‘Run through them again. Just the first three or four.’
‘Napoleon Bonaparte. Beethoven. Christopher Marlowe.’
‘A general who became an emperor. A composer who wanted immortality,’ Connelly began.
‘And a writer who wrote about a man who made a pact with the Devil,’ Ward added.
‘I had to let you work it out, Chris.’
‘I still don’t understand.’
‘What was Marlowe’s most famous work?’
‘Doctor Faustus!
‘Remember the story?’
‘A man who wanted wealth and fame sold his soul to the Devil in return for it.
He had to face a reckoning. So did Marlowe himself. He was murdered in a pub in London.’
‘He was paying his debt.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘Marlowe wrote about a man who sold his soul to the Devil. A man like himself.
Like all the others on that list. How do you think they got what they wanted?
Everything’s got a price, Chris. Anything can be attained if you’ve got the right goods to barter. All those people
had. Some wanted fame. Some wanted power or money. Some wanted entire nations, the world. They all signed. And when the time came, they all paid. But it doesn’t have to be as grand as fame and power. Some of those on that list just wanted little things. “Can you let my sick child live?” “Can the results of the biopsy I had be benign?” Just little things, Chris. Because not everyone prays to God. And even those who do get fed up with him never answering them.
So they look for alternatives. And I don’t ask a lot in return for what I give.’
‘Who the flick are you?’
‘I would have thought that was obvious by now.’
Ward was suddenly aware of a smell in the room. A cloying acrid stench that made him cough. It was the noxious odour of hydrogen sulphide. Bad eggs.
Sulphur.
Connelly got slowly to his feet and walked towards the rear of the room, to the French windows which looked on to the garden. Slowly he pulled the curtains open so that Ward could see out into the rain-drenched darkness.
‘What are you doing?’ the writer asked. ‘What’s going on?’
‘A reckoning, Chris.’
There was movement close to the windows and Ward saw several familiar shapes there. One was scratching at the glass with its ape-like hand.
For the first time he saw them up close. Three of them. Bent low to the ground. Their weight resting on their front legs. They looked like the bastard offspring of a dog and a baboon.
‘Not apparitions, Chris. Messengers,’ said Connelly.
‘And all those names on that list, the hundreds you recognise and the thousands you don’t, they all saw them or will see them when their time comes.’
Ward’s heart was hammering against his ribs. Was this another hallucination?
The three creatures threw themselves at the glass.
‘The line does blur between fantasy and reality,’ said Connelly. ‘Every name you’ve ever used in one of your books has been a real name and the possessor of that name has died within weeks of you using it. That’s been part of the agreement. You just never knew it. But it was all part of the bargain. It was just necessary that you were the one to discover that, Chris. I don’t like loose ends.’
Connelly unlocked the French windows, allowing them to open slightly.
‘You’ve known from the beginning what’s been going on,’ Ward stammered.
‘Everything.’
‘I’m just glad you finished the book. It’ll be a monument. And sales always get a boost when the author dies.’
Ward took a step towards the sitting-room door.
‘Don’t try to run, Chris,’ Connelly admonished. ‘At least face it with a little dignity. After all, it is only the repayment of a debt. Nothing much.
Just think what you’ve had. I don’t ask for much in return.’
Connelly fully opened the windows.
The creatures bounded in. Screams, howls and maniacal growls rose in one deafening cacophony.
Outside the rain continued to fall.
SOUTH BUCKS EXAMINER
August 18th
Police are still investigating the disappearance of writer Christopher Ward who vanished from his Buckinghamshire home almost two weeks ago.
Ward was the author of a number of bestselling novels in the horror/thriller genre.
Film rights to three of his newest books had recently been purchased and Ward was expected to write the scripts for at least two of them.
His disappearance was discovered after his agent, Mr Martin Connelly, visited the writer’s home and found it in what was described as a ‘derelict’ state.
Ward was single and lived alone.
The police do not suspect foul play and the search continues.
Nothing’s all right, nothing is fine. I’m running and I’m crying …
Papa Roach