Dark Ages. John Pritchard

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       So you must show no pity in that hour.

      Dominicain absorbed that wisdom grimly. He was just about to speak again when everything dissolved. His soul came winging back along the darkened corridors, returning to his body like a sparrow to its nest.

      His dull, unfocused eyes slid halfway open, but he lay there like a dead man until morning. The apparition’s rhythmic words still throbbed in his head.

      2

      Martin’s breathing body stirred beside her, but it felt as if she was lying here alone. Nestled against his naked back, Claire tried to warm herself – but the lump of ice inside her didn’t melt. His heartbeat pulsed in time with hers; but his mind was silent, locked inside his skull.

      The bedside clock said two a.m.; it might as well be lunchtime. She didn’t think she’d ever get to sleep.

      If only she could tell what he was thinking. If only she could see into his dreams. Maybe then she’d understand the welter of emotions he had shown. There’d been a spark of wonder, to be sure. She’d snatched at it, ignoring the dismay. Then he’d lost his rag, and started shouting. All her fault: she’d done it just to trap him. How dare you even think that? she’d yelled back. As the fight raged round the flat, she’d realized he was scared. Frightened of commitment in itself – or by their prospects? She wouldn’t blame him, if it was the latter. She was bloody terrified as well.

      But later, when he’d quietened down, the fear had still been there. She’d peeped into the living room, and seen him trying to read. His skin looked cold and milky pale; his eyes like haunted wells.

      She’d had a horrid notion then. He looked like someone diagnosed with cancer – frightened for the people whom his illness would drag down. The family who didn’t even know … It couldn’t be. She’d crushed the inkling out. But two nights later, here it was – still smouldering.

       For God’s sake, don’t be stupid. He wouldn’t keep a thing like that from me.

      At least he hadn’t packed his bags. At least she had his body in her arms. She sniffed, and laid her cheek against his shoulder. A single tear ran down onto his skin. She’d cried at work today, as well – in front of John, who’d watched with solemn eyes. She wondered what he’d made of it. His cryptic mind was just as hard to read.

      Subsiding into sleep at last, she dreamed of spiders creeping up the bed: dozens of them, all spindly legs and petrol-bloated bodies. Catching fire, they scuttled blindly forward. She felt them on her naked skin. Paralysed, she smelt the duvet burning. More of them were crawling on the ceiling: they dropped towards her face like falling stars. Her scream was just a whimper in the stillness of the room. She curled into a ball, and didn’t wake.

      3

      The sound was just a rustling at first: like rain against the flat roof overhead. Martin lay there, semi-conscious, trying to ignore it. But slowly it grew louder: a crackling noise that seemed to fill the room. Like burning wood. He sat up with a start.

      The bedroom was in darkness – he could see no sign of flames. And yet there was a bluish gleam, infusing the dense air. He sat and squinted, baffled – then looked down.

      His hands were glowing.

      He raised his palms, and stared at them in frozen disbelief. His skin was radiating cold blue light. The frosty crackle sounded like a Geiger counter now. He rubbed his hands together – no effect. The light was welling up from every pore.

      Springing out of bed, he stumbled over to the mirror. His face was luminous as well, a disembodied mask. The snap and sizzle of decay was growing all the time. Yet Claire was still asleep – she hadn’t heard it. She couldn’t feel the particles that soaked into her skin.

      I’ve touched her with these hands; she’s kissed my face. So she must be contaminated too. Together with what was growing in her womb.

      Did magic have a lethal dose? A power to deform?

      The crackling reached a peak – and then cut off. The ghostly blue plutonium-glow went out. He thought he’d been struck blind again, and felt his heart freeze up; then realized he was buried in the bedclothes. The bed was hot, and stank of sweat. Claire lay snug against him, moaning softly.

      He shrank away from her, got up, and blundered to the bathroom.

      Waking up, Claire clutched herself; revulsion made her squirm against the headboard. Her skin was slick, her nerves still itching madly. The dream itself was like a web. It took her several moments to break free.

      She slumped against the headboard with her arms around her legs. Her fringe was matted, hanging in her eyes. Shower, she thought – and realized there was nobody beside her. A fleeting twinge of dread, and then she heard water splashing. Light reflected through the open doorway. Shit, he beat me to it, she thought wryly.

       Better join him.

      Going through, she found him there, beneath the steaming blast – still scrubbing at his raw, abraded skin.

CHAPTER VI

       Grief Riders

      1

      Daylight made the Burnt House seem much smaller.

      Martin stood and watched it from across the busy road. Lunchtime traffic put it in perspective – a backdrop to the modern urban grind. The sunshine showed its cracks and crumbled brickwork; the window-boards were brittle cataracts. A blind, decrepit visage that the passing world ignored.

      He’d heard that it was down for demolition. A Planning Application had been fastened to a telephone pole nearby. Soon the JCBs would come, and smash the building open like a skull. Myths matured in darkness would shrivel in the light. Emptiness would gawp from every window.

      I wonder what they’d find inside my head?

      He looked both ways, and crossed the road towards it. Today, there was no sense of being watched. He could picture the place as a dusty heap of rubble, perhaps with one wall standing, and a window framing sky. Its ghosts were shadows: primal fears. The only exorcists were light and thought.

      Walking slowly round the house, he forced himself to think of last night’s dream. It seemed to say so much – if he would listen. His experience in Dad’s study was still damaging him now. Vibrations from the past were finding flaws inside his mind. In time, they would develop into fissures. Unless he took some action, he’d crack up.

      He’d put this off for long enough: casting round for evidence of ghosts, where none existed. Trying to tell himself it was a scientific quest. Avoiding the truth like a credulous child.

      He’d had some kind of episode, that night two years ago. Paralysis, a fit, hallucinations. No wonder that he’d looked for other answers. It could have been a one-off, and the lapse of time suggested that it was. But what if it recurred, from out of nowhere?

      It wasn’t just his problem any longer; there was Claire. And someone else, he thought. And someone else.

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