Doctor Who_ Wooden Heart - Martin Day [47]
The newsreader paused, the smile becoming wider. ‘Entertainment news, now, from Richard Sistrah. And, Richard, what’s this I hear about young David Lotus considering turning his back on acting for another tilt at the music charts…?’
Abbas’ knife slipped again, this time skidding across the worktop and sliding into his left hand.
‘Ow!’ exclaimed Abbas, automatically sucking his injured finger. The news footage muted, the systems seeming to have recognised his discomfort. The news reader and the entertainment expert – a tall, gauche man perched uncomfortably on the edge of a desk – continued to converse with pre-planned joviality, their voiceless lips flapping vacantly.
The image switched again – a stock footage photo of the young actor, with Gabby Jayne on his arm.
Abbas peered more closely. Gabby Jayne was wearing her new dress – she’d only bought it the other day. That meant she was still seeing the little twerp!
Abbas stared at the blood that coursed down his finger, gripping the handle of the knife more tightly. Bolognese? A peace offering?
No. He had a better idea.
It was crowded inside the hall, the warm air scented with bodies and candlelight and fear. In the centre of the great chamber lay the village’s children, huddled together under a patchwork of blankets and cloaks. They fidgeted constantly, tired but rarely willing or able to submit to sleep. Around the edge of the room, in a great protective circle, stood anxious parents. They gathered in small groups, whispering quietly and glancing out through the windows, where fingers of fog caressed and gripped the cold glass in an unending embrace. Others – those bereaved, those overcome by the terror of it all – sat huddled under shrouds, moaning and inconsolable as cold tears fell sluggishly from their eyes. Almost everyone was carrying some sort of lantern, gripped tightly in desperate fingers and held close as if afraid the mist would penetrate even here.
Martha, Saul and Petr followed the Dazai as she walked unsteadily through the hall. ‘As the fog came in,’ she explained, ‘more children disappeared. At least four, in a single night! What’s worse, more and more people are seeing their dear departed in the fog.’ She paused for a moment, running her hands over the top of her cane, lost in thought. ‘Whatever we think of the legends, it is clear that this fog is not natural. It seems to take away the living, and then return them to us as pale shadows. We had to do something!’
‘And the light seems to keep the fog at bay,’ said Martha.
The Dazai nodded. ‘I decided we should all gather here. Since then, no one has disappeared, but the fog… It grows thicker all the time.’
Petr was about to ask a question of the Dazai when suddenly a woman ran across the room towards Saul. She almost threw herself at him, her panicked, exhausted voice waking those few children that slept. ‘Where have you been? Where’s Jude?’ she screamed, on the verge of hysteria.
Saul pulled the woman tight to him, shushing her and stroking her hair. ‘Sara, Sara, Sara,’ he whispered.
‘Where is she?’
Saul shook his head great head slowly. ‘I’m sorry. She followed me into the forest. She must have sneaked out of the house…’
‘What happened?’
‘We were attacked… And Jude disappeared.’
‘The fog took her?’
Saul shook his head again, more firmly now. ‘No. No one saw what happened.’
The woman began to wail again, beating her fists feebly against Saul’s great chest – as if she blamed him for everything that had happened. ‘Jude!’ she cried. ‘Jude!’
‘We’ll find her, Sara,’ said Saul, his voice now a croaked whisper. He turned to Petr, his eyes pleading. ‘Won’t we?’
Petr averted his gaze. He turned away after a moment, muttering, ‘I need to organise a headcount.’