snippets of news, like little carrier pigeons.” There was an element of awe in Monty’s voice, but also one of love.
“I see,” said Boater. “That’s… good. It’s handy, isn’t it?” He backed up slowly, making sure that he was close to the door. Just in case Monty flipped. He gripped the neck of the bottle tighter.
Monty turned his head. He was still down on his knees in the dirt, as if praying before the host of broken television sets. “You don’t, do you? You don’t see them.” He smiled, and for a moment Boater thought that he saw cold, flat TV light play across his features.
“No,” said Boater, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t see a fucking thing. There’s nobody there, on those screens. The TV sets can’t talk to you.” He held out his hands, a placatory gesture. “They aren’t even plugged in.”
“Not on the screens, Francis.
Boater was locked in place. He couldn’t move. So he just stood there, and he watched.
“That’s what happened to that stupid druggie thief, Banjo. They stripped him clean, taking back the visions and washing his brain as clean and smooth as a baby’s arse.”
Boater remembered the guy, that junkie. They’d brought him down here and beaten him, and then Monty had told them to leave him alone with the fucker. That was the last Boater knew of him until he saw a report on the local news, stating that the junkie had been found walking the streets trying to rip his own face off. If he remembered correctly, Lana Fraser and some bloke had seen it happen.
“That rotten little bastard got what he deserved. He got wiped clean, retuned to an empty channel.”
The longer Boater stared at the TV screens the more he thought that he could see something behind them, coiling in the darkness. It looked like snakes made of smoke, or limbs of mist. A writhing mass comprised of long, twisting shapes was packed in behind the broken glass, and they were slowly becoming clearer, gaining resolution. Then, as though a visor had been lifted from before his eyes, he caught sight of huge, twitching, insect-like legs, folded over and stuffed tightly into the spaces behind the screens. “I think I see something,” he said, taking a few steps forward, into the room. “They’re in there, aren’t they? They’re really in there.”
“Yes, they are.” Monty stood and walked to Boater’s side. He laid a hand on his forearm. “They told me to take the girl.”
Boater glanced at him. “What girl?” But he knew; of course he did. He’d been keeping an eye on her for almost a fortnight now, since Monty had asked him to swing by her school a couple of times a week, and perhaps follow her home every now and then. If she had ever seen him, all she would have noticed was a fat man in a car parked by the Arcade, or some burly bastard standing outside the Dropped Penny pub waiting for someone.
“First they told me to watch her, and I put you on the job. Now they’ve said that I need to take her. That Fraser woman, she’s going to try to kill me. She’ll come back here very soon, and perhaps she won’t be alone. I need an insurance policy, a little leverage, some collateral on the remainder of her loan.” He gripped Boater’s arm. His fingers felt like steel rods. “Get the girl for me, Francis. Get that cunt’s daughter and put her somewhere safe.” His eyes were manic, filled with an energy whose intensity was terrifying.
Boater’s head felt like it was expanding, and a strange droning noise filled his ears. He watched Monty’s lips move but he could barely hear what was being said.
“Get her and hide her until I tell you it’s safe to bring her back out into the open.”
Even though his hearing was impaired by the keening sound inside his head, Boater understood completely what he was being ordered to do. The only problem was he didn’t know if he could go through with it.
“But first,” said Monty, smiling again. “You can help me carry these fucking televisions upstairs.”
LATER, AS HE sat in his car outside the gym, Boater stared at his tired reflection in the rear-view mirror. He looked different; his features had altered subtly, as if he were trying to physically become someone else. But then the light from passing headlights briefly illuminated the interior of the car and he was once again the same old Francis Boater, with his bloated face and his small eyes. But for a moment there, in the shadows, he had almost been able to convince himself that he was a different person entirely.
He thought about the girl, and what Monty had told him to do. He pictured all the times he’d seen her recently, walking along on her own, heading either to or from her school. She was always alone; she never walked with friends. Like Boater, she seemed to travel through her life alone.
Right then, sitting motionless in his car on a darkened street, he decided that this time he was going to make his own decisions. This time, whatever he did he would do for the right reasons.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
TOM HAD NOT slept; he had merely dozed in the armchair, grabbing eagerly at the promise of rest yet gaining only scraps. So when he opened his eyes he knew immediately that he wasn’t dreaming. Not this time, anyway.
The first thing he saw was a scruffy dog walking slowly across the doorway, left to right. The dog was huge, more like a wolf, and as it turned to look at him he saw by the lamplight that it had the face of a boy. It was a familiar face: it was
Tiredness allowed him at last to see this truth. Exhaustion had opened his eyes and shown him the reality that was hiding behind the illusion.
All this time he had thought the dream-dog meant him harm, but it had actually been trying to save him. The realisation made him simultaneously sad and afraid.
“I’m sorry. I never understood. I always thought you were a monster. I didn’t realise that you were just a part of
But the dog was gone. The doorway was empty. Not even its shadow remained.
He got up and walked out into the hall. The darkness there had form and substance, like a cluster of earthbound clouds. He felt like he was dreaming awake — it was a sensation he now recognised as being a signal that he was partly in that other state, the one he had sensed so keenly during the day trip with Lana and Hailey. When he turned to face the front door, he half expected to see another animated section of Hadrian’s Wall slithering in and out like a serpent through gaps in the building. But this time he was awake, and the vivid dream imagery was nothing but a memory.
Something moved on the stairs behind him. It was a slow, heavy sound, like someone dragging themselves on their belly across the floor.
He glanced at the door to Helen’s room. It was open. He crossed the hallway and peered inside. The television was on, tuned once again to the static between channels. It bathed the room in an eerie light, and showed him that the bed was unmade and empty. But Helen had not been out of bed in years.
So where the hell was she now?
Tom turned to the bottom of the stairs. In the dimness he could make out a trail of moisture leading upwards. The carpet was wet; each step glistened, as if a giant slug had made its way up to the first floor.
He began to climb the stairs, keeping to the edge nearest the wall and clinging to the handrail. The light receded, staying down on the ground floor, but there was enough illumination bleeding in through the upstairs windows for him to see by. When he reached the top of the stairs the sound was much louder: a slow, moist slithering. He turned on to the landing and saw it there, hauling itself towards the bathroom at a slow, monotonous pace. A patch of light from the window at the end of the landing seeped towards it, like a yellow puddle. Its heavy grey body moved slowly; the large, clumsy fins pressed weakly against the floor and failed to get much traction as
