The Evil Seed (29 page)

‘Heyyy!’ Joey had shouted,
recognizing a friend, but the roundabout had moved on, spinning like a sun. I’ll
call to her when I get round the other side, Joey had thought, grinning in
anticipation, holding his breath for the biggest shout he could give, loosing
his left hand from the reins to wave … but when he had reached the other
side, the shout had died in his throat, the grin from his face; the sight of
the balloon-woman had been etched into his memory long after the roundabout
moved away, long after it had stopped. She had been standing at the edge of a
little group of people, a family, perhaps, though there might have been two
families: a round, balding, red-faced man, a younger man with a beard, two
women, one with a baby, and some other children.

The one who caught Joey’s
eye was a little boy, maybe his age or maybe a little older, a round, sturdy
little boy wearing dungarees and holding a blue balloon in one hand and a
half-finished candy-floss in the other. His eyes had been round and very
serious. Joey liked to think that the boy had been watching him, the brave boy
on horseback, and had made sure he looked especially big and reckless every
time he passed him. There had been a purse sticking out of the little boy’s
pocket, at the back, the kind of purse you don’t miss in a hurry, yellow and
with a picture of Donald Duck on the front
…
but this time when Joey
passed them, the purse had been missing. He had known it was missing because he
had seen it, for just one instant, in the hand of the cheerful old balloon-woman,
before she had noticed him noticing and stuffed it into her pocket. And that
was why little Joey had ridden for the rest of his roundabout-trip without
shouting, without jigging on the horse and shaking its mane, without doing
anything but going over and over what he had just seen.

In a way, Joey had known
that in that moment part of his childhood was over. He had got off the
roundabout as stiff and straight as a little soldier, suddenly desperate to
leave … but she had been there and waiting for him, and Joey had been smitten
with terror that she might touch him, that she might
curse
him like
those princes who were turned into swans, and he had begun to run towards the
arcade where Daddy was … but not before the witch had caught hold of his
shoulder with a brown old hand like a claw, not before he had looked into her
eyes and she had whispered, with all of her venom and ancient rage: ‘You never
saw nothin’, did you boy? Never saw
nothin’!’

And Joey had nodded,
going white, backing away like a cornered cat, because if he hadn’t, he had
been certain that this witch-woman would have killed him. And suddenly here was
Daddy, Daddy coming out of the arcade, calling in his loud and cheerful voice,
and in that moment Joey had wrenched himself free from the old witch’s claw and
run away towards the light. He had dreamed of her later, but he had never told.

And it was on the tail
of that half-submerged memory that the thought struck him — no, not the
thought, the
knowledge.
Of course! That was where he should look for
Ginny. If she was in trouble, it would come from the fair. He did not know why,
but the knowledge was suddenly real enough.

She was there.

He quickened his step.

Two

ALICE REALIZED SOON ENOUGH THAT THERE WAS
NOWHERE to go. Behind her, there was Rafe and Zach and Ginny, and, at the exit,
Java waited, with that air of steady confidence. The envelope in Ginny’s hand
had paralysed Alice’s ability to think; her mind raced in circles, fragments of
thoughts chasing each other around her brain. How had she found the manuscript
that Alice had left with Menezies? The post office envelope filled the world,
bore down upon her like the Juggernaut. Then she was running, holding her shoes
as she sprinted barefoot across the field.

As she reached the main
part of the fairground, she glanced briefly over her shoulder, and she caught
Ginny’s gaze across the crowd, and Alice knew that she was
not
safe,
that the crowd could afford no more protection to her than a herd of cattle.
The only realities were here, between the cold lavender eyes of the
nightwalker-thing (all vestiges of the human stripped from her face, unmasked
in all her hatred) and the knowledge in Alice’s own eyes, the knowledge which
enabled her to
see
what no one else could see, the monster behind the
lovely face.

Maybe that was what
stopped her. Maybe it was that look above the black spray-mask, the triumph in
the cold gaze … she held it, like a bridge of ice, held the gaze and returned
it, with all the hate which she was capable of conveying.

She could see that Ginny
understood her. She smiled, showing her teeth. Now, as if her anger had
cleansed her of fear, Alice felt suddenly cool and controlled. From the corner
of her eye she saw someone moving towards her, and instead of moving back, she
moved forward, smiling fiercely all the time.

She felt rather than saw
the figure stop. Someone must have known that this was no place for a confrontation.
Someone was afraid of the risk. Somewhere between here and there they had
locked in combat, she and Ginny. No more fear, she thought. They understood
each other too well for that. Round one began.

Alice turned and began
to walk towards the exit, making sure to replace her shoes. The others hung
back on the periphery of her vision, but made no attempt to come any nearer.

Ginny’s gaze froze the
back of her head, and Alice glanced back, almost casually, and kept on walking.
The exit was twenty yards away.

But maybe they’ll
just kill Joe instead.

The thought struck her
like a jet of cold water, so that she faltered, almost losing her poise. And
then she was out of the gate, and into the safe, open street, and the game —
whatever it had been — was over. After a while she began to shake.

Two

THIS TIME, HE WAS SURE IT WAS HER. JOE
CRANED HIS NECK above the crowd, oblivious to stares and irritation.

‘Ginny!’

The figure turned, and
it was not Ginny; disappointment sleeted through him, and for an instant he
wondered, how on earth he could have mistaken that girl for Ginny. Then it
was
Ginny again, Ginny almost grotesquely changed. And, calling her name,
thrusting with his elbows, he began to bludgeon his way through the mass of
bodies.

‘Ginny! Wait!’

The girl turned to face
him, standing alone by the side of a shooting-range, pale face, pale hair, pale
hands, looking frail and thin in her black clothes, ghostly against the glare
of the lights. As he reached for her she shrank a little, and he smelled the
acetone scent of the white spray in her hair above a sharper, smoky smell like
burnt paper.

‘You came,’ she said.

He held her close. It
was not the time for questions, he thought. She was so clearly vulnerable.

‘What’re you doing out
here?’ he said, forcing a little laugh. ‘You certainly got me going for a
while, you and your disappearing act. I thought you’d walked out on me.’ He
smiled, looking for needle-tracks and trying not to make it too obvious.

Ginny stared at him
blankly, and Joe knew he had to get her home. She didn’t look like someone who’d
OD’d and there weren’t any needle marks on her arms. But she did look ill, and
he’d had enough experience to know what some pushers cut their dope with; it
wasn’t called ‘shit’ for nothing.

‘What’re you on?’ he
whispered, putting his arm round her shoulders.

Ginny looked at him,
hesitating.

‘Have you got any more?’
he said. She’d have to ditch it, of course, he thought; the last thing he
wanted was another barney with the police. He kept his voice quiet and patient.

‘Have you?’

Ginny shook her head.
Good. That was something. Now all he had to do was to take her home and to hope
that she hadn’t been taking strychnine or arsenic or washing powder or anything
else in her China white. Christ, what a mess. And where had she got the money?
The last he knew of it she had been broke, just eligible for the lowest of
social security payments. He swore softly under his breath as he took Ginny by
the shoulders and led her, like a blind child, out of the gates and into the
street.

If he’d had any sense,
he thought, he’d have ditched her as soon as he found out. He had enough hassle
looking after himself without taking on a screwed-up junkie girlfriend. He’d
seen enough of them when he was on the road with the band to know that the bad
trips and the cold turkey and the overdoses weren’t all you got, no: sometimes
you hit the jackpot and you got the collapsed veins, the brain damage and the
nasty diseases from dirty needles. That was why he’d never really bothered with
much more than the odd bag of grass. Joe didn’t mess with junkies; it was a
rule for happy living.

But this was Ginny.

Fairground noise faded
behind them, their steps real once more against the cobbles of the alley. She
followed him, head bent, one hand tucked confidingly into his, the other
clutching a fold of his coat. His heart did a quirky little off-beat at the
sight of her, the mask of paint leaving her skin oddly, touchingly vulnerable,
and at that moment, he knew that he would have done anything for her, he would
have died for her, like a folk-song hero, her name on his bloody lips. The
violence of his longing almost stunned him; lost in thought, he remained silent
until they reached the flat. They crept in aware of the watchful presence of
Joe’s landlady. Then, he said, as he opened the door: ‘There’s nothing you
haven’t told me, is there?’

She centred her dark gaze
upon him, almost aimlessly, shook her head.

‘You’ve got to trust me,’
Joe went on. ‘I love you. I want to help you. You’re too smart to be into that
kind of thing. You know that, don’t you?’

Ginny smiled, almost
imperceptibly, nodded.

‘Right. Come on in,
then.’

Again, the almost
imperceptible nod.

‘So why do a runner on
me like that? Who’d you go running to?’

Her response was
inaudible, a fluttering of breath, like paper. Joe took her hands again, trying
not to crush them in his hot grasp.

‘I can’t hear.’

‘I was frightened …’
It was hardly more than a whisper. ‘After what Alice told you … You’d go away
…

‘No chance.’ It was
almost beyond him to refrain from grasping her there and then, crushing her to
him. Fear stayed him. She was too small, too slender. He wondered if he would
ever dare to seize her in passion.

‘No way. I’m here for
the duration, Gin. You and me against the world. Forget Alice. We don’t need
her.’ The words came rushing out, all the words he had never found for Alice,
words he had dreamed, whispered, imagined in the night, words unspoken, hidden
away.

Never had Joe spoken
words like that before; but now, somehow, he found them, and the veils across
Ginny’s eyes were lifted, despair changing into something approaching hope. And
in his wonder and the joy of that breakthrough, Joe was still conscious that at
some point in that outburst, the details of which were already misting over in
his thoughts, he had made a promise, only half-realized, less than
half-remembered. There would be no regrets, that he knew. Whatever he had
pledged was hers now. Only looking into Ginny’s eyes, he knew that. But as he
put his arms around her and gently led her inside, he was still able to wonder
what it was he had promised her.

Two

THERE WAS NO TIME FOR EUPHORIA. SHE HAD NOT
ESCAPED, but had won for herself instead a kind of reprieve. No time to glory
in that, she thought, but yes, time, a little, to prepare herself for the
attack that was certain to come. Glancing through the window at the street, she
picked up the phone, dialled the Fulbourn number, let it ring.

‘I’d like to speak to
Doctor Menezies, please. It’s very important.’

‘I’m sorry, the doctor
isn’t available. Who is this, please?’

‘I’m Alice Farrell. I
saw the doctor this morning. Please, when will he be back?’

‘I’m afraid the doctor
is ill. Doctor Lowrey is dealing with all his cases for the moment.’

‘But he was fine when I
saw him this morning!’ said Alice.

‘There was an accident,
just after lunch.’

‘What kind of accident?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t—’

‘
What kind of an
accident?’
Alice heard her voice rise. ‘Please!’

The receptionist
hesitated.

‘The doctor was hit by a
car, Mrs Farrell. A hit-and-run. The police were called. They’re looking into
it.’

Alice hung up in
silence, feeling numb and slightly sick as she faced the truth which had
stalked her since she first set eyes on Ginny.

There was no escape from
them now, she thought. The timelessness which Alice loved so much had made
Cambridge a prison for her, a stronghold for the nightwalkers; a nomad town
where nearly two-thirds of the population came and went at intervals of three
years apiece, a town of rented rooms and stolen intimacies. They walked the
same cobbled streets, stood in the same archways, heard the same hymns from the
chapels over the river from decade to decade, their faces mingling with those
of their prey in the stream of memory.

They passed unnoticed as
they lingered on the edge of that river of humankind, choosing their victims
carefully: here a tramp, to be found in a pool of blood and wine, there a
tourist travelling alone, elsewhere a student with needle-tracks on his arms
and a reputation for dangerous living. Cambridge has a high suicide rate;
statisticians tend to blame this on stress or drugs. Easy to find reasons; so easy
to ignore the evidence.