The Evil Seed (21 page)

Joe.

Joe and Daniel?

Daniel and Joe.

And as the last
important piece of the puzzle slammed into place like a door on to the world of
reason, Alice picked up her paintbrush one last time, and added the name of the
picture to the bottom of the canvas, without thinking, knowing that the act was
as inevitable as all the other acts which had led up to this one moment.

Poor Daniel, she
thought, and wrote, in neat precise capitals:

RETRIBUTION: THE
CHOSEN OF OPHELIA

One

I WALKED IN NIGHTMARE ALONG THAT ROAD, THE
HUNGER at my heels all the time. The brain of which I was so unjustly proud was
filled with unaccustomed turmoil; the scent of blood was in my nostrils, and
though I fought my growing certainties, I weakened in the face of that hunger,
weakened as any normal man would.

I have always thought of
myself as a Christian; I did not lie or steal, and if I had lustful thoughts I
hid them well; my sins were the little sins of a man very like other men; my
thoughts never touched either despair or the sublime. Suddenly, in the space of
a night and a day, everything was different. I would never be like other men
again, and the knowledge was like damnation inside me. How can I convey to you
the depths of my horror then, the first time I looked at myself and saw the
beast under the skin? Later, when I had looked upon such things too often to be
broken, I was able to view what happened dispassionately, almost
scientifically, but there were many mirrors and icons to be broken before then,
many forbidden pages to be turned. So I walked, and I hungered, and I kept my
face in shadow so that the passers-by could not recognize the murder in my
eyes.

Murder.

The word meant nothing
to me as I walked blindly through the streets, my hands in my pockets to hide
their trembling. It was a pit, spiralling downwards into never-never-never, huge
as destiny. Just a word, superimposed like a photographic negative over
everything I saw, bigger than God. Believe me, I fought it as long as I could,
but it was insidious, twisting and turning in my mind, hallucinating, casting
kaleidoscope images into the painful grid of my reason. For seconds at a time I
was apart from reality, spinning, hunger riding my brain like a child on a
fairground helter-skelter; several times I ducked into side-streets or shady
archways and retched, pain digging sharp fingers under my ribs. And all that I
endured, ultimately, for nothing. Strange, that I should still feel pride at
not giving in immediately. Grant me that much humanity, that I did not give in
at once.

I never made it to
Rosemary’s apartment — I did not expect to — though I did get as far as the
river. The streets were not as crowded as I had feared, and though groups of
students congregated outside the public houses, I was not obliged to touch them
or go too near. I was glad of that; the very smell of them made my head spin. A
couple of policemen passed me; I was conscious of a wary glance flicked in my
direction. Paranoid, I quickened my step, imagining that they had seen
something of my altered condition. My hands were shaking. As I came to
Magdalene Bridge (the irony was not lost to me), I suffered a particularly
violent spasm which left me breathless and trembling, and I managed to climb
down on to the banking, and from there, under the bridge itself, where it was
dark and cool, and, I thought, I would be able to rest without being seen and
questioned.

I settled myself on a
narrow ledge in the shadow of the bridge. The air was cold and sweaty, the
underside of the bridge green with mould, but at least I felt safer there.
Someone passed above my head; I felt the heat of their footsteps, imagined I
saw it, like a torch shining through thick cloth, a faint glimmer on the water,
closed my eyes. Only a few moments, I deluded myself, just a few minutes’ rest,
and I would be myself again. All I needed was the coolness of the water, the
moist silence of stone to still what was raging inside me. I waited.

‘Daniel.’

My eyes snapped open, my
hands raised automatically to steady my glasses. For a moment I thought the
voice came from the water, and I felt a stab of superstitious dread; it was
her, the dead lady, her ribcage torn open like a sack of laundry and her eyes
staring accusingly at me. Maybe there was worse; maybe the wreckage of her face
would show a wide, desperate smile, and her arms would be open to receive me …

‘Danny.’

I turned so suddenly
that I nearly fell off the ledge.

‘I’m so glad I found
you, Danny.’

It was Rafe.

For a moment, the
essential meaning of his presence eluded me and I simply stared at him. He was
crouching on the ledge, barely two or three feet away from me, and a ray of
light, freakishly reflected from the water, fell on to his face. I had thought
him beautiful before when I had seen him in Rosemary’s apartment; beautiful in
a disturbing way; now he was spectral, ethereally fair, his pale eyes at the
same time innocent and corrupt. I was beyond fear; my terror of what I had
already begun to discover within myself was enough to eclipse any fear a normal
man might have had at being alone with a vicious murderer.

‘My God,’ I whispered, ‘what
have you done to me? What did you give me?’

Rafe smiled.

‘Don’t worry, Danny.
Everybody’s like that at first. You’ll get over it soon enough.’

‘Over what?’ I began to
raise my voice. ‘what have I become?’ I reached over and grabbed him by the
front of his coat; shook him. Rafe just smiled.

‘Soon you’ll be one of
us,’ he said. ‘That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? To be one of us?’

I shook my head.

‘Yes, you did,’ chided
Rafe. ‘Isn’t that what everybody wants? To belong to someone? You belong to us
now; you don’t like it now, because you are not used to the idea yet, but you
will. You’ll live for ever, Danny. You’ll be more than a man; and Danny, the
things you’ll
know!
Everybody wants that, believe me.’

‘What did you give me?’

‘You know.’

The fact that I did
know, and more than I wanted, made me see red. I pulled the boy towards me and
hit him hard across the mouth.

‘You bastard! I don’t
know anything! All I know is that you’re murderers, all of you
…
God
help me, and you’re poisoning me. You’re poisoning me and I feel. I want.’ My
voice soared above its normal register, shrill with panic; hearing myself so
badly out of control frightened me even more, and I loosened my grip on the
boy, pushed him away. ‘I don’t know anything.’

There was a thin trickle
of blood running out of the left side of Rafe’s mouth; still smiling, he wiped
the blood with the ball of his thumb, then, very delicately, licked it away.

‘You know.’

I slumped against the
side of the bridge. His pale eyes pinned me to the stone, his smile was more than
I could bear. I began to weep quietly into my hands, the tears falling through
my fingers like lost worlds. I wanted to die.

Rafe watched me for a
long time, then he stood up. His head was ringed with light from the
reflections on the water; he looked like an angel. I was panic-stricken at the
thought that he was about to go away, and I clutched, convulsively, at the
skirt of his coat.

‘Don’t leave me.’

‘Then come with me. If
you dare.’

‘Stay with me. Help me.’

Rafe nodded.

‘That’s why I’m here.
That’s why they sent me.

‘Who sent you?’

‘The others. Rosemary.
You belong to all of us now, Danny. You have nothing to be afraid of now, I
promise you. From now on, you will be feared, as we are feared. You’re one of
us.’

‘But what are you?’ I
asked, still clutching at him like a lost child.

Rafe flung up his head
and laughed — and suddenly my heart was filled with admiration and love for
him, for the savage freedom of that gesture. For an instant, I wanted nothing
more than to be like that, free and beautiful and cruel and young — unchained
from the shackles of the sordid world. I wanted to be a law unto myself; yes, I
wanted to belong to him and to his kind for ever, to run with them, feed with
them, to be for ever blessed.

God forgive me, I wanted
that.

He smiled at me, and I
basked in reflected glory.

‘We’re the masters,
Danny,’ he said softly.
‘The chosen ones.
The lords of creation. The
predators.’

I shuddered with a cold
joy. I was a child again, eagerly waiting on the brink of the longest and most
exhilarating fairground ride of my life; I could smell popcorn and candy-floss
and the dull, hot under-smell of the animal-house.

‘Oh, yes,’ I murmured,
hardly even aware that I had spoken.

‘Oh, yes.’

One

BLACK NIGHT HAD FALLEN, AND I RAN WITH THE
NIGHT. In the shadows we ran, Rafe and I, and as we went through the town,
following secret channels through which he led me, the others joined us
silently, Java and Rosemary and others whose names I knew without having to ask
them: Elaine with her long matted hair and huge eyes; Anton, seven years old,
his hand tucked trustingly into hers in a parody of real childhood; Zach with
red hair like Rosemary’s and a bird tattoo on his face.
My
people, I
thought with a whirling pride,
my
people, and, God help me, I loved them
that night, loved the feel and the scent of them and the throb of the hunger
which was our friend and only ally. Most of all I loved Rosemary, loved the
ripple of her hair on her shoulders, the turn of her head, the whiteness of her
bare legs beneath the black raincoat. I walked in dreams, and, forgive me, I
felt ecstasy, I felt
joy,
and that’s what I miss most, now she is gone,
and the joy buried in the earth of Grantchester churchyard, never to blossom
again.

Try to understand: I was
born a lonely child among adults with their own problems to live with; I grew
into a lonely man. I immersed myself in study in the hope of bringing order to
my life. I surrounded myself with art to satisfy my need for sensuality.

What child has never
craved the company of others, the wild thrill of the pack, that feeling of
running for ever? I saw myself as we ran: the lonely boy constantly left out
and teased, the clever boy seeking in books the friendships he failed to find
elsewhere. I am sorry, but believe me when I say that despite everything, I
felt joy. I think I would have felt it even without the substance Rafe had
injected into my arm before we set off; no drugs could entirely explain the
euphoria, the fulfilment I experienced. The train inside the bubble of my spinning-top
had broken free at last, and I rode it in one glorious night, bearing down upon
my destiny with cries of triumph.

I no longer questioned
anything; the glamour of the night was enough for me, and I followed the pack
down alleys, under dark archways, across bridges and back across the river
until we came to the poorer part of town. Once or twice a passer-by caught
sight of us; we answered his stares with cat-calls and whoops. Java was
carrying a knife. Light from the street-lamps slickered off its blade like
mercury, but I was not afraid; the hunger was like the most powerful of drugs
in my system, a strong, compelling music in the soundbox of my skull. Tribal
rhythms drove me on. How long we travelled I do not know; I suspect it was not
long, but it might have been for ever. Like Peter Pan, I felt as if I were
walking on magic dust, effortlessly; and I know the others felt the same.
Elaine was singing softly, her voice a thin lost warble in the shadows. Only
Rosemary was untouched; utterly serene, she led the way towards the place she
had chosen, and the hunger pushed us from behind like a strong wind.

It was a place I knew
slightly: a run-down public house with a reputation for cheap drink and illicit
hours. Even then, I thought that it must surely be closing, for it seemed
deserted, and the light from the windows was yellow and drab. But the others
looked so sure of themselves that I followed, afraid to hesitate, fumbling in
my pockets for money. Even then, you see, I had not really understood. Maybe I
still suspected that I might be dreaming; whatever the reason, I fumbled for
money in my pockets, as if I were planning nothing more serious than an evening
out drinking with my friends. It might have been ridiculous if it had not been
so horrible.

Rosemary led the way in;
the door was open, and I found myself standing in a grimy tap-room, where two
people, a man and a woman, were clearing glasses and bottles from the bar.
There was sawdust on the floor of the room, a pall of greasy smoke in the air;
mingled under-smells of mould, wine and vomit.

The man was wiping the
bar with a damp cloth; he did not even look up when we came in.

‘We’re shut,’ he said
brusquely. ‘Eve! Lock that door before anyone else turns up.’ The woman he had
addressed as Eve stood up from mopping the floor, a cigarette hanging from her
mouth. I had a moment to notice that she was young, and might even have been
pretty in different circumstances; as it was, she looked sullen and drab, a
dirty cloth tying back hair of a cheap, metallic blonde.

‘You heard,’ she said,
without removing the cigarette. ‘We’re shut. Sorry.’

There was a short
silence; I saw Java glance at Rafe, saw Anton take a step forwards, pulling
away from Elaine.

The young woman stared
at him.

‘An’ what’s more, that
kid ought to be home in bed,’ she said. ‘Don’t you know what time it is?’

I shifted uneasily,
remembering, perhaps, my own words, rather too similar for comfort, when I had
spoken to Rafe and Java a short twenty-four hours previously.