The Wanderer (11 page)

‘Excuse me,’ she called out. ‘Have you seen a black cat?’

William looked over at her. ‘What, ever?’

‘No,’ the woman snapped. ‘Tonight, near here.’

‘Can’t say I have.’

‘She’s quite fat. But I don’t overfeed her. Has a mark on her chest like a lower-case ‘r’.’

William shook his head.

‘Definitely haven’t seen her.’

‘Oh. She always comes in for supper around nine, but not this evening. I don’t know where she could have got to.’

‘Oh,’ William said. ‘Sorry to hear that. I hope she turns up.’

He idly pushed a chocolate wrapper toward the gutter with his toe.

‘That’s not your rubbish, is it?’ the woman barked.

‘Er, no.’

‘Well, perhaps you’d be good enough to find a bin for it.’

Thrown off guard, William bent down, picked up the litter.

‘Thank you, young man.’

As he turned to go, the old lady mused aloud, ‘Where can that cat have got to?’

‘I don’t know,’ William replied, though not sure an answer was looked for. ‘Perhaps she’s out hunting birds.’

‘Oh no, she wouldn’t do that. Jemima’s a good cat.’

‘Right you are.’ William mimed tugging a forelock. ‘Anyhow, best be off.’

He went on, leaving the old woman babbling and tutting to herself. Once out of sight, he threw the wrapper down.

Reaching the Heath, he walked through a sandy dell and a stand of trees, and came out into a clearing, with, at its heart, a marshy slade, which a sign told him was the Hampstead Heath sphagnum bog. As he walked by, he heard, a low gurgling coming off the mire that, though he didn’t quite know why, struck him as loathsome, foreboding, and he quickened his pace.

Following a footpath headed towards the Lido, William reached a gate, passed through it, and came into a meadow. He skirted it, kept to the track, which ran along the treeline. Crows roosted in the branches overhead, their harsh clamour filling the air. The way then led into another spinney. Under the interlaced branches of the trees – oak, elm, birch, and other varieties William didn’t recognize – it was gloomy, the fading light of the evening, filtering through the interstices, just enough to see by, but not to dispel bugbears. The path here was less trodden, in places overgrown. He was almost through to the other side, when he saw, just ahead, red eyes glaring at him, baleful. Blood beat in his ears. He saw a wolf leaping for his throat; a mad, brutal killer, butcher and ghoul, wearing a necklace of cured genitals and a skin cloak, a patchwork of flayed faces, rushing him, brandishing a meat cleaver; a roused corpse lumbering toward him, keening from between worm-eaten lips. Then a coarse laugh broke the hex, one of the ‘eyes’ arced through the air, blinked out, and he smelled cigarette smoke. A woman, naked from the waist down, stood up, stretched, scratched her crotch. Sighting William, she gasped, dropped to her haunches, hands to her groin. A thickset bald man stood up beside her,
hastily zipping his fly.

‘Oi, fucker!’

William broke into a run, didn’t slow or look round till he was back under open sky. His lungs ached. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw he’d not been followed. He still trembled, but was able to laugh at his own foolishness. Then he went on his way, pace brisk.

Darkness was encroaching, and the first stars came out, early arrivals into the theatre, impatient for the drama to begin.

A little further on, William emerged from a copse to see, ahead of him, atop Parliament Hill, beneath a just-risen new moon like a nail paring, silhouetted against the darkening sky, a throng, with, at its heart, three riders, holding burning brands aloft. Thinking it safest to skirt this gathering, William struck out from the path.

In the gloaming, he didn’t notice a fallen branch, tripped, stumbled, fell, landed awkwardly, twisting his wrist. His cry drew the attention of the party on the rise, and a drawn-out, ‘Halloo!’ was sounded. The men on horseback rowelled their mounts and charged at him, those on foot running to keep up. Before he could rise again, William was beset. The horses were big, had wild rolling eyes, pitchy coats. Awful nearness of sharp hooves, rank stench of horseflesh. The horses were clad in heavy barding; skittish, twitching, tossing their heads, pawing at the ground, they sounded a carillon. The riders also wore full plate; their faces were hidden behind the lowered visors of their helms. Sputtering, reeking, the torches cast a fitful light.

‘’Tis not our quarry,’ one of the riders cried, the leader, William thought, for, while his companions’ suits of armour were plain, his was ornate: black enamelled, chased with scrollwork, a wyvern, wings outflung, graved on the cuirass, a sable ostrich-feather plume adorning the helm. His steed’s armour was also black tinted.

He turned to William.

‘Something direful is abroad this night. Seek refuge, while you can.’

William could only catch odd glimpses, through the chargers’ moiling shanks and hocks, of the rabble following the knights, but, from what he could see, they seemed a disparate company: teenagers with facial piercings; suited businessmen and women; construction workers, still wearing overalls, hard hats, reflective jackets; a gaggle of young women in short skirts, barefoot, heels in their hands, all wearing either Devil’s horns or rabbit ears, save one in a tiara, who wore a sash with, ‘A right to wear white (honest)’, written on it, a hen party; a few couples in evening dress; white-haired pensioners; vagrants, unwashed, unkempt, wearing shabby cast-offs, the men with matted beards. All in contemporary dress. William was bemused.

The knights backed, turned their mounts, rode a little distance off. It seemed they were holding council. One of the mob neared William, helped him to his feet. It was the butcher he’d passed earlier.

‘What’s all this?’ William asked.

‘You’d best stick with us,’ was the reply. Actually, it came out a little like, ‘You’d betht thtick with uth,’ he had a slight lisp, his cleft lip. ‘For your own safety.’

‘Is this a film shoot? A historical re-enactment?’

The butcher waved his hand, dismissed the enquiry.

‘Will you join the hunt?’ he asked. ‘In numbers we can’t come to harm.’

William shook his head, squinted at the butcher.

‘What? What do you mean?’

‘There’s a thing. A monster. Its lair’s on the Heath. Children. It preys on children. But it’ll eat any flesh. It’s hungry. Ravening. It’ll eat animals, anything, but…It’s got a taste, you know? It’s already taken ten.’

He paused to draw breath, and William broke in.

‘What are you on about?’

‘Hear me out. Ten. Six kids, three young women, an infirm old man. It’s strong, but goes after the weak. We mean to stop it before it kills again.’

The throng had clustered round, peered at William. A young woman in scraps of gaudy, one of the hens, screeched, ‘It’ll tear your ’eart out.’

She clawed at her sternum. She’d a tattoo the same as the butcher’s, but more distinct, below her left collarbone. The blade hung down. He now saw the marking was a medieval broadsword.

An older man, suave, wearing a dinner suit, pointed, chuckled, ‘Here. I think he’s getting rather an eyeful.’

The hens all cackled.

‘So ’e is, cheeky fucker. Looking at me tits, yeah? Like what yer see?’

‘Leave him alone,’ the butcher said. ‘He’s alright. He’s one of us now.’

An old man dressed, absurdly, in a tweed suit and deerstalker, spoke up, tremulous, ‘Look here, I think they’ve bally well reached a decision.’

The knights approached at a slow trot. All turned to face them. Drawing near, the riders reined in their mounts, and the knight in black armour raised a gauntleted hand. Looking about him at the band, who gawped up at the knight, William realized all bore the sword tattoo. The knight began to bellow.

‘My friends, the thing we hunt is not one of God’s creatures, but a demon!’

A wood pigeon cooed.

‘Born in a lake of fire and spewed forth from the abyss to wreak havoc on the world. It must be stopped!’

There was clapping, and a shout went up.

‘It is vile. Predacious, cruel. Knows no pity, has all the dread strength Perdition could gift it.’

William looked about at the party. All cowered in fear.

‘But we fight for the Lamb! And this will be our talisman!’

He drew a broadsword from the scabbard that hung at his waist, raised it over his head, grasping the blade, pommel to the sky, then, lifting his brand aloft, held it behind; a crucifix, stark against the flames. The gaggle cheered. William, discomfited, sidled through the press to its edge.

The leader sheathed his weapon, spread his arms.

‘We must be as a light to chase away the shadows from this land,’ he went on.

At that moment, an anguished howl was carried to them on the breeze. There was tumult. William saw his chance, legged it.

But he didn’t get far, only about halfway up Parliament Hill; one of the knights vaulted into the saddle, rode him down.

‘You will bide with us till this thing is done. You cannot evade your charge.’

‘What? What are you on about? Let me go!’

The knight took out his blade, jabbed at William’s chest.

‘Nay,’ he growled. ‘And we will brook no refusal.’

William pleaded, but the rider herded him back to the group. When he was in the fold once more, the Black Knight went on.

‘The hell-spawn will feel the bite of steel this night.’

He cupped his hand to the side of the helmet, cocked his head.

‘Hark! That blood-curdling yawp was the last cry of a victim, I warrant it. We must make haste if we are to catch the accursed creature. Let us sally!’

Then, with the flats of their blades, the knights began to drive the rabble on. William was caught up in the stampede.

The hunt rushed pell-mell on, back the way William had come. Drunk, and, in any case, unfit, it wasn’t long before he was struggling for breath, and in spite of the chill air, lathered. His brain panged. Sore weary, he hung his head, kept on. It was some time, then, before he became aware the butcher was scurrying at his side, furtively attempting to attract his attention.

‘What?’ William gasped.

‘You shouldn’t’ve pissed them off.’

William placed his foot clumsily, turned his ankle, stumbled, almost fell. Grabbing his arm, the butcher steadied him. The ruck had continued to hurtle, and, had he fallen, he’d have been trampled.

‘They’re pledged to protect mankind,’ the butcher went on, after a moment.

‘Really?’ William spat. ‘What are you on about?’

But, just then, they passed by a tree he knew, by the shape of its leaves, to be a horse chestnut, and a vivid memory came to him.

As a young boy, conker season had always been William’s favourite time of year. Every autumn, he set aside a Saturday afternoon, which he’d spend throwing a stick again and again into the foliage of a chestnut tree down the road from his childhood home, knocking the seeds from its branches. Sitting, cross-legged, on the ground, he would split the spiny casings, plucking from their corpse-white flesh the prized, glossy nuts. Then he’d return home with the small handful that most nearly resembled the ideal conker he held in his brain. He’d temper the seeds, by roasting, pickling, an esoteric ritual. The pickling took ages, and William found the waiting drear, a strain, spent long stretches gazing at the conkers floating, like specimens in phials, in old jam jars, on shelves in the garden shed. When, finally, the conkers were ready, he’d take great care boring holes in them, then tie them onto lengths of twine. He won all his battles, was, while conker season lasted, undisputed lord of the playground, pestered for his lore, though it was known he’d never reveal it.

What William recalled that night on the Heath, was the season he was finally bested, the year he was cast down, smashed all his jars. That autumn, a new boy had started at his school. Short for his age, shy, named Carol, which the other children thought a girl’s name, a lisper, he was often set on. Though William wasn’t
one of the main bullies, he sometimes stood by, chanting taunts, jeering.

Then, one cold morning in October, William arrived at school to find a huddle outside the gates. He could hear shouts, Carol’s, supposed he’d been ganged up on again. But, drawing nearer, he realized the cries were of glee, not anguish. He joined the throng. They watched, avid, a game of conkers. Carol had been pitted against Steve, the roughest of the school’s bullies, but strangely all the cheering was for the new boy. William soon realized why: Carol’s aim was sure, his blows, stout, his conker, tough. After two strikes the husk of Steve’s nut split, exposing the soft, pale innards. A third smashed it to pieces.

The onlookers cheered, the bully slunk off, shamefaced. Then a girl standing by William called out to Carol, issued a challenge.

‘Bet you can’t beat Will, though. He’s the best conkerer ever.’

Cowed by what he’d seen, William tried to wriggle out of it; with him, he’d only the best conker the tree had yielded that year, a lustrous slogger he’d called Achilles – he was reading a book of simple retellings of Greek myth – and he didn’t want to risk it. But the gang took up the chant, ‘William the Conkerer’, and, sighing, he put down his satchel, took Achilles out, and went up to Carol, feinting. Before beginning, they worked out who’d go first; Achilles was a seasoned veteran of six battles, while Carol’s conker, Paris – a city his family had taken him to that summer – only a two-er, so William was given first go. Carol dangled his chestnut, easy, while William flailed away at it overarm. He struck three clean blows, began to grin, enjoy himself, but then made a bad mistake, missed, got the strings tangled up.

‘Snags,’ Carol piped, gaining the attack.

William’s spirits sagged as Carol’s conker whacked over and over into Achilles, setting it jigging at the end of its string. By the time he got control of the match back, its husk was crackled. On the first attack, Achilles hammered square into Paris, but
suffered the worse, then, on the second, glanced off and flew from its string into the watching mob.

‘Stompsies,’ went up the cry.

Picking up his bag, William walked away, briskly, before anyone could see his tears.