Banquet for the Damned

'Why not?'

'Cus this ain't a rock club in Birmingham five years ago. These girls are different.'

'You're telling me. We drank a bottle, she was eating out of my hand and all I said was "fancy a walk?". She was just like stunned and made some pathetic excuse.'

'Tom!' Dante cries out, trying to conceal his mirth. 'Where were you last night? It wasn't Eddie's, man. It was an academic soirée.

That girl wasn't going to throw her reputation away on some longhaired tramp she just met.'

'Fuck you. I had my best shirt on.'

'You've got to move slow, man.'

'The day I take advice off you about chicks is the day I shoot myself.'

They glare at each other for a moment; both faces are tense.

'Sorry,' Tom says after a pause. 'That was low.'

'Damn right it was low.'

'Come on, cut me some slack. I've got a hangover.'

Dante turns away and stays quiet.

'Don't mess around, Dante. I said I'm sorry.'

'Drop it.'

'No I won't. I'm a prick. I don't deserve a girl.'

'That's right, you don't. Think before you open your mouth.'

Tom sighs and drifts over to the chair. 'You know what I'm like.

Man, I have to get laid. Maybe it'll be better when the students come back.'

Dante shakes his head in exasperation.

'What?' Tom asks.

'Nothing.'

'Come on, Dante. We're on holiday, man. Why are we arguing?

All that is in the past, and this place is the shit. I just need to find my feet.'

Dante sighs. 'Don't break anything in the meantime.'

'I promise. You won't know I'm here.'

'Time for work,' he says, and returns his attention to the pile of Eliot's books, gathering dust in the corner of the room.

'Fuck that,' Tom says. 'Let's go for a walk, check out the beach —' he sniggers '— Who knows what we'll find? Then we can go out and eat tonight. Hit a few bars.'

'Nah, I have to read Eliot's books. I'm seeing him tomorrow night.'

'Why at night?'

'Dunno. And Tom, we have to save money. I'm not blowing the stash in some pub. I have to make a start.'

'We've been here three days and we've seen nothing.'

'And the cash won't last forever.'

'Don't worry, man.'

'Tom, are you deaf? I am going to read today.'

'Touchy. What's up with you?'

Dante shakes his head. 'I had no sleep last night.'

'You kipped in here. What's that all about?'

Feeling uncomfortable, Dante adjusts his slouch on the sofa and lights a second cigarette. 'Bad dreams.'

Tom laughs. 'So you were a fraidy cat and couldn't sleep in your own bed.'

'I kid you not, it was awful. A dream I used to have all the time as a kid. And after I woke up…'

'What?'

'You'll piss yourself, so I'm not telling you.'

'Sod that. Tell me.'

'I saw a ghost or something.'

Tom raises his eyebrows, but he doesn't laugh. 'No shit.'

'At the end of my bed. There was like this figure sitting on the floor. Then it stood up and walked straight past my bed, and went through the door. I freaked and came in here.'

'So that's why all the lights were on this morning. You must have been spooked.'

'I haven't shat myself like that since I was about ten. It's weird.'

Tom looks into the garden. 'Funny, that.'

Cocking his head at Tom, who now looks pensive, he asks, 'Why do you say that?'

'That scream. Remember that scream the other night?'

Dante nods.

'Well, I heard it again last night. Not the same voice, mind, but a different one. Right across the road from my room. Came from the cliffs or the castle. It was really faint, like it was far off or down by the sea. But it was awful. At first I thought it was the wind or something, then I swore I heard someone yell, "help me". They said "God help me" or something like that. Funny we should both get freaked.'

'I didn't hear anything in here, but I believe you. Something's up with this place. Last night when I was walking home, I heard this kind of dog or something, running on the other side of the wall by the Quad. And then I get the nightmare, and see that ghost thing.'

They look at each other, both faces serious for a moment, before each mouth breaks into a broad smile — a smile so broad Dante can see Tom's one gold tooth at the back of his mouth. Then they are laughing until tears fill their eyes. 'Edinburgh,' Dante says. 'We need to get out of town for a day. Let's take the Wagon up to Edinburgh.'

'Fuckin' A,' Tom cries. They punch each other's fists and Dante makes his way to the shower.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Hart sits on the couch and bites into an apple. Deep in thought, he gazes across the room at the orderly lines of buildings printed on his town plan. On the far wall of the lounge, between a mirror and lamp, he's tacked the large map of St Andrews and the surrounding country. Three red pins on the map represent night-terror activity. Having the map gives him what feels like a greater sense of control over the investigation, and it supplies him with something to focus on when idle.

And there have been a lot of idle moments since his first two interviews. Besides two inquisitive phone calls from students not suffering from night terrors, a spokesperson from a local Bible group, and someone who phoned three times and hung up without a word, the early momentum of his research has lapsed over the last two days. But he dares not venture too far from the flat in case he misses another call. Maria, the girl with a nervous voice, never showed for her interview, and neither Kerry Sewell nor Mike Bowen has been in touch since the first interviews.

Kerry lives in Salvator's on the Scores and woke on the pier in the Eastern Harbour. Mike Bowen lives a quarter of a mile away in Dean's Court, across the road from the castle grounds, where the scholar of Classics repeatedly found himself walking after midnight. Maria, he knows, lives in New Hall, on the western side of town above the Golf Links. No more than a mile away from West Sands, where an arm was found a week earlier — something he gleaned from a local paper — and where Ben Carter incinerated himself.

From what he's gathered in other fieldwork, and through his macroscopic reading, the intensification of night-terror incidents never spreads beyond the confines of a small area like a single village, one side of a street, or sometimes a solitary room. But the St Andrews phenomenon stretches across a square mile. Maybe it's increasing or spreading further afield, beyond his knowledge, but he has nothing to rely upon for information beyond the response to the fliers he's posted — many of which have already been covered over by university clubs and societies advertising for the new intake of students. Will any more red pins pierce the map in the coming weeks? Or will it suddenly stop? Is there an innocent explanation? Something escaping from local industry into the air or water, perhaps? Or could it be auto-suggestion from the lecturer who ran the paranormal meetings? Which poses the question: how many students attended and are now suffering from sleep disorders? Maybe some declined to come forward or have already fled the town limits.

From what he understands, until the main wave of students returns from summer vacation, only fourth years and postgrads have stayed on in the town between June and September, to finish their dissertations. At least the present student population is small, but soon it won't be. And the one link, uniting his three victims, is a past involvement with Eliot Coldwell and his paranormal society, during the previous academic year. The link is still tenuous — no form of ritual magic was performed at the gatherings, and each student claimed the meetings consisted of nothing more than discussions or exercises in meditation — but it is all he has to go on. Though Coldwell has become the biggest frustration of all. Every time he's phoned the School of Divinity, the administrator has abruptly told him Eliot is not in residence. A request for the lecturer's home number was also denied. Finally, his three trips to the school on the Scores, the day before, all ended in disappointment; the administrative staff exchanged knowing glances with each other before claiming, and sincerely too he intuited, that Eliot makes only the rarest of appearances at the school. So where is Coldwell, and how long can he afford to wait for the man to reappear?