Menace Read online

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  Menace © 2014 by Gary Fry

  All Rights Reserved.

  A DarkFuse Release

  www.darkfuse.com

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  For Viktoria, who dreamed a whole chapter:

  “That’s cheating, you slacker!”

  1

  It had been a mistake, just another London party full of B-list celebrities. Jane had drunk far too much, and the next she’d known, she’d been in her new boyfriend’s bed—an actor called Neil Lindsey, who had a minor role in a satellite TV soap opera—and performing the old horizontal. Upon waking the following morning, thoroughly ashamed of herself (she and Neil had only been dating for weeks), she’d made a beeline for her SW4 home and the familiarity of her orderly routine, her daily prayers, memories of her deceased parents, and where the hell her next rent check would come from.

  A few weeks later, after she and Neil had drifted apart (following several unflattering appearances in the tabloids, Jane had backed away from his paparazzi lifestyle), she’d missed her punctual period, and a visit to her doctor had confirmed that she was pregnant. The news had hit her hard. And now here she was, two months into her full term, and driving north to the coast to earn some much-needed cash. She hadn’t told the child’s father—not yet, anyway. Not being the type to settle down—a party animal, an itinerant tart to his career—Neil wasn’t the type she’d want to settle down with. And so she must earn her own way in this world…but for two now.

  She’d been a model for half a decade, since leaving school at sixteen. The work was variable; some months she pulled in several grand, an above-average wage, but the next she might earn nothing at all. The money she attracted—about £30,000 a year—kept her in food and clothing, but what to do once the tool of her trade—her slender body—was nudged out of shape by maternity, and her time was drained by domestic duties?

  It was certainly a worry; and her only solution thus far was to take on all the work she could before her belly grew too large for commissioners to offer her projects. There was the DHSS, of course, but Jane came from a proud family, and old habits die hard. Her late mother’s religious stoicism and dogged independence burned particularly strong in her only child. But the older woman had come from a different world, where strong, responsible men (her father had been a perfect example) stood by their partners, especially when in the family way. It just wasn’t like that anymore.

  Jane followed road signs for Whitby on the northeast coastline. She’d received a call from her agent a few days ago; an independent publisher was seeking to produce a book by a popular Yorkshire-based writer, an intriguing memoir of his unusual youth. This guy had apparently seen Jane’s picture in a magazine advert for winter wear and personally requested her. Jane, with her blue eyes and wide mouth, never knew just what clients responded to, but she certainly acquired more unsolicited work than many peers on the modeling circuit.

  Whatever the truth was, she mustn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. That had been one of her mother’s typically practical sayings, and today it seemed more relevant than ever. As countryside swept by Jane’s two-seater coupé, she observed sheep, cattle, birds in hedges, and the occasional rabbit fidgeting amid roadside undergrowth. It was a fine spring morning, sunshine pressing against a shield of clouds, a soft breeze bringing intermittent freckles of rain to her windshield. She batted them off with her wipers, and then continued to follow her sat-nav’s instructions. She had the machine rigged up with a good impersonation of Vincent Price’s voice: “Take the next left, horror lovers, and then start praying…”

  About ten minutes later, she reached the property her agent had told her about.

  It was an abandoned house on the cliff side, just out of town. A large detached, it looked lugubrious in front of a sprawling seascape that hissed and crashed. Shadows clustered under eaves, and the windows resembled hooded eyes, their lintels constructed from the same dark stone as the rest of it. Parking in the shale forecourt, Jane noticed the main entrance, like a mouth that wanted to be fed, but then spotted a figure standing on elevated wooden decking in front of it. Could this be the photographer she’d arranged to meet?

  After climbing out and stretching her long limbs, Jane saw a swanky BMW stationed nearer the building. Then she observed the man’s suit as he walked her way. This was no photographer; his obsequious comportment implied only one thing: estate agent. And that was when she spotted the FOR SALE board nailed to the property’s fence, a little farther along the only lane leading here.

  “Good morning,” said the man, twentysomething and already smitten. Jane had that effect on people, particularly men in his demographic. They were invariably enlivened by her presence, like puppets snatched into life by some fastidious master.

  “Hello there,” she replied, as usual feeling a little uncomfortable with such slack-mouthed attention; she’d grown up a shy girl, and only later discovered her powers of beauty.

  “I’ve been asked to meet you here—by some photographer.” The man flashed an irrepressible smile, all dental hygiene and local popularity. “He said you might need to go inside the house. Here’s the key.”

  After the agent had handed over a large metal fob, he stayed to chat until a 4x4 pulled into the property’s forecourt, prompting him to move on.

  “Was great meeting you,” the estate agent said, his tongue only now retreating inside his mouth. “Shame you’re not staying in the area longer. I could show you around.”

  Jane shrugged. “Sorry about that. Long trip back to London this afternoon.”

  “All expenses paid, I hope.”

  “So do I, actually,” she replied, recalling that not all travel claims were honored by clients. But now here came a representative of her latest, and if his chunky, expensive-looking vehicle was anything to judge by, she’d be all right on this occasion. It was clearly no backroom-budget project.

  The two men switched places, like disposable partners, the BMW jetting off along the cliff-side lane while the photographer—dressed in a more bohemian way, slacks and shades inclusive—came across to greet her.

  They spent a few minutes getting to know each other—he was called Craig and seemed far too preoccupied by his craft to threaten her in the lewd manner of the estate agent—and then he retreated to his 4x4, opened the trunk, and removed a bag full of clothing.

  “I got your dimensions from the portfolio your agent provided. These items are brand-new. My office has access to all kinds of garments. You have the key. You can change inside.”

  He pointed at the house, whose shadowy comportment had, if anything, grown more imperious since her arrival. Sunshine now peeked from behind the clouds, rendering the darkest corners of the place even more sinister and undisturbed… But she was being ridiculous; too many late-night horror movies in her solitary London flat. She took the bag and entered the property.

  Once inside (the front door was obviously new, gliding open on faultless hinges), she wondered why this particular property had been selected for the shoot, why she’d had to travel over 4
00 miles to get here, at considerable expense to the client. Maybe her looks had been just right, her ski-slope nose and angular cheekbones. Jane had often been told that she had a unique appearance; in the absence of a bankable reputation, this was what kept the commissions coming.

  Holding her swollen belly with her free hand, she pushed aside all this mental activity and advanced up the staircase to the bathroom, intending to change quickly into the outfit from the bag she carried. Downstairs had been smart if unspectacular, a whitewashed façade awaiting the idiosyncratic stamp of new owners. Upstairs was similar, with just a chill draft circulating like a restless spirit awaiting someone to possess… But again Jane tried to marshal her youthful fancies; she was an adult now in an adults’ world. And she’d soon have more than one person to provide for.

  The clothing in the bag proved to be dated gear, like the stuff her maternal grandmother had worn in photos from the 1950s: a long dress that was simultaneously sassy and domesticated, with strappy high heels and silk stockings. The outfit bespoke a radically different era, when women had been expected to attend to the kitchen and the many children they produced.

  While adjusting her hems in the bathroom mirror, Jane sensed that chill step up a little, making her shiver. She thought she heard sounds, too—a small chorus of children, coupled with a maternal coo of instruction… But what with her pregnancy, she hadn’t been sleeping well lately, and such mild auditory hallucinations were hardly surprising. The long drive north had also been exhausting, and she should simply get on with the job she’d been offered, before returning home for some rest.

  Nevertheless, after reemerging on the landing, she was unable to resist a brief snoop around the building. She wondered again why this property had been selected for the work; it was on the open market, which might have made it cheaper to hire for the day, but who owned it anyway? Speculation was unlikely to help her resolve these issues, and so she strayed into one bedroom—one of five, by God—and wondered who’d once lived here, on the far reaches of the northeast coastline.

  Seconds later, when she looked through the window, out onto the cliff side, she spotted something that made her feel sick.

  Six children, ranging from newborn infants to robust toddlers and a solitary five- or six-year-old, were seated in a pack on the grass down there. All were boys, and even at this distance, Jane could see that each had dark hair and incredibly blue eyes; maybe it was their pale flesh that dramatized these flashing orbs. In keeping with the garments she now wore, the boys were dressed in dated gear, the kind of clothing a child might have worn back in the 1950s: bib-and-brace all-in-ones for the youngest, and even a tiny shirt and tie for the oldest among the gang. That was creepy enough, but the most alarming aspect was that none of the children was being attended to. If they’d also been recruited for the photo shoot and had arrived while Jane had been dressing the part (of their mother, presumably), shouldn’t someone make sure they came to no harm, particularly only yards from a fatal drop to the sea.

  Turmoil growing inside her, Jane fled from the window and hurried back to the staircase, where that familiar spiritlike draft helped her descend to the ground floor and then out again in the autumn morning. Catching her breath, she eventually glanced around but observed no vehicle other than the photographer’s huge 4x4. She could also see the man setting up his tripod and other gizmos, just where Jane had spotted the children from upstairs…but there were no children. No children at all.

  Jane paced forwards, bewilderment rendering her docile and impassive. After reaching the guy, she said, “But…how…”

  “What’s wrong?” the man snapped back, the artist’s shepherd to the artiste’s sheep, but Jane was too confused to add more.

  “Oh…nothing. It’s okay. I’m just tired—after the drive here, I mean.”

  “I see.” The photographer took a first shot of the area, capturing the patch of grass where the children had been sitting, with that imperious property in the background. “Well, that’s as may be, but time is money. Shall we get on with the job?”

  That’s as may be—the comment struck Jane as a very Yorkshire thing to say, and the no-nonsense attitude to work was also redolent of this blunt county. Jane consented to the shoot, doing as the man instructed, sitting on the grass where the children had been earlier…if it hadn’t all been a frightful hallucination brought on by her delicate condition and the many projects she’d taken on lately.

  “What more do you know about this book?” she asked between two of countless photographs.

  “Not a great deal, alas,” the man replied, lining up another shot, this one with Jane standing in a commanding poise, arms outstretched to embrace…well, nobody at all; she was quite alone in the area. “I just act according to instruction. And today it was simply this: a woman outside her home; various emotional postures. More materials to follow later.”

  “What does that mean—about further materials?”

  “Usually it involves supplementary images and a little black magic with good old Photoshop.”

  Jane bristled; she knew all about how pictures were distorted by technical trickery. But it was use of the phrase “black magic” that had, inexplicably and foolishly, troubled her most of all. At that moment, she felt as if the photographer was part of some frightful cabal, in sinister league with the author and his publisher… But that was ridiculous, too. She glanced back again at the house, and it returned her gaze with implacable indifference. She wasn’t its owner, but in her weird state of mind, Jane had the impression that the building was hungry for someone who once had been…

  “Will you send me an advance copy of the book cover once it’s approved by the publisher?” she asked, feeling the chill she’d sensed inside the building creeping under her flesh. But it was simply colder outside, a reckless wind scudding off the sea. “For my portfolio, I mean.”

  “Of course,” the photographer replied, tilting his lens at a provocative angle. “Just leave me an email addy and I’ll be in touch as soon as the author is happy for you to see it.”

  It was access to her body they were negotiating. But that was what the commercial world did to people; Jane was used to that now. And when she reverted to her habitually polite self, she didn’t feel at all comfortable.

  “I’ll look forward to it,” she said, and just then was sure she sensed something moving deep inside her.

  2

  A JPEG of the book cover arrived by email a few weeks later.

  Jane had had a torrid time since the photo shoot up north. She’d taken on a number of other projects, each involving payments she’d had to chase and chase. To the Yorkshire client’s credit, a check had arrived only days after her return to London, and she’d banked the cash immediately. She now had about £10K stashed away, in the hope of sustaining a modest lifestyle during her pregnancy and the early years of her child’s life.

  She still hadn’t spoken to the father. She wasn’t sure she ever would. Was this ethical? Or was it rather common sense? The man, she knew, came from a large family—she recalled him having an unusually high number of brothers—and so might even respond warmly to the prospect of a child of his own. But he was also well-known on the B-list celebrity circuit as a bit of a heartbreaker and a lot of a flake. And was this a risk Jane was prepared to take? She’d been hurt before, with a guy she’d known straight out of school, who’d gone off with another model the moment Jane had insisted—having had a mild religious upbringing—that sex must wait for later.

  The terrible truth was that, despite all her late parents’ emphases on the sanctity of life, she’d recently considered abortion at least twice. She simply wasn’t prepared for motherhood, neither emotionally nor financially. She wasn’t old enough and had goals to achieve in her career. Now three months gone, there was still time to take that most dreadful decision. Indeed, it was while scouring the Internet for the upper time restriction—24 weeks as defined by the Abortion Act of 1967—when her attention was distracted by the photo
grapher’s incoming message.

  Pushing her personal problems out of her mind, she opened the email and read the note he’d written.

  Hi there,

  As promised, here’s the finished book cover (attached). The author and publisher were happy for you to see it. It looks like they’re going into production later this year—in about six months. Will keep you posted on developments, if you wish.

  Best wishes —

  Craig

  Jane always liked looking at finished products based on her work. She kept a stylish portfolio to haul around potential clients. She’d have to print off this latest one, at least before receiving a polished facsimile of the book cover. She moved her cursor to the staple icon in the top-right corner of the email and then clicked to unfurl. A few annoying seconds followed, during which her aging PC chugged and grumbled…but then the image burst onscreen.

  Gripping the cross she wore on a chain around her neck with autonomous haste, her heart started thumping against her ribs.

  The picture showed that lugubrious house, rendered more sinister by various technological tricks. The eaves were darker, the windows more burdened by shadow. But it wasn’t the property that drew Jane’s attention. When her eyes scanned down the image, she saw what she’d secretly feared to see, ever since asking to be sent a copy of this commercial art.

  There she stood, close to the cliff side, arms outstretched in a grasping posture. The dated dress she wore—redolent of the 1950s—was complemented to a sartorial tee by the strappy heels and tinted stockings. But it wasn’t her outfit Jane was keen to examine. It was the figures directly behind her she now observed with a fearful gaze.

  There were six children, all pale flesh and dark hair and those terribly light blue eyes. Each was dressed in similarly old-fashioned garments, and huddled in a pack very close to their stand-in mother. Here were infants and toddlers and at least one who was older, maybe five or six. Every one of them was a boy.