MADELAINE NUDGED ME awake at a quarter past seven. I lunged forward. My novel, Rafael Sabatini's Scaramouche, tumbled from my lap and spread-eagled on the carpet. After a few deep breaths, I looked at the date on yesterday's Manchester Evening News - still half sunk in the seat cushion at my side: Tuesday, September 12th, 1913.
Ah, good, I thought. My day off.
The living room was dimly lit; two of the three lamps flickered on oil fumes. I'd nodded in my armchair for the umpteenth evening in a row, but this was the first time my sister had seen fit to disturb me.
"Jonathan, there's a man at the door ... and he's naked," she said.
"Not wearing a shirt, you mean?"
"Not wearing a stitch, I mean," she replied.
We peeped round the curtain together. Madelaine remained coy, conspicuously avoiding touching me. I asked her what disease she thought I had. The stranger outside, meanwhile, danced an involuntary jig in an effort to keep warm as he pounded on the door. He was indeed naked as Adam, but with a somewhat dumpy physique.
"No wonder he's upset," she quipped.
"It's more than that," I replied. "He's frightened out of his wits!"
She was reluctant to go upstairs out of the way, but I insisted. The man was either desperate or deranged--perhaps both--and I thought it prudent to take every available precaution. Headquarters answered my telephone call seconds before the window shattered behind me. A large stone from our gnome garden thudded across the carpet, cracking the skirting board.
"Farley, it's Greetham," I said, over the telephone. "Send whoever you've got there to my house immediately. That means now!"
I banged the receiver down just in time. The stranger stuck his head through the open window and yelled, "For Christ's sake, Inspector, let me in!"
It occurred to me a madman might climb in there and then, but the remnant shards would've cut him to ribbons. That was my first clue he was genuine. Nevertheless, he'd just committed a crime, and was still naked. Pistol at the ready, I fastened the chain and unbolted the door.
"What is it you want?" I shouted through the gap.
"I need your protection. Please let me in. There's something out to kill me."
"Something, you say? What kind of animal are we talking about?"
"It's difficult to explain. Please, Inspector, there's no time--I've nowhere left to hide."
I sensed no deception in his voice whatsoever. This was a genuinely frightened man pleading for my help ... who just happened to be naked.
"Alright, I'm letting you in," I said, "but I have a loaded pistol and I will shoot if necessary."
He scurried into the vestibule on his heels, neither bothering to cover his private parts nor acknowledging the lethal firearm pointed at them. I followed him into the living room, where he grabbed my duffel coat from its hanger and leapt onto the armchair. In a bid to warm himself quickly, he put his knees up against his chest and rubbed his arms.
"We've only got a minute, Inspector; I'll be brief," he said. "There's something coming for me--it's been following me all across town--something that can't be stopped."
"You'll have to be more specific," I replied, polishing the pistol barrel with my sleeve. "What exactly is it?"
"It's hard to describe. Good God, what word is there? It has the shape of a man, only there's nothing there. It moves at a constant pace, toward a constant quarry ... and I've been running from him for over twenty minutes. Trust me, Inspector, there's nothing can be done. You have to get me away from here--as far away as possible. I'll pay you anything."
The poor fellow was obviously demented. Classic case of paranoia, I thought. I'd best humour him till the chaps arrive. He looked to me around thirty-five, five feet five and well-to-do; his unblemished skin and perfect nails suggested a vanity only money could afford. His hook nose and narrow eyes didn't sit well with his bloated cheeks, however, and though he was light on his feet, he struck me as both a glutton and a peculiarly ugly bloke.
"Alright, let's take it from the beginning," I said. "You're safe here for the moment. You see this gun? Good, now who is this attacker and why does he want to kill you? I assume he disturbed you in the bath..."
"You're an ass, sir. It doesn't matter where I was or what weapon you've got; in a few minutes we'll both be dead unless you read my lips: it's coming and it can't be stopped!"
"Let's start with your name, sir," I replied.
"Name! Name! I come to you to save my life and you're hung up on names. Get me some clothes, damn it. We've no time. I'm warning you!"
"You're warning me?"
"Christ! I'm going to have to run for it," he snapped. "Are there any stables near here? A fast horse might buy me some time."
I almost laughed. Though I couldn't smell alcohol, he was obviously intoxicated with something. All in all, the fellow was putting on quite a show. "Oh, there's a stable nearby, but this is as close as you'll get to it," I replied. "I'm placing you under arrest for vandalism and lewd behaviour. I'd advise you to stay seated until you're told otherwise."
"Inspector, you don't understand; it's a killer--it's murdered at least eight people already. You don't know what you're dealing with ... please! Please listen! It's not of this world. I'm telling you, it's not of this world..."
"Stop! Just stop! Listen to yourself." I was growing cold and irate. A bitter gust blew in through the broken window, while my patience hardened fast. "Now, I don't want another word out of you. Whatever drug you've taken tonight has brought two things: misery for me and a prison cell for you. Now stow it!"
The man started sobbing. His mouth drooped like a hang-dog's, while his eyes darted back and forth between the window and the door.
"Don't try anything foolish," I said. "I can't let you leave until we've sorted this whole mess out. It's for your own good. Trust me."
With that, he stopped crying and stared at the glass-strewn carpet under the window. He didn't make a sound for the next few minutes. A knock on the door came as a relief; the lads were prompt. Instead of a friendly voice, however, a gunshot cracked the night air--across the street, by the post office. Norman Openshaw, a young, solid constable, hadn't seen me open the door and almost knocked on my chest.
"Sorry, sir," he said, "but we're in trouble."
He was out of breath, without his helmet, and readying his truncheon. The other officer, Edwards, suddenly tore into view across the street. He tripped and fell on the cobbles, injuring his ankle.
"What the hell's going on?" I snapped at Openshaw. "Who are you running from?"
"There it is!" He pointed his truncheon at the post box a few metres to the left of the fallen constable. Apart from the uneven stone flags at the post office entrance, and the touching shadows of streetlamp and post box, I could see nothing.
"Help him up, man; what's the matter with you?"
Openshaw ignored me and took a step back. His face was white. What the hell? I watched the pavement behind Edwards as he struggled to his feet, hobbled a few steps and then fell to ground again. There! There it was! Edwards had fallen, but strangely, his shadow had not. A trick of the light? But it carried on moving. Edwards sat up, while the shape continued, passing right through him as though he was the shadow and the shadow itself had mass. I stepped back into the house. The apparition didn't falter a step on the cobbles; it made directly for us, neither shifting weight as it walked nor showing any sign of being alive but for its forward motion.
I yanked Openshaw to one side, shouting. "Get inside, man!" Edwards lay stone cold dead in the street, but it wasn't revenge that made me fire, it was utter dread. The bullet hit its target--from that range, I would've made the shot blindfolded--but it had no effect. The apparition strode on as though it hadn't seen me at all. I dashed inside and locked the door, trembling. The naked stranger, now jumping into a pair of my trousers he'd grabbed from the wash basket, sprinted upstairs. The constable and I followed.
"What is it?" I asked.
"A devil!" Openshaw panted. "It's killed half a dozen people across town. We couldn't do anything to stop it, sir. It's like there's nothing there to fight--nothing more than a damn shadow!"
I clutched the banister at the top of the flight and looked downstairs. The figure was in the vestibule, yet the door remained untouched. Through solid wood? It climbed the first step before I bolted for Madelaine's room.
"What do we do now, sir?" asked Openshaw, as I barged him aside on the landing.
"We all get the hell out. Maddy!"
She flung her door open, still holding the croquet hammer she'd chosen for self-defence. I hurried her to the back bedroom, which was empty--where the stranger slid the window open.
"What is that thing, Johnny?" she asked.
"I don't know. How long's it been since you climbed the trellis?"
"Don't worry about me. I'm still younger than you."
The stranger looked round in a panic. "Trellis--where?"
"Just to the left; it's overgrown by now," I replied.
He didn't pause to check. His physique belied a startling agility; before Madelaine grasped the first vine, he'd climbed the twenty feet and rolled onto the lawn like one of Sabatini's swashbucklers. My sister found it trickier but kept her footing. The black figure suddenly entered the room behind us. I felt my chest tighten.
"Jump, constable! Jump for it!"
Openshaw landed with a cry. I thought about a running leap to reach the branches of the old chestnut tree. Too far! No time! I climbed out backwards onto the sill. Blackness enveloped the entire room; the figure was inches from my face. I dived onto the sprawling vines, ripping the trellis apart. The momentum felt like freefall, but the creepers stayed me just enough to land me on my feet. The apparition was already three steps ahead on the lawn. It veered sharply to the right, then slightly to the left. What's it doing? I noticed the barefooted stranger zigzagging across next door's garden. Madelaine supported Openshaw as he limped in the opposite direction. There was my answer. The black shape, whatever it was, wanted the stranger ... and only the stranger.
"Constable, go back inside and telephone the station," I said. "Have someone pick you up. Tell Farley to get in touch with Scotland Yard in Waltham. Ask for Lt. Flint. Fill him in as best you can then give my name, and tell him I'm coming to him. Got all that?"
"I think so, sir. What will you do?"
"Keep him on the move ... as long as I can," I replied.
Madelaine raised her eyebrow and chin as if to say, "Serve and protect? Let's see you protect him now." It was so completely her, I felt twice as tall as a result.
The stranger was three gardens away. I hoped his dark pursuer wouldn't speed up; my impromptu strategy relied on it. Whatever the phenomenon was, it couldn't be stopped by bullets; our only chance, then, was to outrun it.
James Flint and I had served together on the Manchester Force. A bit of a rogue, but fiendishly clever; he was by far the most resourceful man I knew. If only he was here, instead of in bloody Waltham!
After climbing fence after fence and hedges galore, I emerged somewhat bruised on lamp-lit Vickers Street. The stranger, barely in sight, was still barefoot as he jogged down the tarmac road--unbeknownst to him, toward the stables on Dooley's farm. Our escape was to be on horseback after all. His predator slithered in and out of view between the light from streetlamps, not twenty yards ahead of me. I passed it at full sprint. To my astonishment, the thing had no depth at all; side on, it appeared as no more than a black papier-mâché figure in the night. My chest thumped as I left it behind.
Fear should've blanketed a less capable mind, but I'd already latched on to the predictable nature of this ghoul's pursuit. Its compass never wavered from due death. It occurred to me that the stranger, who could in theory elude that end indefinitely, ought to keep as unpopulated a distance between himself and the hunter as possible. No one else must cross its path; lives depended on it. The problem was suddenly a geographical one. Crossing open countryside--yes; crossing an ocean--even better.
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