The Sin Eater(94)

The sounds were human. Several voices, all shouting, ‘Murderer.’

They turned and saw, on the path below them, torch lights flaring through the dusk. At least twenty people – most of them men, but some women – were coming towards them.

‘That’s half the village of Kilglenn!’ said Colm, staring at the people in fear. ‘And they’re coming for me.’

‘But we needn’t be afraid,’ said Declan. ‘Those are people we know – we grew up among them. My father isn’t there, though,’ he said, scanning the faces. ‘Neither is Fintan.’

‘Never mind who’s not there, what do we do?’

Declan looked wildly about him, then said, ‘We’ll go inside the tower. If we can barricade the door against them, they might calm down after a while. Or we might be able to reason with them. Because these are people we’ve known since childhood!’

They tumbled across the remaining few feet to the tower and half fell against the door, gasping with relief when the handle turned and the door opened. They slammed it against the torchlit procession, and leaned back against the blackened oak, trying to regain their breath.

Even after the fire, the stone walls were so thick that the sounds of the approaching villagers was shut off, but it was so dark they could barely see anything.

‘We’ll have to find something to barricade the door,’ said Colm.

‘There’s nothing. Everything’s burned to cinders.’

‘No, wait, there’s a few bits of furniture – there’s a chest over there, I think. Stay here – keep the door shut while I drag it over.’

Declan stayed where he was, holding the door’s iron latch in place. He could hear Colm dragging the chest from the wall, but he could not see him. He pressed his ear to the door’s surface, listening for sounds that the villagers had reached the top of the cliff path. Perhaps they were outside the door now. Or were they trying to find another way in? Was there another way in?

Here was Colm now. He must have got the chest across the room while Declan was listening for the villagers’ approach. He had come to stand next to Declan – he was actually standing very close. Declan half turned his head and it was then that Colm reached down and took hold of Declan’s hand. This was odd; it was not in the least like Colm. And Colm’s hand felt wrong – it was too small, almost shrunken, and the fingers were curling round Declan’s with a terrible intimacy . . .

In a voice that shook, Declan said, ‘Colm? Where are you?’


‘Over by the old fireplace, trying to get this press out from the wall. Why?’

Declan said, ‘Something’s standing next to me. And it’s grasping my hand.’ He recoiled, snatching his hand free and nursing it as if it had been bitten. Colm’s voice, still on the other side of the tower said, ‘Declan? What’s wrong?’

‘There’s something in here with us,’ said Declan, and as he spoke, the darkness slithered, and shadows reared up on the walls – grotesque shadows that might easily be figures on prancing horses, figures wielding spears, figures that wore crowns and mitres . . . There was the glint of crimson – like slanted eyes peering down from the walls, and Declan shrank back, flinging up a hand in instinctive defence. A face came swooping out of the darkness and peered down at him – a dreadful carved face, the red eyes slitted and malevolent, the lips stretched in a hungry smile.

At the top of his voice, he yelled, ‘Get thee gone from me, Satan!’ and there was a dry chuckle, like ancient, skinless bones being rubbed together.

Then the door burst open and the Kilglenn villagers erupted into the tower. Cold moonlight, eerily mingled with leaping torch flames, came jaggedly through the darkness. The shadows with their glinting red eyes vanished, and the villagers seized Colm and half-carried, half-dragged him out on to the cliff side.

But Declan saw that the crimson light shone from the eyes of the men and women he had known since he was born.

There was nothing either Declan or Colm could do.

The villagers thrust the torches in the ground, and held Colm down.

‘Murderer,’ they chanted. ‘Mesmer Murderer. We know who you are.’

‘Murderers have to be branded,’ cried several more. ‘The mark of Cain. As it was in the beginning, so it shall be now.’

‘Brand the murderer, brand him.’

‘Set the mark upon him.’

Branding irons, thought Declan, horror engulfing him. They’ve brought branding irons, and they’re heating them in the torch flames. The newspaper stories about the Mesmer Murderer with Colm’s photographs must have reached them – they know what he did. And they’re going to burn him. I’ve got to stop them, he thought, but as he started forward, two more of the men grabbed him and held him back.

‘See what we do to murderers,’ said one of them.

‘We’ll do it to you as well, if you try to stop us,’ said another.

Declan said, ‘You can’t do this. Please. You’re not sane – you’re being used – can’t you tell that! Can’t you feel it?’ He searched frantically for words. What had Colm said it felt like? ‘Something’s slid beneath your skin,’ cried Declan. ‘It’s clawed its way along your hands and fingers and into your brain . . . Can’t you feel that it has?’