ceiling. The spider seemed to be watching him. Or perhaps it was dead.
“Why the hell didn’t you get yourself a computer, Harry?”
Harry’s system was difficult to follow. The books in the library were kept in some kind of highly personal and esoteric order, and he had found no more of the slender notebooks on the shelves. There wasn’t much written down. It must all be in Harry’s head, burned to ashes along with his body.
“What else did you know?” The spider moved; it was alive after all. The web shuddered. The spider was no longer there. But something was… and not just in the corner of the ceiling. Marc became convinced that it was everywhere, inside and outside the house; all around him, trying to get inside him. Something was coming.
“What is it that you were keeping from me, and are you trying to tell me now that you’re dead?”
He thought about the Pollack twins, and the Northumberland Poltergeist. He’d always known there was more to the story than a simple urban haunting, but who the hell would believe any of this? His publisher would laugh at him; they’d send him away without an advance. It was fantastic, improbable… more than that: it was fucking insane.
Other worlds, demonic plague doctors, links to a famous case of vanishing New World settlers, a monster called the Underthing… the more he dug, the more incredible all this seemed.
He closed his eyes and tried to pin down the facts. But facts were thin on the ground here; all he had to cling to was a bunch of ghosts and stories within stories.
Only one thing was certain. Doors were opening, or being opened.
Something was on its way.
Something was coming.
Diary: Three
mummy went out to pub and daisy like a flower a sleep. sumbody else in the house wi me. i here him breething. captain clickety comign for me. he see me all the time even when he not here. he everwhear not just in the house. he all over the estate like grass and roads and houses. he lives in the needle but he can see through walls. he wants me and daisy like a flower because we look the same. two things the same make him stronga. two things the same fill him up like food. this time he bring others with him. they clothes are funny like old style in the museum or wot scarycrows have on. they smiling. some have blood on them clothes and faces. they hungry. I be food for them. me and daisy like a flower. a humingbird fly in the room. i go to play with it. keep it away from baby.
PART THREE
Scarecrow Culture
“I heard its fucking heart beating.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ROYLE USUALLY WENT over to Vanessa’s place once a fortnight for dinner. He wasn’t sure why they did this, or what she got out of the experience, but it meant that they could at least maintain regular face-to-face contact. It was part of the unspoken terms of their separation. Even though they were no longer officially together, neither of them could stand the thought of being apart, so they went through this stylised charade on a regular basis.
It had been her decision to temporarily separate — most of the major decisions in their lives were down to her — and although he’d never wanted it to happen, he could see the logic in her proposal. A bit of space; some time to contemplate what it was they both wanted; the distance he needed to pull himself together. His main fear — his
Vanessa still lived in the house they’d pushed their budget to the limit to buy, while he slept in that cramped little flat above the shops. He didn’t mind the arrangement, but he missed going home to her after a long, hard shift, missed pressing his body against hers in their double bed. But she’d never understood his anxiety as manifested in the Crawl, and his lasting obsession with the Gone Away Girls. His obsession with every case he’d ever worked on, if he was honest… it was this precise intensity that he failed to bring to their marriage, and it hurt her that he reserved it only for his work.
The car engine made a soft burring noise as he drove out into the Northumberland countryside, heading towards the small village where they’d set down roots. Royle had always been a city boy but Vanessa preferred to be out in the sticks, surrounded by trees and green fields and spaces that weren’t filled with the stench of motor vehicles and the sounds of a hemmed-in, overstimulated population.
It was dark now; the stars were out. The sky looked like a perforated black sheet backlit by a weak bulb. His hands ached as they gripped the steering wheel and his mind was filled with images whose collective meaning he found hard to define: a scarecrow with a missing girl’s face, a small crawling thing that remained out of sight, the mortally wounded body of a young man lying in a pool of blood.
These, among others, were the pictures he was forced to carry around with him, like unwanted family portraits of people he’d rather not be related to. He lived with these images; they were part of him now, central to who he was and what he had become. He wished that things were different, that he could have been a bus driver or a shopkeeper, or an internet millionaire… but he was a copper, and he always would be. Some things, it seemed, never changed, no matter how hard you wished they would.
When he pulled up outside the small detached house, he sat there for a little while, staring at the lighted windows and trying to define a shape beyond the glass. The Crawl was far behind him now; he could almost pretend that it didn’t exist, that it was something he’d once read about or seen in a film. This was real: the small, neat house in the country, his pregnant wife, the baby they’d made together, the untapped potential they had cherished before the darkness had come between them, driving a wedge between their feelings for one another.
Then, out of habit more than any sense of perceived menace, he glanced in the rear-view mirror to see what was behind him. Darkness bulged along the street, like food caught in a giant throat. Something flickered; a sense of quick, nervous movement. Even here he wasn’t safe.
The skin of his back and shoulders started to prickle; then it spread along his arms, reaching round to his chest, almost hugging him. The Crawl — it was here, even here, where he had mistakenly thought there might be safety. Somehow it had reached out, following him from the Grove, and managed to grasp hold of the rest of his life, tainting everything, polluting his thoughts and even his dreams.
He opened the door and got out of the car. A gust of wind blew along the street, buffeting him, almost knocking him off his feet. Then, a second later, the air was calm and still; there was not a trace of the wind he’d felt. Royle stared back along the street, in the direction he’d come. The darkness twisted, corkscrewing. He half expected to hear disembodied laughter.
