Craddock Read online

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Even if you don’t, you’re an intelligent enough man to be interested by what I’m about to show you.” Burnwood pointed to the ballast. “There’s still one Frenchie lying under here. I left him behind deliberately, because, unlike his mates, he didn’t die from the sharpshooting of some English marine, or the tearing blows of the roundshot, or the hack and slash of the trusty old cutlass. No, this chap died from something else. Something that got into him while he was visiting one of those strange, forgotten islands … some spore or toxin. I don’t know what it was, I don’t know where he got it. But I do have my theories.” Burnwood smiled: it was a broad, toothy grimace. “This is where the experiment bit comes in. Your bobby … what’s his name, Palmer I believe you said?”

  Craddock’s finger tightened on the trigger. Burnwood had drawn something from the pocket he’d been delving into – a steel blade.

  “Don’t, Burnwood! Don’t do it!”

  In the candlelight, the felon’s scarred face had paled. Slowly, he sank to his haunches until he was crouching beside the hanging constable’s head. The blade was clearly visible in his right hand. It was a gutting-knife: thick at the base, hooked at the tip.

  Craddock took aim with his revolver.

  Burnwood brought the blade to the side of Palmer’s face. But he still seemed to want to talk rather than harm: “He has a nasty head-wound, major.”

  This was true. Palmer was sporting an ugly gash on his left temple.

  “In a few hours it’ll be running with infection,” Burnwood added. “Perhaps it would be better if we opened it up and allowed it to clean itself?”

  “Don’t do it, Burnwood!”

  “Just stay calm,” the felon advised, his voice tremulous as though he too realised that they’d reached a critical moment. “All I mean is to make a slight incision. I’m doing the young fellow a service.”

  In spite of himself, Craddock stood there and watched, ice prickling the back of his neck as Burnwood, with only the faintest motion, slit open the dirty wound, and a dark ribbon of fresh-flowing blood fell to the floor.

  “What is this madness?” the major whispered

  Burnwood rose back to his feet. “I assure you there’s a method to it.”

  “Drop that knife now!”

  “I will in one moment. First, watch.” He pointed down.

  Craddock looked. The blood was dribbling onto the ballast, seeping into it. Aside from that, there was nothing.

  “Watch what?”

  Burnwood laughed. “Exactly. There’s no response. Now … watch this.”

  And he turned. To his left, Nethercot still hung there. His ragged clothes were loose upon his waif-like frame. His patched jacket and threadbare shirt hung down in folds, revealing emaciated ribs and a flat, gray belly.

  A belly that Burnwood laid open.

  With a single blow of the knife, the wizened flesh came apart like paper, blood frothing out amid a mass of falling, glistening entrails.

  Craddock was stunned, but still managed a choked roar: “Damn you!”

  He pointed the revolver, but Burnwood cast down his knife and held up his hand. “Easy major, easy! Nethercot was a worthless wretch, you’ve said that yourself.”

  “Damn you to Hell!”

  “Don’t throw everything away for the likes of him, major! At that old goat’s age, he’d never have survived the prison term you were planning for him. Better he dies now and gets it over with, hey?”

  “You murdering bastard!”

  “In this case it serves a purpose.” He pointed down again. “You see?”

  Despite all, Craddock glanced down – and this time was amazed to observe movement amid the ballast. Directly below the spot where Nethercot’s blood was pooling, the rubble was shifting sluggishly, as though something was struggling to emerge. Fractures spider-webbed across it; fleeting tendrils of greenish light were visible.

  Craddock felt his jaw drop.

  “Our French friend still lies under there,” Burnwood said. “He must’ve been a bad sort. An evil old sea-dog fond of crimes and gross behaviour. Just like our deceased pal, Nethercot here. For it’s old Joseph who provides the nourishment.”

  Craddock looked blankly at him. “Nourishment?”

  Burnwood stepped out from behind Palmer. He kept the shotgun trained on the hanging officer, but he made large gestures as he spoke. “Major, you can’t tell me there isn’t something incredible going on here! Your clean-cut Mr. Palmer … his life fluids are like stagnant water to our friend down below. Repulsive, indigestible. But Nethercot’s blood? … call it ichor, ambrosia, the food of the gods.” Burnwood’s grin faded. “Just like the bodily fluids of all those others who got locked away in here.”

  Craddock wasn’t sure he could believe what he was hearing. Or what he was seeing.

  “Just imagine it,” Burnwood said. “For half a century, the liquids of life: blood, sweat, tears, urine … for fifty years they saturated the timber bones of this vessel, gradually leaching down to finally gather at the very bottom.”

  The major felt his skin start to crawl.

  “It must have fed well,” Burnwood said. “Buried here all that time, unbeknown to anyone. It must have grown steadily stronger, healthier, bigger … ’til it thrived in the very structure of this ship, a fungus if you like. A thinking fungus. And a hungry one.”

  Craddock stared at the shifting rubble. Nethercot’s blood had slowed to a trickle. In response, the movements had slowed. The ballast still shuddered and broke, sending up stabbing shafts of green radiance, but the muscular motions had ceased.

  “Of course in ’57,” Burnwood said, “when they emptied the Catherine-Maria and abandoned her, her secret guest began to wither again, to shrivel, to grow daily more feeble. Until … well, until I came back to her.” He laughed. “That’s right, major. I served out the rest of my stretch on Dartmoor, and when I was done, I returned here … to put my theories to the test.”

  Even in this deep pit of horror, Craddock felt a new chill at these words. He scanned as much of the ballast as he could, half-expecting to see the pale outlines of corpses. No such vision came to him, but now Burnwood’s grin broadened into something maniacal.

  “Initially it was the obvious sort I went for,” he said. “Runaways, drunks, street-whores. Society’s flotsam, who no-one would miss, ’til I was absolutely sure my notions were correct. But that took longer than you might expect. You see, some of them it drained dry without hesitation, even absorbed the remains. Yet others … well, it had no appetite for them. It seems there are good people on those grim backstreets as well as bad. That unfortunate bunch had to go down the coast, to a spot where the stronger undertow would carry them away.”

  “You …” Craddock could hardly bring himself to form the correct words. “You … murdered people … in the name of some imaginary thing?”

  “Imaginary?”

  “Of course imaginary! A creature that feeds on evil, for God’s sake!”

  “Don’t get so excited, major. There’ll be a scientific explanation. This ‘thing’ as you call it, this sea-creature, this jungle-beast, wherever it happened to get spawned – this is no fiend of the abyss, no figment of the supernatural. It’s real. It lives, breathes. It has organic systems that must be nurtured and maintained, just like you and me.”

  “And it feeds on evil? Burnwood, are you deranged?”

  “Really major, I thought you’d be more intellectual about this. It can’t feed on evil, as such. How could it? Evil has no substance, it’s an abstract concept. But that doesn’t mean it can’t feed on the cause of evil.”

  “What?”

  “On the biological imbalance that causes it.”

  “Biological imbalance?”

  “The chemical component – whatever it might be – which probably exists in all of us, but which, for some reason as yet unknown, overflows in those whom society now mistakenly terms ‘evil’.” />
  “Mistakenly?” Suddenly the implications of what Burnwood was saying became clear, and they were so shocking that at first the major couldn’t give voice to them.

  “Major Craddock, you’re a man of reason. I know you understand this. No doubt you’ve even wondered about it, yourself. There must be an explanation for evil. And it’s probably a perfectly natural one. Unless …” and now it was Burnwood’s turn to sound scornful, “unless you believe in Adam and Eve.”

  “And your belief is less nonsensical? Your belief, which you think will be proved by the existence of some invisible monster?”

  Burnwood shook his head. “It won’t be invisible for long, if you’ll allow me to dig. Though I warn you, it won’t be a pretty sight. It wasn’t pretty several years ago, when I first came back here … when it was weak and starving. Thanks to me, it’s grown since then.” He reached inside his coat again. “Now, it’s likely to be hideous beyond belie …”

  “Keep your hands where I can see them!”

  The felon glared at the major with irritation. Very slowly, he produced a trowel from his pocket. “Major Craddock, you surely don’t think I intend to present my case to the world without some physical proof?”

  “And you surely don’t think I intend to let you present anything to the world just because you’ve told me a fanciful tale that Mr. Edgar Allen Poe would be embarrassed to have written?”

  A new look came into Burnwood’s eyes; one of uncertainty and maybe disappointment. “I know that you’ve experienced wider things in this world,” he said.

  “And I know you for a liar and a rogue, Burnwood. And I’m telling you now, I’ve had enough of this cock and bull. Lay down that gun, and that bloody trowel as well, and surrender!”

  The criminal’s mouth twitched. His finger tightened on the trigger of the shotgun.

  “I’m going to give you a count of five,” Craddock said, “and then, if you haven’t complied with my orders, I’m going to shoot you.”

  “You’re a wretched fool, major.”

  “One.”

  “I took you for a visionary.”

  “Two.”

  Burnwood jammed the barrels all the harder into Constable Palmer’s side. He too would fire, would blow the young officer in half.

  Craddock didn’t flinch. “Three.”

  “Major, don’t do this …”

  “Four …”

  And then Inspector Munro, who’d been standing out of sight, and had been party to much of the conversation, came blundering forwards with his lantern. “Major Craddock!”

  Burnwood rounded on the newcomer. Shocked, he pulled the shotgun round with him.

  And Craddock fired.

  Twice.

  Two clean shots in rapid succession.

  The first struck the felon just above the breastbone, rocking him backwards on his heels. The second hit him at the point where his left shoulder joined his trunk. Somehow Burnwood stayed upright, but when he opened his mouth to cry out, blood bubbled between his lips. A violent shudder passed through him, then the shotgun and the trowel slipped from his grasp. Munro came to a stumbling halt. He watched in stunned silence.

  “Well … well done, major,” Burnwood stammered, in a slurring voice. “You’ve given us the coup de grace … the perfect proof …” He glanced weakly down, and if it was possible to smile in the midst of such agony, he did so, at the sight of his own crimson droplets mingling with the ballast. “For if any blood is evil, this … is ... ”

  Munro gasped as the ground below the felon’s feet began to stir again, to crack, to heave up and down as though some great heart was pulsing beneath it.

  Craddock’s eyes remained locked on the criminal. They were hard as steel buttons.

  “W-well?” Burnwood said. “Look down. Tell me what you see …”

  Craddock made no move to comply.

  Burnwood’s breathing was ragged, desperate. “Look!” he stuttered, the first hint of despair in his voice. “Look, damn you …”

  Craddock’s eyes didn’t stray. The gun was firm in his gloved fist.

  “Major!” Munro warned. Major, no …”

  Craddock fired.

  Another clean shot.

  Its reports echoed through the desolate cabins of the old prison-ship.

  This time the bullet struck the middle of Burnwood’s forehead. It entered the front of his skull, leaving a hole the size of half a crown, but exploded from the back in copious spatters of blood, bone and fragmented brain. He dropped lifeless to the ground.

  A second passed, then Munro slowly approached.

  Craddock, meanwhile, pocketed the pistol and started casting about for Burnwood’s knife. “Quick,” he said, “help me with Palmer.”

  Munro shook his head. “He’d relinquished his weapon … he’d relinquished his weapon and you still shot him …”

  The major found the knife, grabbed it and hurried to where his constable hung.

  “Major, that was an execution.”

  “Do as I say, Munro, now!”

  Craddock hacked at the ropes that lashed Palmer’s ankles to an overhead beam. Munro took the constable’s shoulders, to prevent him dropping head-first.

  “Major … I don’t think you understood what Burnwood was trying to say.”

  “On the contrary, sir. I understood it perfectly.”

  “If that’s so, why …”

  But Munro’s words caught in his throat, for there was abrupt and violent movement beneath their feet. They glanced down, startled. Burnwood’s body lay about a yard to their left, folded over on itself. Its shattered skull-case was still gouting blood and blended brain-matter, which, as before, was steadily absorbing into the porous ballast. This time, however, the sheer quantity of it was having a more drastic effect. There wasn’t undulating movement so much as convulsion, as spasm. The two officers had to struggle to keep their feet. The narrow fissures widened and lengthened, cracking into crevasses, releasing shafts of greenish, marine-like luminescence, alongside a foul reek reminiscent of maggoty fish.

  “Quickly man!” Craddock shouted, hacking harder at the rope.

  Its fibres began to fray, then Palmer’s weight took over. The next thing, he was loose in their arms, rangy and difficult to manage. They’d have lowered him to the ground, but that ground was tilting beneath their feet. With the constable slung between them, they staggered sideways. All across the floor of the hold rents were appearing, the entire chamber filling with the light, which had a rippling, shimmering quality.

  “This way,” Craddock panted, making for the door to the next section of hold.

  He grabbed his lantern as he went, but like Munro, couldn’t resist a backwards glance. What he saw brought him to a stupefied standstill.

  The ballast had finally fragmented, and an immense, gelatinous something was slowly writhing free of its clutches.

  It would have been impossible for either man, given the brief time he stood there, to offer a complete description of the abomination they now beheld. But they caught fleeting glimpses of translucent, tentacle-like protuberances oozing up through the rubble, and in the central area – where Burnwood had drained his victims, and then died himself – a blob-like focal point, a quivering mound of vitreous flesh slowly forcing itself upwards, palpitating, glistening – and, at the same time, glowing, for it was from this very thing that the eerie, oceanic light seemed to emanate. Yet, phosphorescence wasn’t the only thing the monstrosity contained. In the very midst of it, in the thickest part, directly below the emergent point – the head, if such a thing could be called a ‘head’ – the two officers saw a human figure deeply embedded. Preposterous though it seemed, this figure appeared to be riding the creature, or at least controlling it; a demonic human agent safely encased at the globular core, issuing commands through malignant thought-impulses.

  Of course all this was fantasy, and unhinged fantasy at that.

  The enclosed figure was neither riding nor controlling anything. It wasn’
t even moving – not of its own accord, for it was no longer sentient. It wasn’t just dead, it was long dead, little more than bones and carrion. Yet it struck the two officers with horror all the same, for though many of its clothes had faded and rotted away, they were still recognisable as the ragged remnants of a French naval uniform.

  “Holy Christ!” Munro screamed. “HOLY JESUS CHRIST!”

  Craddock stared in mute disbelief. Even as they stood there, further sunken relics became visible: skulls, femurs, pelvises, and the shreds of common street-garb – a frilled bonnet, a streetwalker’s lace-up boot – scattered wide but lodged deep in the oily bulk.

  Sick to their stomachs, the two policemen scrambled away across the next section of hold, half dragging-half carrying Palmer. He’d now become a dead weight, and getting him up to the Carpenter’s Walk was an onerous task. But with new shafts of green light shooting up all around them, they found strength they’d never previously imagined, and manhandled his inert form up the steep ladder with relative ease.

  Craddock was the last of the trio to ascend. His was seething with sweat and wheezing painfully. Though a fit man, at fifty-seven he wasn’t the robust, front-line warrior he’d once been; but there was still no flight without fight in his book. The moment he was up, he turned and flung his lantern back down into the hold. There was a shatter of glass as it burst apart on the rungs, then a whoosh of flame as the fuel ignited.

  Munro was appalled: “Sir, what the hell are you doing?”

  “A simple measure, to slow the thing down.”

  “Slow it down? You’ll burn us to death!”

  “I doubt it. This ship’s sodden through.”

  Munro shook his head. “It’s not just timber, it’s hemp and canvas. It’s thick with tar. Sodden or not, it’ll go up like a tinder-box!”

  They faced each other, breathless. Then it struck Munro that he was only saying something his superior already knew.

  “Good Lord. You’re not trying to slow it down, you’re trying to kill it!”

  “Give me your lantern,” Craddock said.

  “In God’s name, why?”

  Flames were already flaring in the trapdoor, spreading up the bulkhead wall.