LITMIR.BIZ

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‘The luck of the Irish.’

      ‘Please yourself, certainly.’

      He stood to one side, and gestured to the ginger man to approach the cell door at which they had arrived.

      A foggy glass spyhole the size of a saucer punctuated the heavy panels of the door. The ginger man applied his eye to it and stared inside. ‘For now we see through a glass darkly,’ he muttered.

      The cell was bare and of some dimension, perhaps because it occupied the corner of the building. Such light as it enjoyed came from a small window high in an outer wall. The only furnishing of the cell was a mattress rumpled in a corner like a discarded sack.

      A madman sat on the mattress, combing his hair thoughtfully with his nails. He was dressed in a calico shirt, trousers, and braces.

      ‘This fellow is Renfield by name. He has been with us a while. Murdered his baby son and was caught trying to eat its head. Quite a pleasant fellow in some moods. Some education, I suppose. Came down in the world.’

      The ginger man removed his eye from the glass to observe the doctor.

      ‘Syphilitic?’

      ‘Tertiary stage. Dangerous if roused.’

      The ginger man looked down at his shiny boots.

      ‘Forgive me if I ask you this, doctor, but I was wondering if you felt pity for your patients?’

      ‘Pity?’ asked the doctor with some surprise, turning the word over in his mind. ‘Pity? No. None. They have brought their punishment on themselves. That’s obvious enough, isn’t it?’

      ‘Well, now, you say “punishment”.’ A tug at the beard. ‘But suppose a man was genuinely fond of a woman and did not know she had any disease. And suppose he was in error just once, giving in to his passions …’

      ‘Ah, that’s the crux of the matter,’ said the doctor, removing his pipe to give a ferocious smile. ‘It’s giving in to the passions that’s at the root of the trouble, isn’t it? Let me in turn pose you a question, sir. Do you not believe in Hellfire?’

      The ginger man looked down at his boots again, and shook his head.

      ‘I don’t know. That’s the truth. I don’t know. I certainly fear Hellfire.’

      ‘Ah. Most of the inhabitants of this mental institution know the answer well enough. Now, if you’re ready to go in —’

      The doctor produced a key, turned it in the lock, slid back two large bolts and gestured to the ginger man to enter.

      The madman, Renfield, sat motionless on his mattress, giving no sign. A fly, buzzing aimlessly about like a troubled thought, made the only noise. It spiralled down and landed on a stain on the mattress.

      The ginger man took up a position with his back against the wall by the door. After the door closed behind him, he sank slowly down, to balance on his heels. He smiled and nodded at Renfield, but said nothing. The madman said nothing and rolled his eyes. The fly rose up and buzzed against the square of window, through which clear sky could be glimpsed.

      ‘It’s a lovely day outside,’ said the ginger man. ‘How would you like a walk? I could come with you. We’d talk.’

      After a long silence, Renfield spoke in a husky voice. ‘Nobody asked you, kind sir, she said. I’m all alone. There once was ten of us. Now no one knows the where or when of us.’

      ‘It must be very lonely.’

      The madman roused himself, though still without observing his visitor direct.

      ‘I’m not alone. Don’t think it. There’s someone always watching.’ He raised a finger to the level of his head, pointing to the ceiling. Then, as if catching sight of an alien piece of food, he reached forward quickly and bit the finger till it bled.

      The ginger man continued to squat and observe.

      ‘Do you realize what you’re suffering from?’ he asked softly. ‘The name of the ailment, I mean.’

      Renfield did not reply. He began to hum. ‘Ummm. Ummm.’

      The bluebottle spiralled down again. He had his eye on it all the way. Directly it landed on his shirt, he grabbed it and thrust it into his mouth.

      Only then did he turn and smile at his visitor.

      ‘Life,’ he said conversationally. ‘You can never get enough of it, don’t you find that, kind sir? It’s eat or be eaten, ain’t it?’

      As they advanced along the corridor, it became darker and smokier. Both Bodenland and Clift decided that their chances of survival were thin.

      The dimensions of the corridor altered in an alarming fashion. The way ahead twisted like a serpent. It appeared as if infinity stretched before them – grand and in some way elevating, but nevertheless formidable.

      And then suddenly at infinity the air curdled, like milk in a thunderstorm, and an atmospheric whirlpool formed. From that whirlpool emerged a terrifying figure, beating its way towards them.

      ‘Joe!’ yelled Clift. The sound echoed in their ears.

      A great leathery winged thing, its vulpine head plumed like something from a Grünewald painting, thrashed towards them. It had an infinite distance to go, yet it moved infinitely fast, despite the wounded slow-motion flap of its pinions. Its eyes were dead. Its mouth blazed. It had scaly claws, like the feet of a giant bird. In those claws it carried a brutal blunt gun of matt metal. It raised this weapon and began firing at the two men as it progressed.

      Phantasm though it seemed, the monster’s bullets were real enough. They came in a hail, screaming as they came. Bodenland dived into a shallow guard’s blister to one side of the passage. Clift fell, kicking, with a bullet in his shoulder.

      Hardly conscious of what he was doing, Bodenland scrambled halfway to his feet. The blister contained a wheel, perhaps a brake-wheel, and little else – except an emergency glass panel with something inside he could not see for shadow. A hatchet? Swinging his fist, he shattered the glass. Inside the case was nothing more formidable than a torch.

      In those few seconds when death was coming upon him, Bodenland’s brain seized on its final chance to function. From its remotest recesses, from below a conscious level, it threw out a picture – clear and chill as if forged of stained glass in some ancient chapel.

      The picture was of a great artery stretching through the body of planetary time. And up that artery to the throat of it where Bodenland crouched swam terrible creatures from the very bowels of existence, ravenous, desperate for a new chance at life, stinking from the oblivion that had shrouded them.

      This avenging thing on its pterodactyl wings – so the picture depicted it – was no less mythological than real. Alien, yet immediately recognizable. One of its talons screeched against wood as it slowed in the corridor to turn on him. So monstrous was it, it seemed the train could never contain the wooden beat of its wings. They burned with dark flame.

      And it keened on a shrill note, cornering its prey.

      Clouds of murk rolled with it as it swerved upon the blister. Bodenland had dropped to one knee. With his left arm raised protectively above his head, he held the torch in his right hand and shone it at the predator.

      The beam of light pierced through murk to the red eyes of it. Abruptly, its singing note hit a higher pitch, out of control. It began to smoulder inside wreaths of biscuit wrack. It recoiled. The leather wings, fluttering, banged woodenly against imprisoning walls. The immense veined claws opened convulsively, letting drop its weapon, as faster went the beat of the wings.

      Just for a moment, in place of horror, a vision of a fair and beautiful woman appeared – dancing naked, shrieking and writhing as if in sexual abandon – couched on gaudy bolsters. Then – dissolved, faded, gone, leaving only the monster again, to sink smoking to the floor.

      A

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