The Doorkeepers (43 page)

“Don't you think I'm fucking wriggling?” Frank Mordant gasped back at him.

There was nothing they could do but watch in horror as Frank Mordant pulled himself painfully toward them. The passageway was now so narrow that his face was scraping against the brick, and as he came nearer he stopped, and let out a breathless cry of agony. A few seconds later, they heard his ribcage crack.

Somehow, his face lacerated and his fingernails bleeding, he managed to drag himself right to the opening. “I'm sorry,” he panted. “I'm sorry for what I did. Just get me out of here.”

Josh took hold of his sleeve and tried to pull him out. The sleeve tore from shoulder to cuff, so he had to grip his bare arm. He wedged one foot against the wall and leaned backward, tugging Frank Mordant out of the niche inch by scraping inch.

Frank Mordant's head was out, and half of his chest. “Come on,” said Josh. “One last pull and we'll have you out of there.”

But it was then that Frank Mordant turned to look at him with an extraordinary expression, almost sad. The bricks closed completely together with a soft, suppressed crunch, and the top half of Frank Mordant's body dropped into the niche, among the leaves and the candy wrappers and the empty cigarette
packets. He stared up at Josh and for three or four seconds he was still alive.

“Sorry, old man,” he repeated, in a small bubble of blood.

DS Paul sat and listened to Josh and Nancy's explanation of Frank Mordant's death without interrupting. When they had finished, she closed the file in front of her and said, “We'll be making a press announcement later today.”

“Saying what?” asked Josh. “You're not going to charge us, are you?”

“Saying that the mutilated body of a man was discovered in Star Yard by two American tourists. The man is thought to be the victim of a drugs war in South-East London.”

“That's all?”

“That's all that anybody needs to know.”

“I don't understand,” said Josh. “Are you telling me that you
believe
us?”

“Let me just say that to a very few people, you are one of the greatest heroes of the century.” DS Paul gave a secretive little smile. She dropped the file into her desk drawer, closed it, and stood up. “I hope you feel that you found justice here in London, Mr Winward. It's the very least that you deserve.”

“I think I found a whole lot more than I bargained for.”

DS Paul shook their hands and showed them to the door. “By the way, your friend Petty. Nice girl, even if she is a little … well, idiosyncratic. We passed her case on to Kensington & Chelsea social services. They've found her a job at Burger King.”

“Thanks,” said Josh. “I don't know what else to say.”

“Have a safe journey home,” said DS Paul, and closed the door behind them.

A week later, Josh woke up at two o'clock in the morning in a shivering sweat. He climbed out of bed and groped his way along the corridor toward the bathroom. He didn't switch on the light, in case he woke Nancy, but trailed his hand along the wall to find his way.

As he passed the living-room door, he thought he saw something dark lying on the couch. He stopped, and peered at it through the gloom. It was his brown leather bowling-ball bag. What the hell was that doing there?

He went into the living room and crossed over to the couch. He distinctly remembered storing his bag away in the shoe closet by the front door. Nancy wouldn't have moved it – what was the point?

He was about to pick the bag up when he heard a faint buzzing sound. He leaned forward, listening. There was no question about it. A soft, rattling whirr was coming from inside the bag. Yet all that was in it was his favorite ball.

Taking hold of the handles, he tugged the zipper down a little way. There was something inside the bag, something round and heavy, but somehow it didn't feel like a bowling ball. He took a deep breath and tugged the zipper all the way down.

It was too dark to see what was inside, but he was sure that he could see movement. He leaned over toward the reading-lamp behind the couch and switched it on.

“Oh, shit,” he said, and stepped back in horror.

Inside the bag was the severed head of the Hooded Man. His hessian hood was ripped open, so Josh could see his face. His eyes stared out at him with sightless resentment, and his mouth was stretched wide open, as if he were shouting in
silent protest. And he was crawling with blowflies, hundreds of them, glittering and green. They poured in and out of his mouth and his nostrils, they walked across his unflinching eyeballs. The Hooded Man was living putrefaction, decay without end, amen.

Josh opened his eyes. He was still in bed. Nancy was lying close to him, breathing softly and evenly. Sweat was trickling across his chest, so he dragged back the sheet to cool himself down. He lay on his back for almost five minutes, staring at the ceiling.

After a while, he eased himself out of bed. He stepped over Abraxas, who was sleeping on the floor on his favorite Indian blanket. Then he shuffled along the corridor toward the bathroom. As he passed the living room, he made himself look inside, just to reassure himself that he had only been having a nightmare.

But the bowling-ball bag was still there, lying on the couch.

Josh stood in the darkness, looking at it. Then he slowly approached it. Whatever it contained, he was going to have to open it, and confront it. He leaned over and listened to it. He couldn't hear any buzzing. He took a deep breath and tugged the zipper all the way down.

Graham Masterton (born 1946, Edinburgh) is a British horror author. Originally editor of Mayfair and the British edition of Penthouse, Graham Masterton's first novel
The Manitou
was published in 1976 and adapted for the film in 1978.
Further works garnered critical acclaim, including a Special Edgar award by the Mystery Writers of America for
Charnel House
and a Silver Medal by the West Coast Review of Books for
Mirror
. He is also the only non-French winner of the prestigious Prix Julia Verlanger for his novel
Family Portrait
, an imaginative reworking of the Oscar Wilde novel
The Picture of Dorian Gray
.
Masterton's novels often contain visceral sex and horror. In addition to his novels, Masterton has written a number of sex instruction books, including
How to Drive Your Man Wild in Bed
and
Wild Sex for New Lovers
.

Discover books by Phyllis Bentley published by Bloomsbury Reader at
www.bloomsbury.com/PhyllisBentley
A Man of His Time
A Modern Tragedy
Crescendo
Gold Pieces
Inheritance
Love and Money
Noble in Reason
Ring in the New
Sleep in Peace
Tales of the West Riding
Take Courage
The Rise of Henry Morcar

For copyright reasons, any images not belonging to the original author have been
removed from this book. The text has not been changed, and may still contain
references to missing images.
This electronic edition published in 2012 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square,
London WC1B 3DP
First published in Great Britain 2001 by Severn House Publishers Ltd
Copyright © 2001 Graham Masterton
All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise
make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means
(including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying,
printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the
publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication
may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The moral right of the author is asserted.
eISBN: 9781448209071
Visit
www.bloomsburyreader.com
to find out more about our authors and their books
You will find extracts, author interviews, author events and you can
sign up for
newsletters
to be the first to hear about our latest releases and special offers.