The Spectral Book of Horror Stories Page 22

  Peck recalled Mary gesturing at the sky—at everything—and saying that it all seemed lesser, like something that could be opened and poured out, and now he knew exactly what she meant. He did then the one thing he thought would save his hide: turned his gun on Ty and shot him in the throat. Ty went down, dead as stone before he hit the ground.

  Still the fire came.

  The crooked raptor landed in a flurry of thick black feathers, squawking as flames ripped suddenly, viciously, around the site. Peck shielded his eyes and when he looked again, the bird was gone. A man strode toward him—black-footed, like the boys—over eight feet tall and narrow-faced. Smoke rippled from his eyes and he spat coal and bones. Peck was lifted into the air without being touched, fully ten feet above the ground, and then dropped. The boys howled and Peck tried to reel away but was lifted again. He saw the site burning and the fields beyond. He saw Cindy Roth twisting in the flames and laughing. Embers burst from her mouth and spiralled around her. Again Peck was dropped and he landed hard, breaking both legs. Still he tried to crawl.

  Fire surrounded him. It sucked the oxygen from the air and he wheezed and reached for help that would never come. His skin bubbled in the heat but did not blacken.

  The man stood over him. Flames crackled from the tips of his fingers.

  Peck lifted his gun and pulled the trigger desperately. The first and second shots hit the tall man square in the chest. Fire and feathers flew. The third hit Cindy Roth and threw her thin, fifteen-year-old body back through the door of the trailer. Eleven rounds left in the mag and Peck spent them all. Some of those shots went astray but most found a home. Bodies and fire all around.

  Peck tried to scream but there wasn’t the air. He wished he’d kept a bullet for himself. He crawled a little way and then fell chest down in the dirt. The cogongrass crackled as it burned and he heard the hogs squealing.

  The last thing he saw before passing out was the little boy Ty had shot, back on his feet and scooping corn—popped now—off the ground and into his mouth. His smile was almost beautiful.

  #

  He came around with the fires still burning and the skin on his face and hands blistered. All the shacks and trailers were gone. The boys with the black feet were gone. Not a body in the dirt, nor a drop of blood. Not even Ty’s.

  Just him and that bucket twisting in the heat.

  Peck dragged his broken legs and screamed. The fire raged around him, branding a shape on the land he felt but could not see: a five-pointed star enclosed in a perfect circle, burning hungrily and—from point to point—many miles wide.

  THE LIFE INSPECTOR

  John Llewellyn Probert

  The front doorbell rang at nine a.m. precisely.

  Franklin knew it was nine because that was the time Eleanor had told him he needed to take the laundry out of the washing machine. She had put in a load just before leaving an hour earlier, herding Jocasta (eight) and Tobias (seven) in front of her down the garden path and into the shiny silver 4 x 4 she insisted they leave parked outside the house. There was a perfectly serviceable garage tucked away behind the laurel bushes and apple trees that bordered their gravel drive, but, she had explained to Franklin, what was the point of buying a brand new Audi if you were going to keep it hidden away where the neighbours couldn’t see it?

  Franklin had merely shrugged and returned his attention to the stock market prices. It was something he was very good at, which was why they lived where they did (a very nice part of Bristol, thank you very much), sent the children to the school they attended (expensive and exclusive and full of other children that might grow up to be useful business contacts in the future, not to mention prospective marriage partners), and why Eleanor was able to squander so much time and money at designer clothes shops. Franklin never questioned her spending habits, and in return she never questioned any of his bedroom predilections. For those reasons, more than any others, it was a relationship that worked very well indeed.

  The bell rang again.

  Franklin pushed a stray sock back into the shiny confines of the aluminium drum and wiped his hands. The sooner they could get another decent housekeeper the better, he thought, as he made his way to the door, preparing to decline politely the advances of the Jehovah’s Witness waiting there (the most likely possibility); explain that he had no money on him if it was a charity collector (there were more and more of them these days—you couldn’t trip up without some support group being formed to help you and people like you, and of course they all wanted your money); or to use rather more terse terms to let the salesperson know that this was a No Doorstep Selling Neighbourhood, before drawing the hapless individual’s attention to the bright yellow sticker in the front window that signified (and explained in no uncertain terms) that his house was a member of said scheme.

  The caller was none of the above.

  Franklin was able to take note of the narrow spectacles rimmed in cheap black plastic, the toothbrush moustache that was the same shade of charcoal as the neatly trimmed hair (and the three quarter length raincoat), before the man standing on the doorstep spoke.

  “Mr Chalmers?”

  Franklin allowed the man a wary nod.

  “Mr Franklin Chalmers?”

  “Yes.”

  That seemed to please the man no end. He smiled without showing his teeth and used a Bic biro to place a heavy tick at the top of the black clipboard he was holding.

  “Excellent,” he said. “May I come in?”

  No you bloody well may not, Franklin thought. However he came out with “That really rather depends on why you’re here,” to maintain a semblance of politeness until he was able to determine whether this was some kind of impromptu tax inspection, or whether the fellow had just been sent round to check the drains.

  The response was another tick scratched on the form. Franklin could see a little bit of it now that the man was leaning slightly to the left. It was pink and looked very complicated, with more boxes than the lottery tickets Eleanor insisted they buy despite their affluence.

  The man noticed Franklin looking and tilted the clipboard away.

  “My apologies, Mr Chalmers, for not introducing myself properly.” He reached into the pocket of his raincoat and produced a small piece of white pasteboard. “My card.”

  The design sported the characteristic lack of imagination of government departments, right down to the soulless font that announced the following:

  Mr M Norton

  HM Life Inspection Department

  “It’s time for yours,” said Mr Norton, attempting to step inside Franklin’s house.

  Franklin stopped him.

  “My what?”

  Mr Norton raised rat-coloured eyebrows. “Your inspection, of course. Does the card not make it clear? A great deal of work was put into making it understandable to the general public. It went through three committees, seven versions, and ended up receiving a commendation in the 2013 Plain English Awards.” He sniffed. “We were quite proud of that.”

  “I’m very pleased for you,” said Franklin, still keeping his temper in case the man really did work for the government. “But I have to confess I have never heard of any department with such a name, nor am I aware of my requiring any kind of ‘assessment’.”

  Mr Norton sighed. “We’re far too busy with the actual job of assessing to give our department much publicity.”

  “Nevertheless, I don’t know anyone who has been through what you’re suggesting,” said Franklin, “and I know a lot of people.”

  “Ah,” said Mr Norton, as if that explained everything. “That’s because of the Oath of Secrecy.”

  Franklin’s eyes narrowed. “The what?”

  “The Oath of Secrecy.” Mr Norton tucked the clipboard under his right arm. “Once your Life Assessment has been completed, you will be required to sign a document confirming that you swear not to reveal either the contents of the interview, or the fact that you have indeed been interviewed, to anyone.” He scratched the
side of his nose with the Bic. “It prevents people from swotting up beforehand.”

  “Swotting up?” Franklin snorted. “I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous in my life. Now, if you would be so kind as to move onto whomever else you would like to bother with your crack-brained ideas, I have work to do.”

  He tried to close the door but the toe of a highly polished black Oxford prevented him from doing so.

  “I’m sorry to have to do this,” said Mr Norton, reaching into his raincoat pocket once more. “But you leave me no choice.”

  Franklin felt a pang of panic as he waited for this obvious lunatic to draw either a gun or a knife. When he saw it was a mobile phone he relaxed. Mr Norton tapped the screen twice to bring up a video feed, and then held it so Franklin could see.

  On the screen Franklin’s wife Eleanor and his two children, Jocasta (eight) and Tobias (seven) were tied to chairs in the darkened confines of what looked like someone’s garage. Their faces were tear-stained, but as far as he could tell, they were unharmed.

  “A brief glimpse into HM Department of Corrections,” said Mr Norton. “If you are happy to continue with your assessment, then hopefully I won’t have to show you any more of their work.”

  Franklin wasn’t listening. He was still staring at the screen, and so Mr Norton switched it off and put it away.

  “I’m sorry I had to do that,” he said, “but we’ve found it the best way to encourage uncooperative individuals to see sense.” He tapped the clipboard. “Now, I have a quota that must be satisfied by the end of the morning, so can we get on?”

  Still in a state of shock, Franklin nodded dumbly and held the door open.

  Mr Norton made another mark on his sheet and stepped inside with a curt, “Thank you.”

  The hallway was given a quick once over, with a glance to the staircase on the left before Mr Norton’s eye was caught by the framed certificate on the opposite wall. He peered at it and wrote something on the form.

  “It’s Jocasta’s piano exam,” Franklin explained.

  “Yes.”

  “Grade One.”

  “I see.”

  “We were very proud of her for getting a distinction.”

  “How interesting.” The man ticked another box.

  “Really?”

  “No, not really.” Mr Norton looked around. “Is there somewhere we can sit down?”

  Franklin gestured to the lounge.

  Mr Norton shook his head. “I’d prefer somewhere with a table.”

  “How do you know there isn’t one in there?”

  The man in grey shook his head in a way that suggested Franklin should have known better. “Of course I know,” he said. “Shall we go in to the kitchen?”

  Franklin didn’t need to lead the way, which merely served to disconcert him further.

  “Very nice,” said Mr Norton as he beheld the bright and airy space into which every conceivable (and, at Eleanor’s insistence, very fashionable) modern convenience had been unobtrusively fitted.

  Franklin pulled out a chair from the matching pine table that dominated the floor space. “I would have imagined you already knew what it looked like,” he said.

  “I do.” Mr Norton sat opposite him, crossed his legs, and rested the clipboard on his upraised knee. “I was just being polite.”

  “How very kind of you.”

  The response this time was a thin, pitying smile that made Franklin more annoyed. Then he remembered the image on the phone and did his best to curb his fury. He tried to keep calm but couldn’t help digging his fingernails into the overpriced wood. The action did not go unnoticed. Mr Norton wrote something on the form and then sat there quietly, regarding Franklin with calm detachment.

  Franklin stared back.

  It wasn’t long before the silence became unbearable. The silence and the waiting and that awful image of Eleanor and the kids that he couldn’t stop thinking about. What did this man want? Surely he couldn’t really be the person the card claimed? A Life Inspector? It had to be a ruse, a scam, some new and horrible way of getting money out of decent hardworking people like himself.

  Money.

  That was it.

  And almost before he realised he was doing it, Franklin found himself blurting:

  “Ten thousand pounds!”

  Mr Norton raised an eyebrow at the broken stillness. “I beg your pardon?”

  Franklin clasped his hands to stop them shaking. It helped a little bit.

  “I don’t know who you really are,” he said, “but we both know this is going to come down to money sooner or later. So how about I write you a cheque now, or you accompany me to the bank while I make a money transfer, or however else you want it, but can we please stop this?”

  Mr Norton frowned—not in anger, but in confusion. In fact, he made the kind of face someone at the post office counter might make if you asked for a new tax disc for your car but had forgotten the MOT certificate.

  “We can’t ‘stop it’, Mr Chalmers,” he said. “That’s not how it works.”

  Franklin’s knuckles were white.

  “How does it work then?”

  Mr Norton looked pleased now that Franklin seemed to be cooperating. “It’s quite simple, Mr Chalmers. I ask you questions and you answer them.”

  Franklin didn’t know what to say. Was this really how he was meant to save the lives of his family?

  “There’s no other way?”

  Mr Norton shook his head. “No other way.”

  “At all?”

  “Not at all. If there were alternatives I’d be suggesting them. But there aren’t. Which is why I’m not.”

  Not for the first time that morning Franklin was subject to the sensation of his stomach trying to invert itself. He made an attempt to stop his voice from shaking.

  “Let’s get started then, shall we?”

  Mr Norton removed the tissue-thin sheet from his clipboard and turned it over. “Oh, we’ve already done that, Mr Chalmers,” he said as he secured it back in place. “We’re on to Section B now.”

  Franklin could feel his small intestine trying to go one better than his stomach by tying itself into a sequence of granny knots.

  “But you haven’t asked me anything yet!”

  Mr Norton wrote more on the form. “I have,” he said as he underlined something twice. “You just haven’t been paying attention.”

  The knots tightened.

  “Well, can we start again then?” he spluttered. “I wasn’t ready.”

  “No we can’t.” Mr Norton looked ever so slightly annoyed. “That’s the point. I told you that earlier.”

  Another tick on the form.

  “Tell me, Mr Chalmers, do you read a daily newspaper?”

  “You mean to tell me you actually don’t know something?” The words were out before Franklin could stop them. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

  But it was no good. “Oh I think you did, and for your information, yes, we do know, but it’s your response to the question that’s important.”

  “In that case, we—”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Telling you what newspaper we take.”

  Mr Norton put the pen down. “You do seem to have trouble understanding, don’t you? I just explained that it’s your response to the question that’s important. You’ve already given me your answer to that one, so now we move on.”

  “But I haven’t told you anything!”

  “You have.”

  What was the point of arguing?

  “Would it help if I told you we take the Daily Mail?” Franklin gave Mr Norton what he hoped was an imploring look.

  “No.”

  “Or,” Franklin said, furiously trying to backpedal, “that it’s only my wife who reads it? I can’t stand it myself.”

  “You can say what you like, Mr Chalmers. I’ve already filled in the box for that question, so it doesn’t really matter. Do you think it does?”

  Franklin frown
ed. “Does what?”

  “Matter.”

  This was getting ridiculous. “Of course it matters! You should give your interviewees some time to think—not just accept the first thing that comes into their heads. That’s not fair at all!”

  Mr Norton wrote something on the form.

  “Was that my next question?” Franklin groaned.

  “It might have been,” said Mr Norton. “Of course, I might just have been making an addendum.”

  “You can do those, then?” Franklin saw a straw of finest gossamer being offered to him, one he knew he had to clutch ever so gently or his desperate grasp would tear it. “Okay, how about ten thousand pounds to rip that form up and start all over again? I promise I won’t tell a soul.”

  “I didn’t say I could make an addendum,” Mr Norton replied. “I said I might be doing that.” He uncrossed his legs. “And, on an unrelated note, do I strike you as the kind of man who would agree to a bribe of such proportions?”

  Franklin was about to blurt a desperate yes, but immediately thought better of it. Instead he gave the man a strangled reply in the negative.

  For the first time since he had invaded Franklin’s home Mr Norton gave him the hint of a smile.

  “A sensible answer for once,” he said.

  “Will that count in my favour?”

  “We don’t like to use words like ‘favour’, Mr Chalmers. That’s not really the point of the inspection.”

  “And what exactly is the point?”

  “You’ll find out in just a minute.” Mr Norton turned the sheet over, added a few more ticks and then scribbled something at the bottom. “We’re pretty much finished.”

  Finished? That was absurd! “How can we be finished?” Franklin resisted the urge to tear the forms from Mr Norton’s clipboard. “You’ve hardly asked me anything!”

  “I’ve gathered all the information I need, Mr Chalmers.” Mr Norton signed the form with a flourish. “We decide what’s important and what isn’t about an individual.”