse droppings in her tea?’

‘Wouldn't make any difference, she'd wolf it down anyway.’

‘What about sprinkling water in her bed? She might get pneumonia and kick the bucket.’

‘No, she never sleeps in that. . .’ Jean halted in her tracks and slapped her forehead. ‘I must be going round the twist!’ she cried. What am I doing heading for home? She'll be at the tube station by now!’

Whisking around, she barged past Kath and hastened back to the high street.

Teetering on her heels, her friend scurried after, shouting, ‘You'll never get to your nipper now. There'll be a big jam of scruffy louse-heads in the way an’ I won't go down there—it pen and inks something chronic! Jean—I got me best frock on!’

‘No one's askin’ you to come, Kath, go back to Mrs Meacham's and I'll—oohh... !’

Ploughing heedlessly through the blackout, Jean had rounded the corner sharply and blindly collided with the Americans.

Frank threw his arms wide and regained his balance just in time, but his buddy let out a startled wail, fell off the pavement and sprawled to the ground.

‘Son of a—why don't you look where you're goin’, feller?’ he yelled, scrabbling to his feet and brushing himself down. ‘You could'a made me rip my pants, I hope the creases ain't all crinkled up! I'm in a bad enough mood already, why I oughta knock you down and get even.’

In the darkness, Jean strained her eyes to peer at the blustering airman. She was going to apologise but the man's rudeness cancelled all thought of that.

‘You do and I'll punch you right back,’ she warned.

Hearing the female voice, the American's attitude changed immediately and he mellowed at once.

‘Hey, baby,’ he treacled, trying to make out the woman's figure in the murk, ‘I need my head testin’. What can I do to make up?’

‘Don't bother,’ she told him. ‘No harm done.’

The man reached out a hand to her but she shook it off. ‘Now I gone and done it,’ he said in an injured voice. ‘You got the wrong impression of me.’

‘I doubt that.’

‘Anyone told you we're supposed to be allies, honey?’

‘S'pose next you'll be telling me your lot're goin’ to win the war for us. I'm not your honey and, if you don't mind, I've got to get somewhere.’

‘Wait up, don't you even wanna know the name of the guy who fell at your feet?’

‘Not much, no.’

The man made an elaborate bow before her. ‘Lieutenant Angelo Signorelli—of the mighty Eighth,’ he grandly announced, ‘and this is my buddy, Frank Jeffries. Don't stand there like a dummy, pal, say hello to the lady. He's a bit shy with the fair sex.’

Frank shuffled uncomfortably. ‘Pleased to m-meet you, Mam,’ he murmured.

With a clip-clop of her heels, Kath blundered up to them, having overheard most of what had been said and agog to meet the Americans.

‘Jean,’ she said in a demure voice, unlike her natural one, ‘it's so dark tonight, I can't see my hand in front of my face. Oh, are you talking to someone? Who is it?’

Angelo introduced himself and Frank once more and the girl instantly slipped her hand through the arm of the tall airman—in case she fell and hurt herself in the blackout.

‘I sure am glad we ran into you,’ Angelo said, ‘you must be heaven-sent—would you believe we was lost?’

Jean pursed her lips. ‘I wouldn't believe anything you told me,’ she said dryly.

‘Aw, honey, don't be like that. Is there one of your quaint British pubs near here? What say we go for a few beers and talk this over?’

‘Not on your nelly,’ came the flat answer.

At this point Kath extricated herself from Frank's suddenly wooden arm and pulled Jean back round the corner. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ she said through a fixed grin, ‘Would you mind if me and my chum had a quick word?’

‘Hell no.’

Kath thanked them, then turned frantically to Jean.

‘You owe me, Jean Evans,’ she hissed, ‘I could've been swoonin’ for James Mason right now if it weren't for you.’

‘I'm not going into no pub with them big-headed Yanks!’ Jean stated emphatically.

‘Oh, please!’ Kath begged. ‘Just this once. When was the last time one of them doughboys showed his mug round here? Think, Jean, I don't want to miss the chance of some nylons.’

‘But Daniel!’

‘I told you, you won't get near him at this time. Go on, just for me—they sound so nice.’

‘They do not,’ Jean began until she realised how excited her friend had become. Guiltily reflecting that she had already spoilt part of the evening, she grudgingly relented. ‘Oh, all right,’ she said, ‘but just the one, mind.’

Round the corner, a similar discussion was taking place.

‘I d—dunno about this, Voo,’ Frank murmured, ‘I'm just not cut out for sweet-talking the way you are. Heck, when that girl took my arm I plum froze up. I'd really like to catch a cab an’ go back to the city.’

That's just what I was sayin’ before,’ Angelo replied, ‘only you didn't take no notice—now I wants to stay.’

‘I'll just get laughed at, g-girls always laugh at me. I go all klutzy round ‘em and my brain turns to mush.’

‘You're with your uncle Voodini now—Lady Luck's special favourite, what could go wrong? Anyway—I wanna see what this doll looks like, how else am I gonna describe her to the boys? Mind you, if these dames turn out to be a pair o’ mooses we make our excuses an head back West, OK?’

‘I wish I were someplace else, ‘ats all.’

‘Think of it as your first lesson,’ Angelo assured him, ‘an’ relax, will ya? She don't wanna hold on to no two-by-four. Hush up, here they come. Well ladies, you decided?’

‘Oh yes,’ giggled Kath, ‘We’d love to join you brave men for a drink, wouldn't we, Jean? There's The Ring o’ Bells just up the road, I believe it's supposed to be quite nice.’

‘Lead the way, tutz,’ Angelo declared and with that they strolled deeper into the shadows.

Walking a little distance behind them, Neil saw a wedge of light suddenly slice through the coal black street as the pub door was pushed open, then the darkness sprang tightly back.

From behind the closed door, he heard Kath's muffled voice squeal in rapture. ‘Oooh! He's got prettier eyes than I have!’

“Whoa, kid,’ Ted muttered sorrowfully at his ear, ‘I seen enough now. Yeah, that's the way it was, that's how it started.’

‘You're doing it again,’ Neil commented.

‘Doin’ what?’

‘Not explaining yourself. What was the point of coming here to see four people go into a pub? It's hardly earth-shattering, is it?’

A grave and empty chuckle issued from the bear's stitched lips. ‘Do you wanna know the real reason I brought you here, kid?’ he asked.

‘Outside the pub?’

‘To 1943!’

Neil turned his head and looked at the black silhouette sitting on his shoulder. The bear appeared forlorn and weary, his furry shoulders were hunched as though a tremendous weight was pressing down on them and his little chest heaved up and down as he battled to fight back the sobs in his throat.

‘Tell me,’ Neil breathed.

Ted lifted a paw and pointed at the blacked-out windows of the public house.

‘Those people in there,’ he said, his voice splintering with remorse, ‘they're why we're both here.’

Staring hard at the dark entrance as if trying to see through the wooden door and glimpse the scene within, Ted groaned wretchedly.

‘Right now they'll be checkin’ each other out. Angelo'll be gawkin’ at the warden's pretty daughter and she'll be lettin’ him know she's off limits, whilst that other girl'll be chattin’ up Frank and makin’ the poor guy blush to his toes.’

His voice faded into silence and then, in a cold, grief-filled breath, he added, ‘In a matter of days, three of them will be stone dead.’

‘You mean I was dragged back here to help you save them?’ he demanded.

Ted hung his head. ‘I been promised I can save them, kid,’ he said with a determined growl, ‘I got one chance an’ I ain't gonna foul it up. That's why I'm here—you gonna help me or what?’

‘You risked both mine and Josh's life!’ Neil muttered. ‘You never said a word what for and now you tell me it's to save three total strangers!’

‘Hey!’ the bear fumed. ‘I ain't interested if you like it or not. You're gonna help me, or little Joshy won't last five minutes where he's headin’!’

‘I don't believe you!’ Neil cried incredulously.

‘You'd better,’ Ted answered sombrely, “cos in four days time the fate of your kid brother, and I do mean fate, is tied up with theirs.’

As the hours melted into the early morning, Edie Dorkins bounded over a jumble of pulverised brick and roof slates—clutching a small bundle close to her chest.

It had been a peaceful night, no German planes had appeared in the skies, and though she was sad that the beautiful lights were not dancing and plummeting from above, she had been extremely busy.

Scavenging like a ravenous wild dog, she had capered into the gardens of the hated houses that fringed the bomb site, rooted in their dustbins and scrabbled at the earth for the potatoes that had been planted there. Summoning her courage, she had forced herself to enter one or two kitchens and looted the cupboards, slurping the cold stew left on the stove and tearing great, jaw-breaking mouthfuls out of the bread left on the table.

Now, with her stuffed stomach burbling inside her and the splattered evidence smeared and staining her face, she hopped and hared back to her refuge.

The jagged bulk of her adopted domain was already in sight, a tall, skeletal blackness deeper than the surrounding night. Wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her ragged coat, Edie paused to admire this solitary fastness, her most marvellous bolt hole that contained all her treasures. Set amid the rolling wasteland, rising like a gothic, enchanted castle set amid a country of the unquiet dead—it had become her new home and she loved it dearly. With a power as old as the foundations of the world now coursing through her veins, she was certain that no one could ever take this delicious abode from her.

A puzzled scowl stole over the child's face—the ruins looked different. The building in the centre seemed smaller than usual and Edie's frown turned into a look of shock and anger. The rafters that had pointed starkly upwards from the demolished roof were no longer there.

At once, the girl's thoughts flew to her hoard of precious salvage and, letting the bundle of cabbage leaves and soil-covered potatoes fall into the dust, she scarpered swiftly towards her home—clinging to the incendiary bomb about her neck to stop it swinging into her face.

In the gloom that gathered about the rear door, a throng of whispering figures called out as she hurried forward.

‘Miss Edie’
their spectral voices cried, ‘
Are you safe? Something terrible was here, a shadow shape is loose—it frightened us and fled into the dark. We are very afraid—help us, stay with us. We always feel better when you're here. We don't like it on our own.”

Not listening, the child tore past them and scurried in through the damaged back door. Mewling with sorrow, her phantom family flowed after her, wringing their hands in despair.

Through the hallway Edie plunged but when she tried to open the parlour door it refused to budge.

‘Don't you go in there, Miss,”
the plump shade of Arnold Porter warned,
‘the roof just caved in suddenly. Shook the whole house, it did.’’

Edie glared at the dead warden for daring to give her orders.

‘I didn't mean to speak out of turn, Miss,’
he said.
‘I wouldn't do that. I was only voicing my concern, like. The roof made such an ‘ell of a noise and you shoulda clapped eyes on the nasty whatsit that came tearing out of there.’’

Edie hesitated and glanced over her shoulder. Behind her, the hallway was crowded with wraiths. Horror was written on their ghastly faces and a vague, startling notion fluttered at the back of her garbled mind.

Squealing violently, she suddenly flung all her fury against the door and, with a lurch, the barrier gave way.

A cloud of dirt billowed into the girl's eyes and she spat the grit from her mouth as she waded into the room and stared miserably around.

The collapsed roof timbers had scored and scraped the blasted walls when they came crashing down, gouging a vicious, vertical trail of destruction down the length of the house. Now they stabbed in through the shattered floorboards, dividing the demolished room with dangerous, diagonal posts that creaked and groaned, threatening to wreak more havoc by falling like dominoes through the remains of the bay window.

A wreck of lath and plaster, torn from the already tattered ceiling, obliterated much of the room and Edie darted recklessly beneath the treacherous beams to forage amongst the rubble.

Clawing away the debris, her fingers cut and bleeding, she frantically sorted through the choking dust, hurling aside razor-sharp slates and chunks of crumbling mortar. Brimming with tears, she found the bronze figurine, but the head had been sheared from the shoulders and one of the ivory hands was missing. Edie hugged the dancer desperately, then scrabbled for the rest of her treasure.

The wig was caked in filth and sadly she put it aside as a pale gleam caught her almond eye and she fished out one of her bracelets and rammed the trinket into her pocket. Then she found a fragment of the gilt picture frame buried next to the bent face of the travelling clock, but her efforts became increasingly anguished and frenetic and she began to rip through the dirt, howling like a maniac.

Then, to her delight, she found it. Sobbing with fatigue and gladness, she pulled the small wooden box from the wreckage and clasped it lovingly.

But her joy was short-lived, for the prize of her collection was broken. The wax that had kept it sealed for thousands of generations had cracked away and the carved lid was nowhere to be found.

Edie thrust her hands into its black interior, but whatever the box once contained was no longer there—the Casket of Belial was empty.

Turning to face the frightened ghost of Arnold Porter, the girl was suddenly aware of the change that had occurred. The very atmosphere was charged with fear and dread and for the first time in many days she felt uneasy as the darkness seemed to press all around. Something horrible was loose—something ancient and evil had escaped into the unsuspecting night. No longer would her sanctuary be safe—something final was approaching and though she would protect both it and her spectral family, she sensed that soon everything would change.

‘So why does Frank call you Voo?’ Jean asked as Angelo walked her home. ‘Is that a technical term, like CO and MP?’

At her side, the man laughed. ‘Nothin’ like that, babe, it comes from me being such a kook. I got this real bad fault in my character.’

‘Just the one?’

‘Did I tell you I know Clark Gable? I could get you his autograph.’

Jean groaned and quickened her pace—the man's pathetic chat-up lines were beginning to grate on her nerves. Every negative trait she had ever heard about the Americans seemed to be true; this one was appalling.

Sensing that he was beaten, Angelo scuffed his heels dejectedly and glanced around at Frank and Kath.

In the company of that lively girl, his buddy had started to come out of his shell and, after the first ten minutes of awkward, stilted responses, had really opened up to her, speaking of his life in Ohio and the family farm there. Now the pair of them were strolling dreamily along, arm in arm—talking easily.

The sight pricked Angelo's pride and threatened his renowned reputation but he was generous enough to be pleased for this buddy.

When they reached Barker's Row, Frank saw Kath to her door and Angelo's discretion forced him to look elsewhere.

Jean was already opening the gate to number twenty-three when he caught up with her.

‘If you're about to try any more lines on me, you'll be wasting your breath,’ she advised.

‘A guy can only take so much cold shoulder,’ he replied. ‘I'm not dumb, I know when I'm licked. Say, can we haul up a flag of truce here? I was angling up the wrong tree, and I'm sorry.’

‘You don't really know Clark Gable, do you?’

‘Nope.’

‘Goodnight, cowboy.’

‘Yep,’ he muttered when she closed the front door behind her, ‘another red-letter day for Signorelli. I really struck out that time.’

Reaching into the pocket of his flying jacket he took out a knitted toy dog with large glass eyes and kissed it.

“Where were you when I needed you, Tex?’ he mumbled. ‘Never mind, you got all day tomorrow to make up for it.’

Returning the toy to his pocket, he sauntered over towards Mrs Meacham's house.

Standing in the porch, Frank held Kath gently in his arms, having just arranged to meet her the following evening.

The grin that divided Frank's face shone white in the blackout and he looked round to find Angelo.

‘Aw,’ he said, ‘Voo d-don't look happy at all. I think he liked your friend Jean more than he realised.’

‘Well, he was wasting his time there.’

‘It’d be—be swell if you could persuade her to come along as well, tomorrow. I hate to see him so miserable, say you'll try, Kath.’

‘Oh, I'll have a go, but I'm not promising nothing.’

The couple kissed once more and, feeling as buoyant as a cloud, Frank ambled down the street after his buddy, whilst the high-pitched yapping of Mrs Meacham's dachshund greeted Kath as she let herself in.

So wrapped up were they in their separate thoughts, no one noticed how cold and dark the night had become. Within the dense blackout, an ancient horror was prowling and already the first chill tendrils of its sinister power were threading through the gloom.

The next morning dawned bright and surprisingly warm for so early in the year. A straggling line of bleary-eyed people slowly poured out of the Bethnal Green shelter, squinting under the white glare of the sky as they wound their way home and to work.

In one of the streets that ran off Barker's Row, Reginald Gimble and the Fletcher brothers—Johnny and Dennis—were giggling and snorting raucously.

‘Howzat—yer bleedin’ Nazi!’ Reg crowed, releasing the elastic of his catapult.

Whizzing through the air, a sharp stone zinged into the derelict garden of a burnt-out house.

‘Missed it!’ Dennis squawled, stooping to pick up a larger rock and hurling it with all his might. ‘Good riddance to the Jerry dog!’ he yelled.

‘If Hider were here now,’ Johnny fiercely chirped, ‘I'd do this!’ and he threw a charred plank into the garden, his face twisted with malicious glee.

‘Yeah!’ shrieked Dennis madly. ‘Let's kill Adolf. Kill him! Kill him!’

Chanting bloody slogans and war cries, the three boys threw a hail of stones and bricks at their target. Shaking with hatred, and sweating ferociously, they seemed possessed by some feverish, evil deity, their harsh calls echoed through the empty streets, and out over the desolation of the great graveyard of the bomb site.

Abruptly, Reg gave the others a warning shove and pointed to the end of the road. All three dropped whatever was in their hands and ran in different directions, laughing shrilly, in the diabolic influence that afflicted them.

Sniffling into the back of her hand, Mrs Meacham came tripping into the road. Immeasurable concern was ingrained on her face and her bottom lip quivered piteously. The normally well-dressed and superior neighbour of the Stokes family was usually impeccably dressed in public and never so much as answered the door if she still had her curlers in her hair. But today, Doris Meacham had blundered from her front gate still in her slippers and wearing her housecoat.

In a puling, fragile voice, she called aloud, craning her spoon-shaped head over garden walls and hedges.

Tommy!’ she whined. ‘Here, darling, where are you, poppet? Mummy's here—Tommy!’

Clutching a gatepost for support, she stared wildly around. Her little dog had never roamed off on his own before and she couldn't begin to think how he could have escaped from her back garden.

‘Oh, where are you?’ she snivelled. What did Mummy do to make you run away? I'm sorry, dear!’

Stumbling onward, she glanced left and right, despair rising in her palpitating bosom.

And then she saw it.

A grotesque gargle constricted her throat and for Doris Meacham the bright sunshine perished.

Lying in the weed-choked garden was the limp body of her beloved pet and companion. The devoted friend in times of empty dismay—gentle comforter and silent champion of the last seven years—was lying in a pathetic, broken heap on the bare ground.

The dachshund's head was battered and grazed from countless cruel blows. His silky tan-and-black fur was now matted with blood and both back legs had been crushed beneath a slab of stone that Dennis had dashed against him.

But Tommy was not quite dead. A heart-wrenching whimper squealed from his mouth as the tongue he had bitten in his terror dabbed and licked his scarlet gums that were now bereft of teeth.

Doris Meacham balked in anguish and dropped to her knees before him.

Shivering with agony, the dachshund gazed mournfully up at her with his remaining eye and gave a fretful bleat.

‘No-o-o!’ the woman howled, gingerly reaching out to calm him.

The moment she touched the dog's fur, he let out a hideous scream and twitched uncontrollably.

Doris fell back, but her tears did not blind her to the pink froth that foamed from the dachshund's mouth. The dog's tormented suffering was awful to witness but she could do nothing to end it.

Like one demented, she staggered from the derelict garden, screaming until her lungs ached, her housecoat smeared with Tommy's blood.