The Green Man

Amy had retreated a little way, then stopped and turned, and between her and the pounding bulk of the creature stood Victor in a posture of defiance, his back arched and tail swollen. A kick from a wooden foot smashed into him, with a snapping of twigs or bones, and he went skidding, a lifeless bundle, across the road and into the ditch. Then Amy turned again and ran, ran in earnest, in long-legged strides, but even when she reached her best speed, she was not gaining on the green man. By now I was aware of what I still held in my hand, and saw what it was I must do, and pushed myself to my feet and ran in my turn down the road towards the graveyard. Ahead of me, the pursuit continued; from where I was I could not judge the distance between the one and the other, and did not try, but drew back my arm and hurled the silver figure over the graveyard wall. I heard it touch ground, and immediately that misshapen being came lurching to a halt, did more than halt, was bowed down, was borne backwards by some immense force, step by step, shaking and flailing, while portions of it detached themselves and came whirling towards me, around me and over my head, leaf, twig, bough, stump, so that I crouched down and crossed my arms over my face, ducking instinctively as a stout length of wood swished past, and again when a thorny tendril scored my wrist, eyes screwed up and ears filled with a drawn-out, diminishing howl of inhuman pain and rage.

Silence fell, broken only by some heavy vehicle speeding towards London on the A595. I got up slowly, walked a few paces, then ran on towards the village calling Amy’s name. She was stretched out at the edge of the road with blood on her forehead, one knee and one hand. I carried her back to the house, laid her on her bed and telephoned Jack Maybury.

5: A Movement in the Grass

‘Physically, there’s nothing to worry about,’ said Jack just after midday. ‘That’s a perfectly healthy sleep she’s in now. No evidence of concussion. No fever. And those cuts and bruises are quite minor. Psychologically, well, I doubt if there’s much grounds for anxiety there either, not immediately anyway, though I must admit I’m a bit out of my depth with sleepwalking. Are you sure it was sleepwalking?’

I turned from the window of Amy’s bedroom. ‘I don’t know. I just assumed it was.’ I had decided it was, as the most flexible rough version of what had really happened. ‘The front door woke me up, I saw her passing the window, so I went and—’

‘So you said. What exactly happened when you got to her?’

‘I called out to her, which was probably a mistake, only I didn’t think, and she gave this great start and half turned round, and tripped.’

‘And hit her head on the road hard enough to knock her out, but … I just wouldn’t have thought a bang that caused such a comparatively minor contusion would be enough to knock a healthy person out. Still. Why were you in the public dining-room instead of your own place up here?’

‘I go there sometimes. Less chance of being interrupted.’

‘Yeah. Just as well you did, this time. Right, well I’ll look in again this evening. Keep her in bed meanwhile. Light lunch. We’ll see how it goes. There’s a very good kids’ headshrinker bloke at the hospital I can get hold of tomorrow. Personally, I doubt whether she was sleepwalking at all.’

‘What do you think she was doing?’

‘Pretending to sleepwalk. She’d read about it.’

‘What would be the point of that?’

‘Oh, to get herself a bit of attention from someone,’ said Jack, with a full dose of his censorious look. ‘Anyway, I’ll be off now. How are you?’ he added grudgingly.

‘Fine. A bit tired.’

‘Get some rest this afternoon. No more little birds?’

‘No. Would you like a drink?’

‘No thanks.’

As he started to leave, I asked without premeditation, ‘How’s Diana?’

Jack stopped leaving. ‘How is she? She’s all right. Why?’

‘No reason.’

‘I’ll just say this much, Maurice. I like things the way they are. I don’t like turmoil or upsets or letting one part of your life interfere with the other. I’m not against people enjoying themselves in any way they happen to fancy, provided they don’t start behaving like bloody kids. Okay?’

‘I’m for that too,’ I said, wondering what Diana could have said to him, but, as a mere ex-lover of hers since yesterday, not wondering very hard.

‘Good. See you tonight.’

Then he did go. Very soon afterwards. Amy opened her eyes in the manner of someone waking up with tremendous reluctance after a tremendously deep sleep. She smiled at me, then felt the taped bandage on her forehead and traced its outline. We hugged each other.

‘Have I been sleepwalking, Dad?’

‘Well … you might have been. All sorts of people do.’

‘I had a funny dream, Dad,’ she went on immediately. ‘You were in it.’

This was the first time that day she had spoken more than a couple of words. ‘What happened?’

‘Well, I dreamt I was lying in bed here, and you were calling to me. You told me to get up and come downstairs, so I did. I took Victor with me, because he was here. You didn’t tell me to, but I thought you wouldn’t mind. Then when I got downstairs, you said I was to go outside into the road. I still couldn’t see you, but that was what you said. So I went outside, but you weren’t there, so I started looking for you.’

‘Go on.’

‘I’m trying to, but it gets harder to remember after that. You gave me a fright, but you didn’t mean to. You came up and told me I was to put Victor down and run into the village, so I did. I started to, anyway. Then I really forget what happened. But I do sort of remember that you were being very brave, Dad. Was there a man chasing me?’

‘I don’t know. You were dreaming.’

‘I don’t think I was. I wasn’t, was I?’

She was looking hard at me. ‘No,’ I said. ‘It was real.’

‘Well done, Dad,’ she said, and took my hand.

‘What for?’

‘Not pretending. And being brave. What happened to the man?’

‘He ran away. He won’t be back.’

‘What happened to Victor? The man killed him, didn’t he?’

‘Yes. But it was over in a moment.’

‘He was brave too. It wasn’t really you telling me to get up and come downstairs, was it? Then what was it really?’

‘I think that part of it must have been a sort of dream. You imagined it. No, not quite that. There was a spell on the house, so that people saw things and heard things when there wasn’t anybody there.’

‘You mean like that screaming the other day?’

‘That was part of it. But it’s all over now, I promise you.’

‘Okay, Dad. I mean I believe you. I’m all right. Where’s Victor? He’s not just still lying there, is he?’

‘No. I’ve got him safe. I’m going off to bury him in a minute.’

‘Good idea. Come and see me again when you’ve got time.’

‘Would you like me to get Joyce or Magdalena to sit with you?’

‘No, I’ll be all right. Could you pass me that magazine about Jonathan Swift there on my dressing-table?’

‘Jonathan Swift? Oh, I see.’

The front page of the publication carried a colour photograph of a young man (or so I assumed him to be)