“That’ll be thirty quid for the signed limited Ramsey Campbell, a tenner for the Lebbon chapbook and twelve for the McMahon collection – call it fifty, shall we?”
The dealers’ room was packed. Darkcon was in its third year, the busiest so far it seemed. It was certainly a nice hotel, even if the price of the beer was a bit steep. The layout suited the function; an extensive yet well-staffed bar; dealers’ area adjacent to the main panellists’ rooms; authors’ reading section further towards the rear of the building where it was a bit quieter. No wonder the attendance was higher than any other horror convention in the UK
He handed over the cash and carefully placed the books in the bottom of his bag. The minute he’d collected the attendees’ bag from the registration desk he’d rummaged through the freebies, discarding the mass-market paperbacks that were of little interest, only keeping one or two of the rarer out-of-print small press titles or zines.
Braxton was a collector. It was true he loved horror fiction, but it wasn’t simply the act of reading that gave him the buzz, it was the thrill of collecting those rare and limited editions that did it. To know he was only one of a few hundred people in the world who possessed a copy of a certain book, that fact added to his enjoyment of the story. Since his redundancy eight years ago - and the large financial settlement that accompanied it – Braxton had indulged his passion. His wife had left him several years before that, and they hadn’t been blessed with any kids, so he was pretty much left to his own devices. Over the years he had managed to build a rather sizeable collection, spending money on Ebay, Amazon, and various specialist sites like there was no tomorrow. He was proud to own an almost complete collection of PS Publishing titles, every Gray Friar Press book from their catalogue, and all the Pendragon Press fiction ever published. Even the rarer American publishers, of which there were hundreds, stood numerous on his shelves. He’d also managed to pick up certain antiquarian and collectable books over the years; first editions and inscribed manuscripts. They were all housed in his overburdened semi-detached home, like museum exhibits for his sole enjoyment.
He’d arrived at Darkcon this year with a plentiful supply of cash and a mental list of titles that he needed to procure. He pushed his way between the browsers, glancing at the tables as he passed. The books were displayed wonderfully, and his brain ticked them off as he threaded his way to the table in the corner.
A balding man rose from his chair and smiled in recognition. “Hi, Bill.”
Braxton nodded. “Hello, Richard. Got my copy of the Nicholas Royle novel?”
The man fished under the table and brought out a few books. “Yes. Here’s the Sarah Pinborough collection you pre-ordered. And the Mark Morris one, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, thanks.” Braxton handed over the cash and opened the cover of one of the books to look at the signature sheet.
Richard fumbled around in a little tin box. “Where’s Alice
“B…ringing the changes?” At the blank look, Braxton shrugged. “Nothing - just a little joke.”
“Listen, Bill, you seen Jack Maloney yet? I think he’s been looking for you.”
Braxton pursed his lips. “I don’t like dealing with him. He overcharges on his postage. He’s not trustworthy.”
Richard beamed dramatically. “Well, not everyone’s as honest as me.”
“How’s business?”
“Very brisk. There’s a good showing this year. Always helps having the big American writer here, doesn’t it? Are you going to the Stephen Jones-Chris Fowler panel?”
Braxton studied the timetable. “I expect so. I think it clashes with the Michael Marshall Smith Screaming Dreams launch, though. I’d like to get to that.”
Richard nodded simply.
Just then a shout echoed across the room, turning several people’s heads. “Billy Braxton, how the devil are you?” A weasel-faced man was pushing his way through the crowd. The gauntness of his complexion was enough to elicit curious glances from the browsers.
“Yours truly, Jack the rip-off merchant,” Braxton muttered to himself, as he turned to meet the man.
Maloney had been in the business for several years, though his trade extended to pretty much anything that people wanted to buy. He always left his van in the nearest car park, and he preferred to take customers outside to conduct their business. Braxton wasn’t sure whether this was because of the illicitness of his products, or just to save the expense of booking a dealer’s table.
The man shook Braxton’s hand with a coarse, gnarled grip. “Listen, Billy-boy, you still into the collecting game?” His voice had lowered to a rather unpleasant whisper. He’d moved in quite close to Braxton, who fought the urge to wrinkle his nose at the man’s sour breath.
"Yes, Jack. You know me, I’ve - ”
“Good. Thought you’d say that,” Maloney interrupted.” His voice dropped even lower. “Fancy a pint? Got some news that might be worth your while.”
“Go on then.” Braxton glanced at his watch. “Have to be quick, though – the Nemonymous Six launch is in twenty minutes. Des Lewis has agreed to let me have a signed – “
“This way, pal, this way.” He pushed his way through the throng. As Braxton followed, he heard several tuts that were directed at Maloney’s rough passage.
They were quickly in the bar. It was much noisier in here. People relaxed in chairs and sofas, talking animatedly or laughing at intense discussion. The barman approached Maloney.
“Pint of Guinness, fella, please.” He stepped back. Braxton realised that the other man wasn’t waiting to pay, he was just placing his order. Braxton cleared his throat and asked for a diet-coke. The drinks were presently delivered and Braxton handed over a ten pound note. He winced at what little changed was returned.
Maloney indicated a couple of stools at the end of the bar, and they took a seat. He got straight to the point. “Did you know Clive Peterson was burgled last year?”
Clive Peterson was the head of a publishing company, who’d made a successful step-up from the independent press to become a major player in the UK UK
Braxton nodded slowly. “I’d read about the burglary, on the Vault of Evil message board. Nasty business.”
“Well, all I’m saying…” Maloney leaned in close again, “…is that I know someone who might have come into possession of some of the stolen pieces.”
“Like what?”
Maloney took out a piece of paper from his pocket and licked his nicotine-stained fingers before unfolding it. He squinted at the scrawl. “Ever heard of The Outsider and Others by HP Lovecraft, Someone in the Dark by August Derleth, Gatekeepers of the Abyss by Lovecraft and Bloch and Kuttner, Nightmare Need by Joseph Payne Brennan, Who Fears the Devil? by Manley Wade Wellman? Says they’re all first editions with dust jackets, published by Arkham House. Except the Gatekeepers one, which is a bound manuscript.”
Gatekeepers of the Abyss was - if the rumours were to be believed - an actual 19 page manuscript signed by H P Lovecraft, Robert Bloch and Henry Kuttner. The legendary story was reputedly a collaboration between all three authors, written shortly before Lovecraft’s death in 1937.
At this, Braxton’s pulse quickened. He owned an impressive Robert Bloch collection, amassed over the years to great expense. He’d heard talk of Gatekeepers of the Abyss for as long as he could remember, but the general consensus was that it did not exist. Wikipedia suggested it was an intended project that had never started.
“They’re all quite rare.” Braxton mentally calculated what these few books would be worth. Probably more than the cost of his car.
“Interested?”
“What, in buying them? You’re joking aren’t you?” He laughed and then stopped when he saw the serious look on Maloney’s face. “They’re way out of my league.”
Maloney leaned in close again. “Listen, this bloke I know, he’s in a bit of bother with someone. I think he’d take a knock-down price if the offer was good.”
Braxton had a sip of his coke, feeling the cold of the ice-cubes against his lips. He thought about how wonderful it would be to see Gatekeepers of the Abyss. Just to assess whether it was a fake or real. There was no question of him being able to afford it. He imagined the feel of the pages in his fingers, his eyes tracing the words.
“Won’t do any harm to take a look, I suppose.” He crunched the ice between his teeth.
“Good man!” Maloney ripped a beer-mat in half, exposing its white side. He wrote down a number and handed it to Braxton. “Tell him Jack sent you.” Then he had a sudden thought and pulled a hardcover book out of his coat and handed it over. “Interested in this? It’s a signed edition. Worth a bomb. Hundred quid to you.” It was a copy of The Wine Dark Sea.
Braxton peered closely at the signature scrawled on the title page. It looked genuine enough. Amazing, really. He handed it back. “Aickman died in 1981. This was published in ‘88.”
“Oh.” Maloney shrugged and tucked the book back into his coat, no doubt in preparation for another victim. “Right.” He downed the rest of his pint in one long gulp then stood up. “I’m off to get something signed by the Ghostwatch bloke. Does his name have a hard ‘L’ or does it rhyme with yolk?”
#
He tried to wait until after the book launch, but curiosity and desire got the better of him. He called the number in the foyer, waiting with sweaty palms while the beeps endlessly taunted him. Eventually the voicemail came on. He thought about leaving a message but decided against it. He didn’t want any incriminating evidence of their contact.
Mildly disappointed, he wandered back into the convention. Up on the main stage, an awards ceremony was taking place. He shuffled along the rows of chairs and took a seat.
An American author, who may or may not have received the award if he hadn’t bothered attending, was talking into a microphone. Distracted, Braxton snatched up his bag and headed back into the dealer room. The crowd had thinned. He crossed to Richard’s table. Two writers were walking away, shaking hands with the dealer and chatting as they left. “Thanks, Conrad. Cheers, Joel.” Richard began stacking a series of books on the edge of the table. The elusive Alice
“Don’t say you’re back to give me some more money?” Richard smiled faintly then glanced at his watch. “Aren’t you going to the Reggie Oliver and John L Probert play? They’re doing a twenty minute version of Psychomania.”
“I know. I’m going up in a bit.” Braxton hesitated. “Richard, what’s the going rate for a copy of Lovecraft’s earliest Arkham House collection? First edition.”
He scratched his head. “I don’t know…couple of grand?”
“Thought so.”
“Why? You aren’t thinking of – “
Just then Braxton’s phone rang. He pressed the button. “Hello.”
“I just had a missed call.” The voice was low and indistinct.
“Oh, hi,” he said lamely, shielding the mouthpiece and nodding a goodbye to Richard as he shuffled away.
The quietest place was outside the toilets. “I was given your number by Jack Maloney.”
“Ah - how is the old bastard?”
“He’s fine. Listen, he mentioned some rare books that you might be selling.”
“Did he now? You after buying them, are you?”
“I might be interested in one of them.” His hand tightened on the phone. “ - the signed manuscript.”
“That one? It’s not even a proper book.”
“I know. But I’d like to inspect it first. There’s a lot of forgeries going round.”
“No problem, pal. Where are you?”
“Well, I live in… “ Braxton hesitated, thinking of somewhere other than his true home, “…Birmingham Nottingham at the moment.”
“Hmmm. I’m in Leeds . Can you come tonight?”
“Not really. I’m at a convention in Nottingham .”
“Right.” The word was almost a growl. “Only I’m going to Amsterdam
Braxton nearly screamed. “I’d rather tie this up sooner rather than later.”
“Well I need to get shift of these old books, to be honest. They’re a bit tatty, like. And I need the money sharpish.”
“Okay, tonight it is then. Whereabouts?” Braxton swallowed.
“Do you know Leeds at all? There’s a little village just off the M62.” He gave the directions, which Braxton jotted onto the back of the convention’s timetable. Then he hung up and peered at the flyer advertising the Psychomania stage play. He muttered to himself, “Looks like this is the night I miss the horror show.”
#
It was dark by the time Braxton pulled off the slip road, threading along the lanes that led away from the motorway. It had begun to rain, the sheen of his lights casting everything with an oily glisten. People huddled in bus shelters, their faces made ghostly and pale by the sodium light. The White People. Probably with white hands tucked into their pockets. He chuckled to himself. The directions were propped on the passenger seat, and he glanced at them occasionally. His destination was a pub called The Cossack, lying in a village called Deepvale, on the outer edges of West Yorkshire . Braxton had earlier managed to stop at Woodhall Service Station, and withdrawn two hundred and fifty pounds from the cash machine. That might have to do as a deposit.
By the time he found the pub, he was almost twenty minutes late. The building was a free-house, set back several miles along a country lane. The darkness that pressed around them was limitless. He drove his Mondeo into the car park and switched off the engine, listening to the ticks and clicks as it cooled. The steady thrum of rain on the body of the car seemed hypnotic.
He climbed out and looked at the pub. Lights blazed in many of the windows, although the view was obscured by drawn blinds. Rain dripped from a length of bunting that spanned the car park. A pole stood on the end of the fence, ten feet high, with a sign warning patrons that their actions would be recorded. Someone had thrown a raggedy blanket over the bulky CCTV camera at the top.
Braxton suddenly became aware of a thin figure standing against the row of trees that bordered the car park. He detached from the shadows and made his way across the gravel-strewn tarmac.
Up close, the man looked in a bad mood. Mousey hair was plastered to his head. The car park’s single light made his eyes seem dark and hollow. Several days’ worth of stubble marked his chin. He'd drawn up the collar of his shabby coat.
“You here for the books?” The accent sounded Lancastrian. “I’m Liam.”
“Hi. I’m…Charlie.” Braxton barely paused, “…Schwartz.” He swallowed. “Yes, the books. Well – just the manuscript, I think.” Braxton’s voice was edged with tension. He tried to inject some humour. “You the camera obscurer?” He motioned towards the blanket on the pole.
“What?”
“Ah – nothing.”
“Oh, yeah, the CCTV. Can’t be too careful.” The man indicated a Nissan Sunny parked some distance away. “The books are in there.”
Braxton accompanied the man across the tarmac. He felt strangely awkward, but discarded the notion of trying to make small-talk. The man opened the boot of the car and displayed the contents.
The hardcover books were in a clear plastic bag, tucked beneath the recess of the boot. The bound manuscript was wrapped in protective muslin.
“Rare as fuck, this,” the man said, lifting it out with reverence and handing it to Braxton. “Go careful with it.”
He leaned under the shelter of the open boot. The manuscript felt heavy in his hands. Braxton glanced at the man and smiled. “A warning to the curious?”
“You been drinking?” He sounded vaguely annoyed.
“No, sorry,” said Braxton. “You said ‘go careful’. Just my little joke. A poor one.”
“Well, I ain’t got time for no jokes.” The man took out a packet of cigarettes and proceeded to light one. Braxton turned his back on the smoke, sheltering the document, and turned his attention to it.
The manuscript looked like a vellum binding had been added to it at some point. The pages were yellowing and brittle, but they were in better condition than Braxton had expected. The words were typewritten, with annotations scrawled in the margins. His eyes skimmed over the prose, and he caught his breath at the beauty of the writing. Instantly he knew this was something he needed to possess. He examined the scrawls of the three writers on the rear page; he’d never seen Lovecraft’s signature, but the other two appeared genuine. “How much?”
“Five hundred quid.” Coils of smoke rose from the man’s mouth as he spoke.
Braxton blinked once and looked back at the manuscript as if he was appraising it. It was the only way he could suppress his excitement. He’d brought half that from the cash machine as a deposit, and he already had three hundred pounds in his wallet that he’d saved to spend on books at Darkcon. He could pay up and leave with it now.
“Okay then.” He began to reach for his wallet.
“Hang on.” The man stared intently at the manuscript. “Did I say five hundred? I meant a grand.”
Braxton could almost hear his own heart thundering in his chest. He stared at the man, watching him finish the cigarette and toss it to the ground.
“Take it or leave it.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t afford that,” Braxton said slowly. “I could pay the five hundred you said at first…”
“No, it’s a grand. It’s worth far more than that.”
Braxton handed the manuscript back. “I’ll have to leave it then.”
“Suit yourself.” The man tossed the manuscript back into the boot. “See you then.”
“Look, why don’t we do the deal we originally agreed, the five hundred?” Braxton was almost stammering. “I’ve got enough cash to – “
“Forget it, pal. It’s a grand or there’s no deal.”
Braxton nodded curtly and moved off towards his own car. He suddenly caught sight of himself in the reflection of a van window, the pale figure of Liam behind, watching his progress. He was shaking his head, tutting in annoyance. A sudden rage exploded inside Braxton.
He whirled in a scrunch of gravel. The man lowered his head, as if he’d expected it, stepping back against the fence.
“Bastard.” Braxton’s fury erupted in a blur of movement. He found himself making a fist with his right hand, whirling his arm in frustration; frustration with the whole setup, frustration with the effort he’d made, frustration with his own futile helplessness. The fist connected with Liam’s cheek and they tumbled together against the bonnet of the Nissan. Liam grunted and kneed Braxton in the thigh, pushing the older man back with his arm.
Braxton tried to steady himself against the car, but the rain slicked his hand off the bodywork and he plunged onto the damp ground. He heard Liam cursing and hurrying towards him. His hands scrabbled desperately as he tried to get up, and his fingers found a heavy stone. In one movement he staggered to his feet and swung the stone. It glanced off Liam’s temple and bounced into the night.
Braxton’s breath caught in his throat as he watched Liam’s eyes roll for a split-second before his legs buckled and he dropped to the ground.
“Shit.” The older man peered over the body, looking for signs of movement. Beneath his closed lids, the eyeballs rolled.
Braxton hurried away, back to where his car waited. He leapt into the seat and started the engine. He backed out of the space with a crunch of gravel. Just before he switched the gear-stick from reverse to first, he caught sight of the Nissan in his rear-view mirror. A nagging thought struck him.
The other car’s boot was still open. He quickly reversed along the length of the car park, as the engine whined in protestation. He climbed out and ran round the car. The manuscript was lying in the boot, several drops of rain beading the vellum binding. He snatched it up and hurried back to the open door of the Mondeo, where he jumped in and placed the document on the passenger seat. Slamming the door, he stepped on the clutch and grasped the gear-stick. He flicked on the wipers and cleared the rain from the windscreen, staring intently ahead.
Liam was there. Standing about six feet away, blood slicking down one side of his face as the rain blurred the image. Braxton jumped in shock and stepped on the accelerator.
In the second it took for the car to slam into Liam, the one thing that fuelled his motivation was the manuscript next to him. It felt like it was now his, and nothing was going to stop that.
The body flipped onto the bonnet with a sickening thud and bounced out of view. Braxton slammed on the brakes and the car skidded to a halt. He peered into the rear-view mirror, seeing nothing but darkness and the pounding rain. Then, slowly, like a scene from a horror film, Liam sat up, rubbing his head as he tried to orientate his surroundings.
Braxton reversed at high speed, tensing a split-second before the car rocked violently over the obstruction. Liam’s scream was silenced mid-bounce. He drove forward again, slower this time, wincing at the vehicle’s jolt as the wheels crushed the body. He paused ten feet away and stared into the wing-mirror.
The body looked like a busted scarecrow or a wrecked, life-sized rag-doll. There was something about the unnatural angle of the limbs that soured bile into Braxton’s mouth. Even in the poor light he could see the broken body, realised that what he’d thought was a rain puddle was actually a growing pool of blood.
He swallowed slowly and drove out of the car park, leaving the horrific scene behind him. It was at least ten minutes before his heart-rate dropped back to normal. He forced his mind to concentrate on the road, pushing the images of carnage away. Occasionally he glanced at the manuscript next to him, and the sight of it quelled his panic. He focused on his driving, staring intently through the windscreen, desperately trying to ignore the slight indentation in the curve of his bonnet.
As the signs for the M62 appeared, he suddenly sensed it would be a mistake to use the motorway. The front of the car was quite obviously damaged, and he didn’t want to draw unwelcome attention; he decided instead to take the A roads. He saw the rough direction he needed to go, and followed the signs.
The noises started just after he left the busier roads and began his ascent onto the Pennines . Rain was still falling heavily, slicing like rods through the beam of his lights. All around him, darkness smothered the landscape. The odd pinprick of light sparkled in the expanse of black, occasional indicators of a farmhouse or a remote inn.
Braxton had just taken a southbound road, headed towards Wakefield
It seemed to be coming from somewhere outside the vehicle. He was moving at forty miles an hour, yet the knocks were audible over the noise of the engine. He stopped the car and climbed out.
The darkness was absolute, and he suddenly felt exposed by the headlights. He could see nothing around the bodywork of the vehicle. He examined the front, touching the bumper and the crumpled bonnet. He held his hand into the beam, swallowing as he saw the dark wetness that stained his fingers. The front of the car was a bloody mess. He took a chamois leather from his dashboard and wiped the gore away. Hopefully the rain would obliterate the evidence.
Braxton jumped back into the car and glanced at the manuscript on the passenger seat. The sight calmed him once more. He set off again.
He’d driven about a quarter of a mile before the knocking returned. It sounded persistent and heavy with intent. Braxton peered ahead, doing his best to push the thoughts out of his head. The banging seemed to be getting faster as he increased his speed. As if it was taunting him.
Let’s see how you like this. He accelerated and the roar of the engine increased, almost drowning out the knocking. Fragmented images shivered in the beads of rain on the windscreen, swift suggestions of movement. His imagination conjured a bloodstained figure clinging to the side of the vehicle, relentlessly chiming out tolls of guilt. The sound almost burst his skull. He stared at the corner of the bonnet, seeing nothing but darkness, hearing nothing but the shriek of the engine and the constant thud, thud, thud of the knocking.
The road suddenly tore to one side as the headlights illuminated the bend ahead. Braxton yanked the wheel, but his speed was too extreme for the angle. A blur of grey stone, a squeal of his tyres, and his car was flipped into the blackness of the night.
#
The hospital room was busy with beeps and hisses from the machines. Sprawled in the huge bed, surrounded by the medical equipment and the wires that extended to them, a sallow figure stared into space.
The nurse smiled at the two police officers as she ushered them in. “He’s much better now.” She addressed the patient in a louder voice. “Aren’t you, William?”
The thin figure nodded his head once, but continued to stare.
“Poor love,” the nurse whispered to the officers. “The doctor says he’s paralysed. Lost all feeling below his neck.”
The two policemen shared an uncomfortable glance. The younger one took a seat at the bedside. The older one remained at the foot of the bed.
He cleared his throat. “Mr Braxton, we’ve come to ask you some questions.”
“It’s okay, you don’t need to shout,” said the nurse. “He can hear okay.” She smiled at the patient. “William, I’ll leave you to chat with these two gentlemen for a few minutes. Then I’ll be back to change your drip.” She nodded and left the room.
The older officer glanced at his notepad. “Mr Braxton, you were involved in a car accident on the B6022 over a week ago. Your coma meant that we’ve only just been able to see you. Do you have any recollection of what happened?”
The patient blinked once and then slowly opened his mouth. A mumbled rasp gargled out.
“What did he say, Carson
“He said no, sir.” The younger officer’s eyes were round.
“We need to ask you about something we found in the wreckage. Something we don’t quite understand.” The older man consulted his notepad again. “Ever heard of a man called Liam O’Keefe?”
Another gargle. This time with a shake of the head.
“He said no again, sir.”
“I can see that, Carson West Yorkshire recently. His injuries are consistent with extreme trauma caused by a motor vehicle. We believe he was viciously run-down.”
Silence. Just the staring eyes of the patient.
“Mr Braxton, the person responsible for O’Keefe’s death drove the vehicle over his body several times. His right leg was detached from the torso. And there was something else…”
A tear slid suddenly down the patient’s cheek, where it dropped onto his chest without detection.
“In the wreckage of your car we found a detached human hand.” The older officer paused again. “Looks like it'd been trapped in the wheel arch for quite a while; the flesh was almost scraped off where it had been rattling around. The fingerprints have identified it as belonging to Mr O’Keefe.”
Suddenly the patient erupted into a convulsion of coughs. A strange sound escaped his lips. It took the police officers several moments to realise that the unpleasant rasps were in fact laughter. The older officer swallowed as he noticed the hysterical gleam of the patient’s eyes. Madness hovered in them. Slowly he opened his mouth and gargled out an incoherent line.
“What did he say, Carson
The younger officer leaned in close to the patient. Then he looked up slowly with a puzzled expression on his face.
“Sir, it sounded like he said the telltale arch.”
The two policemen stared at each other as the patient’s insane laughter echoed round the hospital room.
