NINE

CAEN, NORMANDY. 16 JUNE 2011. 2 A.M.

When Kyle came out of the bathroom with a towel tied around his waist, one half of the rum in the Sailor Jerry bottle was gone. Wrapped in the other bath sheet, Dan sat cross-legged on the floor, a coffee cup by his huge knee. He was playing back Kyle’s footage in the temple barn. Kyle heard his own tiny voice rise from the laptop speakers: ‘Not sure what I am seeing here. But it’s inside the Gathering’s temple. On the wall, here. What looks like a figure . . .’

In one corner of the room a plastic supermarket bag bulged with bloodstained clothes. Like the bag was a revenant nothing dared go near, it sagged alone on the only bit of floor space not littered with equipment and the dross that spilled from their rucksacks.

Kyle sat on the foot of the bed, cupped his cheeks in his hands. ‘Jesus.’

‘Bit shaky, mate. Dark too.’

‘You surprised?’

‘We can use some of it.’

Kyle knew Dan only inspected the footage to keep his mind preoccupied with technical matters, to evade scrutiny of what ranked as the worst day of their lives. Since the return to the hotel in Caen, they had not been able to speak to each other, let alone discuss what they’d endured for the previous five hours.

‘I’m sorry, mate,’ Kyle said. ‘I didn’t hear you. Back there. At the farm. If I had, I would have come straight away. You must have been with him for ages.’

‘Over an hour. Trying to get it off his leg. Shouted myself hoarse. He could have bled to death.’

When Kyle reached Dan in the meadow, the first thing he noticed about his friend were his arms; they were wet to the elbow. It looked like he had been pressing grapes.

Dan sat back from the camera, rubbed his eyes. ‘Couldn’t get it apart. Off his leg. I still feel sick, mate. It was the sound more than anything. The sound of the trap closing on his leg made me feel sick. Right to the tips of my fingers. I can’t get the sound out of my head.’

Kyle nodded. The events of the night were held in a series of haphazardly edited images that jolted him, then turned his stomach, each time his recalcitrant memory replayed fragments. The rum, half of a pizza, the hot shower, the basic comfort of their hotel room, had all been unable to penetrate through his shock for more than a few minutes.

Kyle stared between his bare feet. Saw again his ungainly movements through the field towards Dan; the prod of the stick at the hidden meadow floor; the clench of terror in his stomach at the certainty of more traps still hidden in the long grass; Dan’s wild white face in the silent twilight; his friend’s eyes tearing up as he drew closer, and he’d never seen Dan cry before; Dan’s dark hands; the horizon a thin line of fire; the distant bray of a goat they never saw.

And then the small huddled figure of Gabriel, buried in the long grass; the terrible wetness of the black trousers about his thin leg; the horrible rattle of the iron trap in the grass; raising the frail body from the earth, the face so white, the tiny mouth flecked with spittle, the keening sound that came out of him like he was a dying animal. They never found his glasses. All followed by the uprooting of the iron stake and chain attached to the trap, and the lifting of that broken-doll body over the gate, where Gabriel was sick onto the arm Kyle had fixed under the little man’s hot armpit. Then Gabriel fainted, and they believed he had died. There was the throwing of the bags that Kyle had dragged to the point of total exhaustion through the meadow, into the boot of the minivan; Dan being sick too, over the passenger-side door; them getting lost in the lanes around the farm; Gabriel waking and his cries of pain on the back seat at every bump in the road they traversed; the trap and the smashed shin bone covered in Dan’s coat. There was the not knowing about hospitals, or doctors; the crushing, confounding ignorance of first aid, of what to do or where to go; the banging on the doors of the grey village buildings; the failure to communicate with the man who came to the only door that opened in that desolate cluster of miserable houses, while Dan sat in the road, silent; the whispers in French between the bald man and Gabriel, who had begun to shiver on the back seat, and whose face went the grey of the landscape’s chalky stone. Then came the fetching of tools, and the unshackling of those rusted iron scythes from the little leg; the flopping of the small foot in the tatty sports shoe, black with old blood.

‘Ambulance?’

‘Non.’

‘Why?’

‘Non.’

The hopeless asking for directions, the cries of Gabriel drowning them out; their following of the rusted Citroën to the hospital, driven by the bald Frenchman who spoke no English; the eternity of the drive under a dark sky, and then just more of it, on and on, under a black sky. Was the journey ever going to end? Where was he taking them?

But then there was the hospital with its green and yellow lights and he and Dan began the chant of panic-talk and gibberish, fired at little Gabriel. ‘Hospital. Hold on, mate. Hospital, mate. Nearly there. You’re gonna be fine. Here we go.’

Kyle sighed, cradled his ribs. Poured himself a generous measure of Sailor Jerry and gulped at it like it was water. Gasped at the after-burn as the taste of Christmas and the Caribbean filled his body with warmth. ‘Finish the pizza, Dan.’

‘Can’t face it.’ Dan closed his eyes, groaned. ‘I couldn’t do anything. Didn’t know whether to move him to the car. But you had the keys. And . . . I thought . . . I was convinced there were traps, everywhere, all around us. I couldn’t move. Just kept calling for you, mate.’

‘I never heard a word. How was that possible? I should have heard you.’

At the hospital there had been a long heated exchange between the doctor and the Frenchman from the village. Kyle and Dan had no French. They had nothing but a minivan full of film equipment and blood.

He remembered his relief at hearing that Gabriel would live: the news delivered in nonchalant broken English from a black nurse at the hospital.

‘But ze leg. Gone. From . . .’ A doctor had then indicated a cutting motion at his own knee. ‘Amputation.’

What will happen to that tiny foot in the white running shoe, Kyle had thought in his shock, his horror, his cold stupefaction at the news. And then he and Dan had waited in the hospital for another three hours, still bloodied, faint with hunger and shock.

Pacing the tarmac, insensible, drifting through rage and shock and exhaustion, Kyle had then called Max from the car park. And Max had been unable to react for a long while to the information Kyle spat into the phone about ‘the bloody traps you had us walk through!’

Eventually, in a faint tired voice, Max had said, ‘The path. I told you to stay on the path.’

‘There was no path, you fuckwit!’

‘Now look, I’ve never been there. How would I know?’

‘Why? Why have you never been there?’

‘Will he live?’

‘Yes, but he’s lost that leg. Lost it! Fucking amputated from the knee.’

‘Oh, dear God, no.’

‘Dear God, yes.’

‘Insurance. You are all insured.’

‘Tell that to Gabriel! And his ninety-year-old mum he’s looking after. What were you bloody thinking, Max?’ There had been a long silence. ‘Max! Max!’ Kyle had cried into the phone.

‘Even now. Even now. She can.’

‘What? Can’t hear—’

‘Did you . . . see anything?’

‘See anything? What do you mean?’

‘Unusual.’

‘Yes, mate, as a matter of fact I did. Her bloody bed is still in that fermette. And it was full of . . . of . . . toads. Worms. Snakes. Fuck knows. And there are . . . things on the walls. The walls, Max! The temple, the bedroom. What are they? Those figures? And the place . . . the farm is not right. It’s just not right.’

‘What do you mean?’

Kyle had sat down on the tarmac. By that time he did not care about what people thought of him; the weary paramedics who walked by, the people going in and out of the Accident and Emergency entrance. ‘Gabriel freaked out. Said something about them still being there. Right around the time we arrived. Then he wouldn’t go inside the buildings. And it was like something was there. Inside the temple. I heard someone in there when I was filming. And in Katherine’s cottage. Downstairs. Someone came in. But they weren’t there when I went down. I’m confused, Max. It’s freaking me out. What is wrong with this place? What is it?’

‘We’ll talk when you come home.’

‘Home! What do we do, Max? With Gabriel? What?’

‘I’ll take care of it. Just come home as planned tomorrow. We’ll meet when you are rested. You’ve done enough for one day. I thank you for that. Text me the name of the hospital. The phone number. I need to go now. I have something else to attend to.’

‘Attend to! What’s more important than this? I want answers, mate.’

‘Kyle. Please. You’re emotional.’

‘Wouldn’t you be, after what we’ve been through?’

‘I understand. I do. But . . . there has been some more unfortunate news. Today. Affecting our film.’

‘What?’

‘Sister Isis. Susan White. She went in the night.’

‘Went? Went where? What?’

‘She died, Kyle.’

‘I don ’t know about this any more, mate.’

Kyle turned his head from the laptop screen, on which he was immersed in his rough cut. He looked at Dan, who fi nally swallowed the mouthful of pizza he chewed.

‘The film.’ Dan looked at Kyle, deep into his friend’s bloodshot eyes. ‘Feels wrong.’

‘No shit. And Max isn’t telling us everything. He’s holding out on us. Has been from the start.’

‘What about?’

‘Beats me, mate. I don’t know. He freaked out when I spoke to that barrister. Said I was digressing. But she lived there, in the building that was the Gathering’s first temple. How is that not relevant? And what she said about the walls. The stains. Whatever they are. How they just appeared. With things in them. There were no leaks. No faulty wires. Never were. We never got it in detail, but I’m going to take a running guess that what we saw in the Clarendon Road basement is not dissimilar to the walls in that bloody barn.’ Kyle pointed at the laptop screen to emphasize his point. ‘Rachel Phillips heard sounds too. What we heard. That figure . . . outside the penthouse . . . So it’s all connected to the Gathering. Gotta be. The myths might not be myths. You believe I am even saying this?’

‘Which is what the whole film is supposed to be about. What Max wanted. Bit too bloody convenient if you ask me. And then, out here? I mean, God’s sake . . . those things on the walls. No way they’re watermarks. No way. They’re drawn on. Who’d want to draw that though? They must have been bat-shit crazy.’

‘They’re not drawn on.’

‘Come again?’

Kyle shook his head, swallowed. ‘They’re in the stone. I touched one. It’s like they’re burned into . . . through the actual stone. There is no paint. It’s like a scorch. That stinks. Like something’s died in the wall.’

Dan blew out a long stream of air. ‘This room no smoking?’

Kyle nodded. ‘Fuck it. Light up.’

Dan clambered to his feet and made his way to Kyle’s packet of Lucky Strikes on the bedside table. ‘You want one?’

Kyle nodded, then caught the cigarette Dan tossed at him.

Dan paced about. In silence, Kyle watched his friend’s hairy feet in order to avoid the sight of his hairy belly. Dan’s speech was slurred, his cheeks flushed. ‘This shit is too freaky. I mean Gabriel nearly died. If I hadn’t plugged the bleeding with my shirt, he’d have bled out. Doctor said so. Or mimed as much. Susan Isis, or whatever she’s called, is dead. Dead. As well as some other old hippy mate of Max’s involved in this shit. This feels . . . dangerous. I know you have debts. And a hundred grand is a lot of cash, but we should walk. Just bloody walk, mate.’

Kyle bit down on his irritation and his disappointment that Dan would even suggest such a thing as abandoning the film. And what a film. Dan was upset. That was natural. But he had just suggested the unspeakable. ‘Dude. We’re in no place to be making major decisions here. Today—’

‘Today was the worst day of my life. Today was all fucked up.’

He’d never seen Dan like this before. Kyle chose his words carefully, softened his voice. ‘Agreed. It was. But, mate, you have to admit, despite all the shit we’ve been through today, this is dynamite. I mean, we’ve been on two shoots, and on both of them we’ve picked something up on camera. How often does that happen? Never, that’s how often. It’s never happened as far as I know. Ever. To anyone with a camera rolling. A horror film from a big studio might get similar effects. But these aren’t effects.’

Dan closed his eyes and looked like he wanted to put his fingers in his ears too. ‘Kyle.’

‘And the interviews have been freaky, but it’s fantastic material. You could not make this up. It’s like we’ve been waiting our whole lives to get a piece of this. Coven and Blood Frenzy, we never got so much as a sniff of the paranormal. Some good interviews. Some nice shots of murder sites. Two cracking films. But this . . . this is on another level, mate. This is the making of us. This is the big time. From here on out, we will have officially made it.’

‘Agreed. But, Kyle, of the two former members of The Last Gathering we’ve filmed, one is dead, and the other lost his fucking leg this afternoon!’ Dan beseeched Kyle’s face for an explanation. It wasn’t forthcoming.

‘Dan. Dan. Dan. When we shoot a scene, we hope to achieve something. We have a goal. We want a disclosure that creates a story. The story. Agreed? Well we’re getting that every time. This is telling us more than we asked for. Gabriel may have shot his bolt, but the farm told us things without him saying much of any use. We’re shooting one long take almost every time. This is too good to let go, mate. There is something about this story. This experience they all shared. No one is dicking around or trying to make themselves look good. It’s like they are compelled to confess. How often have we seen that? Precisely. And you want to can it? You have got to be kidding me, big man.’

Dan stared at the floor. ‘Shit! I don’t know. I need to put some space between myself and this place, and then I need to have a good think.’

‘Your call. But I can’t do it without you. There’s no time . . . no way I could replace you. We gotta be in America in two days.’ Kyle topped up Dan’s mug with rum. ‘And like you said, I have no choice. I’m thirty grand in the shit. I need this film.’

‘I know. I know, mate. It’s just . . . I don’t think I can.’

‘Sleep on it. Please. Don’t fucking do this to me. Dan? Mate.’

‘There’s more.’

‘What?’

‘In the hospital, when you were outside talking to Max, I was wondering what the French guy who helped us was saying to the doctor. They were talking for ages. The guy was really getting worked up. So I asked the doctor about what the farmer had been saying. I was getting a hunch it might have been something about the farm.’

Kyle swallowed. ‘And?’

‘Doctor’s English wasn’t great, but the French guy from the village had been telling him that the birds never came back. Something like that. The birds never came back. To the farm I’m guessing. And he said the dogs will never walk there, or go there.’

‘This is blowing my mind, Dan. It’s amazing.’

‘And then there’s this.’ Dan walked over to his bedside table and picked up his iPhone. ‘Message must have come in this afternoon. Didn’t even think to check it until you were having a shower. But it’s a message from Finger Mouse. It’s about the Clarendon Road rushes.’ Dan scrolled through a menu on his iPhone, then handed the phone to Kyle.

The message read: Been calling you all day. You gotta see this. While you two were filling your pants like a couple of schoolgirls, there is some strange shit going down in the background. On three audio tracks. No way that’s ambient. You must have played a CD. And the other guy in there with you, the druggie that looks like he got up and walked out of a sarcophagus at the British Museum, ain’t all there. It’s no junkie. Blown up the image and bits of him are not there. Missing. Transparent. How did you do it? Please tell me that you did do it and are laughing right now? FM.

Neither of them were laughing. Dan blinked at Kyle in silent incomprehension. ‘What does he mean?’

Kyle felt himself go white. ‘Beats me.’

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