Perfect People

95

Light suddenly exploded across the rain-drenched windscreen. Brilliant white one moment, blue the next, and for an instant the Disciple, hands clasped in prayer in front of his face, froze in panic.

Police?

The car slid past in front of him, splashing through the deep puddles of the pot-holed lot. He heard the bass beat of music. Ker-boom-ker-ker, ker-boom-ker-ker, ker-boom-ker-ker, ker-boom-ker-ker. It wasn’t police, it was one of those fancy sports cars with those halogen lights that glinted blue when you caught them at certain angles.

Who the hell are you? What are you doing here? This is my car park, this is my space.

The fancy car moved away, down towards the far end of the lot, then stopped beside the oak tree that straddled the railings, beyond which was an expanse of parkland and the municipal tennis court.

All its lights went off.

The Disciple raised his night-vision glasses and stared through the rear windscreen of the car. In the bright green glow he could see a man and a woman. Their faces were turned towards each other. Each of them gave a quick glance back into the darkness, at him, then they began to eat each other’s faces.

Fornicators. Sewer people.

He could still hear that bass beat. But it was faint now.

This is my space. God found this for me. You should not be here, you really should not.

He slipped his right hand down to his anorak pocket, clasped his fingers around the cold, hard butt of his gun. Eliminating them would be easy; he had enough spare bullets. God would OK that – anything that stood between him and the Infidels and the Devil’s Spawn was a legitimate target.

Perspiration guttered down his back. These people here, this wasn’t meant to happen. He could abort, drive off, come back again tomorrow. Except, the weather was perfect tonight and Lara was waiting, and why should these sewer people delay him for another day? He had already emailed the Master. Plans were made. Too much to change.

He was shaking so badly he could not think straight.

Something made him twist the ignition key, put the car in gear, switch the lights on, accelerate out of the lot and turn left, through the village, past the busy pub with its lot full of cars, up the lane towards the entrance to the Infidels’ house.

He could just turn right, drive in, straight up to the house.

That was crazy.

He stopped outside the entrance, turned the car around and drove back down towards the village. Thinking. Thinking. Trying desperately to clear the red mist of anger out of his head. Thinking.

OK. OK. OK.

He drove through the village, heading back towards the main road, cut the apex of the right-hander at the end of the village and had to swerve violently to avoid oncoming headlights, so violently he hit the verge and the car slewed.

He slammed on the brakes. Closed his eyes for a second.

Please tell me what to do, God. Guidance. Give me guidance.

God guided him onto the main road. He drove up it for five miles until he reached a roundabout. He did two full loops of the roundabout. This was all going wrong, this wasn’t the plan. This was God testing him.

Haven’t you tested me enough?

A car cut out in front of him; he jammed on the brakes and his wheels locked, the little Ford yawing crazily, missing the back of the car by inches.

He took the first exit off the roundabout, not even sure where he was now, and swung into a lay-by. He pulled on the handbrake, then lowered his head, hyperventilating in panic.

The clock on the dash was blurred. His whole vision was blurred. Twelve minutes past eleven.

He switched on the dome light, took out the photograph of Lara and stared at her. Sweet, sweet Lara. Her face, smiling back at him, calmed him. Gave him strength. Helped him to collect his thoughts.

Headlights loomed in his mirror. He stiffened. Then moments later a car roared past.

Forty-five minutes. That was all. Just forty-five minutes to get through.

He drove on for a couple of miles until he reached the outskirts of a village he had never been to before. A signpost said ALFRISTON.

Braking sharply, he turned the car round, then drove slowly back, retracing his steps, and pulled into the unlit entrance to a farm, switched the engine and the lights off and sat, very still, trying to calm himself down and to think clearly.

The fancy car with the lovers, which had come into the lot behind the schoolhouse, was a test. God had tested Job and was now testing him. Or warning him. If it was still there when he drove back, it would be a sign to abort tonight; but if it was gone, it would be God giving him the all-clear.

At eleven forty-five he drove back into the village of Caibourne and turned into the schoolhouse parking lot.

The lovers had gone.

And the rain was easing off. Still falling, but lighter now, although the wind was getting stronger. Good. He pulled his thin leather gloves on, climbed out of the car, locked the doors, and took the air rifle from the boot. He made his way across the lot, past the school, checked very carefully that the coast was clear, then ran across the road and onto the muddy bridleway that would take him straight across a field of corn stubble, and up to the field of pasture grass that adjoined the Infidels’ garden.

He held the torch, but only switched it on for an instant every few paces. The track was uneven, chewed up by horses’ hooves. Several times he slipped, almost losing his footing, and twice he cursed as his anorak snagged on the brambles.

Although he was still extremely fit, the steep climb, nerves and the cold air were taking their toll. He was breathing heavily, perspiring inside his warm clothing and under his heavy load. But there was a deep glow in his heart.

And now, finally, he could see the Infidels’ house! A looming shadow two hundred yards in front of him. There was just one light on, the master bedroom. And then, joy! Even as he was watching, it was extinguished.

Darkness!

Now the adrenaline was pumping and he could scarcely contain his excitement.

Something darted above him, a bat, or maybe an owl. He listened for a moment to the howl of the wind through the grass and the trees and the bushes, listened to a hinge shrieking as an unlatched farm gate swung open, shut, open, shut, and the steady banging of an unsecured door. So many noises to mask his own!

Looking up at the bitumen-black sky, he thought to himself, yes, this night has been ordained! Leaning against the gridded metal stock fencing, he raised his night-vision binoculars. Fixed them on the master bedroom window. Adjusted the focus until it was pin-sharp. Remembered his briefing, the words of the Master.

Watch the condensation. When the outside temperature is colder than inside there will be condensation on the windows. When the heating goes off the condensation will slowly cease. When the condensation has gone it is safe to assume the occupants are asleep.

The master bedroom windows of the Infidels were misted with condensation. But even as he watched, he could see it beginning to fade.

*

It was dark in their bedroom. Their parents no longer left the Bob the Builder night light on. That wasn’t important. One sense always compensated for another. In darkness, smell kicked in stronger. So did touch. So did hearing.

They smelled him now. They heard him.

Soon they would touch him.

In their little side-by-side beds, in the darkness of the room in the house where they lived for now, but for not much longer, in a voice too high-pitched to be detected by the human ear, Luke called out to his sister. Just one word, spoken with the fourth letter, ‘d’, missing, backwards.

‘Yaer?’

A split second later, in a voice equally inaudible to the normal human ear, Phoebe responded.

‘Yaer.’