The Devils of D-Day Read online

  Dieppe was as grey and tatty as any Channel port, and we only stopped in the cobbled square in the centre of town for a few minutes, just to change some French francs into British pounds. It was almost lunchtime, and we were lucky to make the bank before it closed. In France, they take their lunch seriously. Then we drove out to the SNCF ferry, past the cluttered little cafes and tourist arcades and bars called

  ‘Le Bar Anglais’ or ‘Le Bar Churchill’, where day-tripping British tourists spent their last few francs on very ordinary vin ordinaire; past the cranes and the docks and the clutter of crates and trucks; until we turned the corner and saw the black-and-white ship with its red-painted funnel, and the English Channel the colour of pale green soup.

  I bought tickets, and we waited nervously in line for twenty minutes before our Citroen was waved down the metal ramp into the bowels of the ship. We parked the car in a jam pack of Mercedes and Audis and Renaults, and then climbed to the upper decks to wait out the three-and-a-half hour journey.

  The trip across the Channel to Newhaven is one of the dullest sea voyages there is.

  We went into the ferry’s restaurant, and ate leek soup and veal with congealed gravy, while the ship’s engines drummed and the sea rose and tipped outside the salt-stained windows.

  Madeleine said: ‘You’re very quiet.’

  I mopped up soup with a piece of stale French bread. ‘I was thinking about last night.’

  ‘Was it really terrible?’

  ‘I was scared stiff, if that’s what you mean.’

  She looked out of the window. ‘Do you think we can exorcise it? Do you think there’s any way?’

  ‘Well, maybe the Reverend Woodfall Taylor will know the answer to that—if the Reverend Woodfall Taylor’s still alive.’

  ‘Oh, God, I hope so ‘

  They brought the meat and a selection of overcooked vegetables. At least they had a decent wine—a bottle of rich, heady Margaux that almost sent me to sleep with its fumes. I ate because I was hungry, but every mouthful was like balsa wood.

  Madeleine said: ‘Couldn’t we simply throw the trunk over the side?’

  I sipped my wine. ‘I suppose we could do. But I don’t think devils drown, do you? And what if he killed us before we could throw him over? Or after? And apart from any of those problems, the ship’s crew would probably stop us. I shouldn’t think they’re very keen on people tossing strange boxes into the Channel.’

  She put down her fork, although she had hardly touched her veal.

  ‘Dan,’ she said, ‘I’m frightened.’

  ‘You have every right to be.’

  ‘No, Dan, I mean really frightened. Like something awful is going to happen.’

  I looked at her over the rim of my wine glass, and there was nothing I could say. I couldn’t pretend that things were going to get better, because it looked as if they were going to get worse. I couldn’t even pretend I had a plan to get us out of trouble.

  All I was doing was playing for time, with the terrible knowledge that Elmek was probably going to sacrifice both of us to Adramelech in any case. Why should he keep his bargain, if he could cut us to shreds by magic at any time he chose, and we were powerless? The ship rolled steadily, and the cutlery and cruets and glasses and ashtrays all rattled and jingled and vibrated in a ceaseless cantata.

  Later, we stood by the rail and watched the whitish smudge of England appear on the port side—the seven chalk cliffs they call the Seven Sisters, sloping gradually down on the westward side towards Seaford beach and Newhaven harbour. The ferry turned herself round to back stern-first into the narrow harbour entrance, and a barely intelligible French voice told us over the intercom to return to our cars.

  We were both depressed and fearful as we went down the stairs to the car decks and unwillingly rejoined our hellish charge. Neither of us spoke as we sat waiting for the stern doors of the ship to open up, and neither of us looked around at that dark medieval trunk in which the devil nestled. I felt unbearably claustrophobic inside that ship, as if tons of metal were pressing down on me from up above.

  At last, the crew waved us out of the ferry and up the ramp to the dockside. It was one of those bright, grey afternoons, with a damp sea-breeze blowing. A cheerful-looking customs official beckoned us towards a vacant inspection bay, and we drove in and stopped.

  Madeleine opened her window, and the customs official leaned in. He had that relentless urbanity that always disturbs me in British excise officers—a little different from the laconic gum-chewing lady in the fur coat who always insists you open up all your bags at JFK. He said: ‘How long do you plan to stay in Britain, sir?’

  ‘I don’t know. About a week. Maybe two.’

  ‘Holiday?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  He shaded his eyes against the reflection from our window glass, and peered into the back of the car. Then he walked all the way around, and came up to m> window.

  I opened it, and sat there with what I hoped was a calm, obliging smile. I probably looked like Sylvester the cat when Tweety-Pie’s bulldog pal suddenly appears in the garden—all clenched teeth and sick grin.

  The customs official said: ‘Do you know that it is a serious offence to try to smuggle live animals into the United Kingdom, sir?’

  I nodded like an idiot. ‘Yes, I knew that. Something to do with rabies, right?’

  ‘That’s right, sir. Now, would you care to tell me what you have in that box?’

  ‘Box? Oh, you mean that trunk.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, that’s just a few odd bits and pieces. I collect antiques. I have a few books in there, a couple of statuettes. Bits and pieces.’

  The customs official made a note on his clipboard. Then he pointed with his ballpen to a side bay where a couple of Germans were already having their Mercedes thoroughly searched. He was just about to say something when he frowned, and looked back at me, and then looked around as if he’d lost something.

  I said, ‘Is everything all right?’

  He shook his head, as if it was foggy. ‘Yes, sir. I just had the feeling I was going to say something. I can’t remember what it was.’

  I licked my lips tensely, and glanced over at Madeleine. Neither of us said a word.

  The customs official said: ‘Very good, sir. Have a pleasant time,’ and stuck a label on the Citroen’s windshield. I started the engine up, and we drove out of the docks and into the town. It was only when we were out of sight of the cranes and the ships that I let out a long whistle of relief.

  Madeleine whispered: ‘The devil must have known what was going to happen! Did you see what it did to that man’s mind? It wiped him clean.’

  I took a quick look round at the dull lead-coloured trunk. I was beginning to feel so nervous about it now that I kept imagining itches on my skin, and my right eye flickered with a tic that I couldn’t control. I didn’t dare try to imagine what that thing inside it really looked like. I had seen enough in the darkness of Father Anton’s bedroom, and heard enough of its rustling body and scratching claws and its husky, evil voice.

  We drove aimlessly around the town of Newhaven, which wasn’t much more salubrious than Dieppe. Mean, red-roofed houses with primrose-painted gates.

  Warehouses and shops. Madeleine said, ‘What are we going to do now?’ v *

  ‘I don’t know. Find a place to stay, I guess.’

  She checked her watch. ‘I think we ought to try to find where the Reverend Taylor lives before we do that. The pubs are open now. Let’s have a drink and something to eat, and then we can go to the local library. They have a clerical directory called Crockford’s in England, and if he’s still alive, we’ll find his name in there.’

  We parked the Citroen in a municipal car park, and crossed the road to a big, dingy Victorian pub called The Prince of Wales, which smelled of spilled beer and cooking fat. We sat by the engraved-glass window drinking some tepid Skol lager, and eating cold sausage rolls with no sausage in them.
Gastronomically speaking, England is always a miserable experience after France. Mine host behind the bar was a fat fellow with a check shirt and walrus moustache, who kept pulling pints of beer for himself and discussing the relative merits of the A23 and the A24, which turned out to be roads. One of the Englishman’s greatest obsessions, after cricket scores, is route-planning; and when you see the roads you know why.

  After our drink, we went in search of the library. It turned out to be a small brick building not far from the car park, where a spinster in a pale-blue cardigan and upswept glasses was almost ready to close for the night. She found a copy of Crockford’s Clerical Directory for us, and brought it over to the checking-out table with a face as long-suffering as a Rhesus monkey with a mouthful of vinegar. We flicked through the pages as quickly as we could, while she pulled on her coat, and huffed, and tugged on her gloves, and huffed again, and switched off all the lights at the far end of the room.

  But after a quick search through the directory, we found what we were looking for.

  Taylor, Percy Woodfall. The vicar of St Katherine’s, in the village of Strudhoe, near Lewes.

  Madeleine breathed: ‘That’s it! That’s him! He’s still alive!’

  I looked up, and called to the lady librarian: ‘Excuse me, ma’am. Can you tell me where Lewes is? Is it near to here?’

  She huffed and sniffed and looked at me as if I was mentally defective. ‘It’s eight miles up the road. You can’t miss it. It has a ruined castle.’

  And Strudhoe.’

  ‘Well, oh dear, that’s even closer. Three miles along the Lewes road, on the right.

  Between the main road and the river.’

  I turned to Madeleine and I guess I was as pale as she was. If the Reverend Taylor lived that close, and if he knew where the twelve brother devils of Elmek were, then we could have this whole grotesque business finished by tonight.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  In winter, the valley of the Sussex Ouse is grey with mist, and you can hardly see the long backs of the Downs that surround it on both sides. At the head of the valley, you can make out the cluttered rooftops of Lewes, with its dark tumble-down castle, and from there the river Ouse flows indifferent and colourless between raised banks, sliding towards the sea. As we drove out of Newhaven and headed north along the west bank of the river, it was almost too dusky to see anything, but we could make out blotted clumps of trees, and patches of half-melted snow on the fields.

  I kept the window of the car open. The English countryside in winter has a distinctive flat smell to it, mingled with the sharp aroma of woodsmoke from log fires; whereas French fields always smell of dung and frost. Madeleine strained her eyes to catch the road-sign for Strudhoe, and kept reminding me nervously to drive on the left. IP

  the back, the copper-and-lead chest rattled softly and ominously against the side of the car as we bounced over the twisting roads.

  ‘There!’ said Madeleine. ‘That’s it! Next on the right!’

  I saw the sign flash past in the light of my yellow French headlamps, and I put on the brakes. The turning was almost hidden by overhanging branches and narrow flint walls, and when I negotiated the Citroen across the main road and down towards the village, I felt as if we were disappearing down a rabbit-hole.

  We drove slowly past whitewashed houses with ancient clay-tile roofs; tiny walled gardens and narrow brick pavements. The village was only twenty or thirty houses, all of them hundreds of years old, and I almost drove right through it and down to the fields before I realised that we’d arrived. I stopped the car, and pulled on the handbrake.

  Madeleine said, ‘I wonder where the vicarage is.’

  ‘I don’t know. I guess it’s going to be easier to get out and look for it on foot.’

  She reached over and held my hand tightly. ‘Oh, God, Dan, I’m scared.’

  I switched off the engine. It was only then that we heard the soft, subtle noises from the trunk at the back. We sat tense and silent in our seats, staring at each other in horror, and then we heard Elmek’s dreadful whispering voice again.

  ‘We are near, aren’t we?’

  I said nothing.

  Elmek insisted: ‘ We are near, aren’t we?’

  Madeleine nodded at me, encouraging me to answer, and I said in a taut, strained voice: ‘Yes. Yes, we’re near.’

  ‘ You have done well. You have found the Reverend Taylor quickly. I will reward you, you know. I will give you the power to snap a man’s neck, if that is what you want. Or to thrust knives and razors into a girl’s sex. You ‘d enjoy that, wouldn’t you?’

  I closed my eyes in desperation, but Madeleine squeezed my hand and whispered,

  ‘Agree, Dan. All you have to do is agree.’

  I said loudly: ‘Yes, Elmek. I’d enjoy that.’

  Elmek laughed. Then it said: ‘Are you going to find the Reverend Taylor now? I can feel him! He’s close by!’

  ‘Yes, we’re going to find him.’

  ‘And you won’t do anything foolish, will you? I am sure that the Reverend Taylor’s house contains as many knives as Father Anton’s. Just remember Antoinette. Didn’t she scream! Didn’t those knives and skewers hurt her!’

  I swallowed, painfully. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘They did. They hurt her very much.’

  The devil laughed with a soft, creaking noise that made me shudder. I said: ‘Come on, Madeleine. Let’s go and find the Reverend Taylor,’ and I opened the door of the car.

  As I stepped out, Elmek whispered from out of its locked trunk: ‘Remember—the sun has set. Your ring of hair no longer protects you. So tread wisely!’

  I climbed out of the car into the cold night air. There was a single street lamp by the corner of an old weatherboard house, shining dimly through a halo of fog. You could tell we were close to a river by the bone-chilling cold, and an almost imperceptible movement in the air, as if ghosts were brushing past us, unseen and unheeded. I coughed.

  Together, we walked up the sloping street. We looked right and left, but the village was deserted. Far away, across the other side of the river, we heard a train clattering towards Newhaven, and for a moment we saw the lights of its windows through the trees. Madeleine said, ‘Dan—there’s a sign here.’ I peered through the fog. On one of the old flint walls, there was a white-painted notice reading: ‘St Katherine’s Church & Vicarage’. It pointed uphill into the gloom. I turned back for a moment and looked at our Citroen, parked at an angle beside a low hedge, and then I said: ‘All right, then.

  We’d better see if the Reverend Taylor’s at home.’

  My mouth felt as if I was chewing furry caterpillars. I reached out for Madeleine’s hand, and we walked as slowly as we could, but it only took a few steps before St Katherine’s came into view around the houses—an ancient steepled church with a moss-covered lych-gate and a graveyard of leaning headstones. Close beside it, its windows warmly lit, was a Queen Anne vicarage, fronted with shiny blue-black bricks. There was a white porch trailed with leafless creeper, and an imposing black front door, as glossy as a coffin.

  We walked across the street and approached the porch as quietly as we could. It somehow seemed sacrilegious to march around this silent fog-bound English village talking in strident voices. Madeleine leaned forward to read the engraved brass plaque on the door, and whispered: ‘There it is, Dan. The Reverend P. Woodfall Taylor.’

  I pulled her closer, and kissed her cheek. She smelled of French perfume and soap.

  She said ‘Your nose is cold.’ Then I lifted the weighty brass knocker and struck it twice. Across the road, someone switched on a bedroom light.

  Inside the vicarage, I heard doors opening and closing. Then the sound of someone walking towards the door. A key was turned in the lock, and then a slice of light fell across the path, and an elderly face appeared at the crack in the doorway.

  ‘Yes?’

  I said, uncertainly: ‘Are you the Reverend Taylor, sir?’

  ‘That’s correct. Did you want to see
me?’

  I coughed. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, sir. But there’s something I have to discuss.’

  The old man looked at me suspiciously. He had a crest of wiry white hair, and that ruddy, well-polished face that always makes me think of English clergy as a boxful of Carolina apples. He was wearing a clerical collar and carpet slippers, and a pair of shiny grey pants that looked as if he’d pressed them under the mattress. There were deep indentations at the side of his nose where he usually wore spectacles, and that was probably why his pale, bulging eyes were regarding me so fixedly.

  ‘You’re American, aren’t you?’ the vicar asked, in precise tones. He even pronounced ‘aren’t’ as ‘ah-runt’. He said: ‘You’re not from the Mormons? Because I’m afraid I have nothing to say to the Mormons.’

  ‘I’m not a Mormon, sir.’

  ‘They’re a terrible pest, you know. And all this ridiculous nonsense about Moroni and Boroni.’

  Madeleine said, ‘We’ve come about the tank.’

  The vicar swivelled his jowly head in his stiff clerical collar and blinked at her. ‘The tank? How very odd.’

  ‘Why is it odd?’ I asked him. I wondered if he, like Eloise, had felt some kind of premonition or psychic wave.

  ‘Well,’ said the Reverend Woodfall Taylor, ‘they only came around to empty it on Tuesday.’

  I stared at him uncomprehendingly and he stared back at me.

  ‘The septic tank,” he explained. ‘Isn’t that what you meant?’

  If I hadn’t felt so sick and serious about Elmek, I think I could have laughed. But all I could say was: ‘Not that tank, sir. The tank you once said prayers over in Normandy, during the war.’

  His mouth slowly opened, as if some strong invisible hand was pulling his jaw down.

  He said, perplexed: ‘Normandy? The tank in Normandy?’

  I nodded. ‘It’s been opened, Mr Taylor. The devil’s got out.’

  He stared at me in absolute slow-motion horror. Then he opened the door wide, and almost dragged us both into his cluttered little hall, among the crowded umbrella-stand and grandfather clock and coat-rack hung with ecclesiastical raincoats and hats. He slammed the door behind us, and locked it.