Darkside

Gary stood in the doorway. ‘All right, Viola?’ he said very softly. He didn’t want to wake her, but if she had woken herself, he wanted her to know he was there. There was no answer. Asleep. Good.

Out of habit he flicked the torch over her sleeping form, and frowned. There was the minimal lump in the bed that was Violet’s diminutive body, but he could not see her head. Like everyone in this place, Violet’s hair was naturally white, but once a month the stylist came and gave all the heads a good blue rinse. He should be able to see her head.

Gary moved closer to the bed, angling the torch. Nothing but the white pillow.

‘Violet?’ he asked carefully, suppressing the silly panic that told him Violet’s head had somehow fallen off.

He leaned over the old woman and almost laughed in relief. She was sleeping with her head under the pillow – that was all!

Gently he lifted the pillow.

Underneath it was Violet – her eyes closed, her toothless mouth puckered neatly, and a flower of blood blossoming on her forehead.

Blood.

Gary Liss stared in confusion at the blood and the pillow and the old lady. Whatever order he looked at them, they made no sense.

I have to call Paul. He’ll know what to do.

That was the only thought Gary’s numb brain could come up with. Paul was the smart one. Paul would take care of this. Because he sure as hell couldn’t work it out.

Somewhere down the long tunnel of his dulled senses, Gary Liss heard the alarm across the doorway beep one last time. He started to turn, started to open his mouth, started to think.

But before he could complete any one of those actions, everything went black.

* * *

There were footprints in the snow behind him leading all the way back to Sunset Lodge, but the killer knew they would not give him away.

He used the same snow to rinse his hands of blood.

The night was cloudy, without a moon, and the village slept like Bethlehem – in blissful ignorance of how it would be changed by morning.

He was about to step out of the alleyway when he caught sight of a movement at the end of the road, or, at least, under the dull orange reach of the farthest streetlamp.

Out of the blackness at the edge of the known world came a single foxhound. Its nose swept the snow ahead of it, its brown velvet ears swung as its head turned this way and that in response to the scents of the village. The hound’s lean body glimmered under the light and, even from here, the killer could see the shining hide slip easily back and forth across the dog’s ribs.

From the depths of a deep-sea dream, the rest of the pack came out of the darkness and into the light. Silent as wraiths, smooth as syrup, tails swaying, snouts seeking, the three dozen big hounds moved between the houses at a languid jog, as if by night the village belonged to them.

Behind the pack the huntsman took shape. Bob Coffin, with his short, bowed legs, his flat cap and his old brown Barbour, creased and crinkled. He held a whip but didn’t look as if he planned to use it. He didn’t have to: the hounds trotted ahead of him in perfect harmony and total silence. Even when a small dog yapped from somewhere behind them, they ignored it and moved on.

The killer stayed where he was in the shadows, hypnotized by their approach. The sight was strange, yet strangely calming. He felt himself suddenly unable to move, and disinterested in doing so, even if it meant he was seen. The hounds possessing the darkened village in the fallen snow were compelling to watch.

The first dog drew level and raised its head towards him. Their eyes met briefly, then it dropped its nose to the snow once more – as it had been trained to do on pain of death: the hound that puts its head in the air to look for the fox has no place in the hunt. The killer watched the Blacklands pack move past him in a liquid jigsaw of brown, black and white, with only the sound of eager breathing moving the air around him.

Then Bob Coffin went past him too.

The huntsman glanced briefly at the killer and touched his cap in a market-day hello, never breaking his brisk, rolling stride.

The killer watched the hounds pass under the streetlights and wink out in the darkness beyond as if they had never existed. Only a broad swathe of churned snow up the centre of the road bore testament to their reality.

The killer sighed as if he had lost something dear to him.

Then he stepped carefully into the ruined snow and walked home without leaving a trail.

Six Days

Marvel and Reynolds moved from room to room in silence.

Gorse, Hazel and Moss.

Violet Eaves, Bridget Hammond and Lionel Chard.

Each had died without waking. Their covers were untrammelled, their hands lay calmly at their sides; Bridget Hammond still held a delicately embroidered handkerchief crumpled loosely in her palm.