THE KILLER OF THE DARKNESS

EPISODE THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FOUR

Even before the last of the parachutists had cleared the doorway, the air-gunner ran towards the after end of the fuselage. With unbelievable swiftness, he flung aside a packing-case, dragged a tarpaulin away, and stood back as a tall man rose, like a giant moth splitting its pupal skin and spreading his wings before flying off.

"The men have gone, Herr Finsterkeit."

The man said nothing. He wore a heavy black cape, as thin as a cadaver, pale, and stared at the air-gunner from dark-shadowed eyes set deep under a pale, high-brow that melded into a pale, bald scalp. A few strands of greying hair leapt out from the sides of this skull-like visage.

The air-gunners impression of the skull was reinforced, by the man's foreshortened nose. Mere black slits opening into the grub-white face, above a mouth of sharp, irregular teeth, spaced too far apart, set into gums so pale that they were whiter than the teeth themselves.

Without speaking, the man opened his arms and a piercing bright light emanated from his eyes, ears, and the sleeves of his cape.

The air-gunner threw up an arm to protect himself, but his skin had already started to melt, in the intense heat from the light. The last thing he would remember before his body melted away to nothing, was the fuselage of the Junker melting along with him. Exposing the night at the rear of the aircraft, and gradually disappearing away to nothing.

Bomken and Wenger, knew nothing of what had gone one behind them, until the heat hit them and burned them at their seats. Their hands still on the controls as the Junker exploded into a ball of flame.

*

The exploding aircraft momentarily lit up the sky, like a giant firework and then imploded in on itself, as if there had been nothing there. The crowd that had gathered gasped, in shock as the plane disappeared in a reverse ball of flame. As if there had been no air around it, as it blew up.

My first thought, an anti-matter bomb.

My second thought, he is near.

This incident distracted us from the Alpenkorps, guiding their parachutes down with what I judged as considerable skill. As they grew larger, I could see they were dressed in winter camouflage of white smock and battledress trousers which contrasted with their black boots.

Most of them landed on their feet, running a few cumbersome steps as they braked their chutes and struggled with their harnesses. One of them landed out of sight behind a bank near the river. I started to run then.

However, where this parachutist had landed would be a quarter of a mile away, and the snow made fast progress impossible. I noticed one of the white clad troops flinging himself frantically in the same direction.

Behind me someone shouted.

In German.

Authoritative. Firm. Threatening.

Glancing back over my shoulder, three of the Alpenkorps started rounding up the inquisitive villagers. I outpaced the other soldier and breasted the rise. As I reached the top, I pulled up.

Before me, the black river swirled between craggy banks of dangerous looking ice. A parachute, swayed from side to side in the treacherous water of the river, a rope leading across ice that had collapsed in places.

I knew in an instant what had happened. A man had been lost at the side of the river. A man dead. My unease almost uncontrollable.

*

Mũller reached his hands far up into the parachute shrouds, hauled himself sharply upwards and made a perfect knees-bent, feet-together landing in about two feet of snow.

The wind tugged at his parachute. He struck the quick release harness clasp, collapsed the parachute, pulled it in, rolled it up, and pressed it deeply into the snow, using for weight the pack he had just shrugged off his shoulders.

He had been concerned about being blown off-course after the Junker had inexplicably blown up. But he had managed to keep control, particularly when the explosion appeared to implode in on itself, leaving him wondering what else had the Fuhrer's scientists come up with? And why was it on the Junker.

The snowfall seemed comparatively lighter compared to the blizzard jumping from the Junker, but, even so, visibility appeared to be almost as bad as it had been up above, as I stood in a twenty-knot wind blowing and the dry powdery snow drifting quite heavily.

Mũller made a swift 360° sweep of his horizon and stopped as a group of locals approaching from the east of the island.

Finally, Dänzer, Klaus Hergershimer, Max Von Ribbenstein, and Friel running towards him, all except Gesetze.

"Pile your chutes there and weight them."

Mũller ordered.

"Yes, bed them deep. Anyone seen Gesetze?"

A shaking of heads.

"Nobody? No sight of him at all?"

Dänzer, spoke.

"Last of I saw of him, he went across my bows like a destroyer in a heavy sea."

Mũller nodded.

"I glimpsed a bit of that. The shrouds were twisted?"

Dänzer, nodded.

"Put a corkscrew to shame. But I would have said there was no danger of the chute collapsing. Not enough time. We were almost on the ground before I lost sight of him."

"Any idea where he landed, then?"

"Roughly. Maybe one of this lot could tell us where he ended up."

Dänzer, pointed over Mũller's shoulder at the fast-approaching group of villagers, led by a uniformed policeman. He then saw one of the villagers break from the crowd and run off in another direction.

"Round up, the villagers. Do not antagonize them. We're not going to be here for long."

Mũller went in pursuit of the man running, shouting after him.

But the man could not hear him in the wind.

Eventually, Mũller joined the man on the rise, followed his point of focus to the river.

Gesetze lay spread-eagled on his back, his feet almost touching the river, his face upturned to the falling snow, his eyes open. He did not seem to notice the flakes falling on to his pupils.

"With me."

Mũller waved his automatic weapon at the stranger, and they stumbled through the drifts down to the motionless Gesetze. Mũller dropped to his knees, slid an arm under Gesetze's shoulders and began to lift him to a sitting position. Gesetze's head lolled back like that of a broken rag doll. Mũller lowered him back into the snow and felt for a pulse in the throat. Still kneeling, Mũller straightened, paused for a moment with bent head then climbed wearily to his feed.

"Dead?"

The stranger asked.

"He's dead. His neck his broken."

Mũller's face without expression.

"He must have got caught up in the shrouds and made a bad landing."

The stranger said nothing, wary of Mũller.

"I won't worry about burying him."

The stranger looked at him a bit shocked.

"There is no need."

Mũller gestured with his torch at the drifting snow.

"He'll be buried within the hour."

He gestured with his machine gun, and they both headed back to the village, the stranger leading the way.

*

Where the hell was, he?

Oblivious to what else happened to be going on around the island, all Michelle Taylor could think about, was why Joe did not turn up.

Despite the freezing temperatures she taken Charlie, her beloved spaniel for a walk. She stood beneath the protection of some trees and lit a cigarette, using her jacket to complete the windbreak.

She got it going and took a good long pull, enjoying the added flavour of the smoke against the crisp night air.

She loved Joe, and he said he loved her. And yet he would not leave his wife? He said they did not make love anymore. They never spoke and they never ate their meals together. They had no children, so what was delaying him?

She tossed the cigarette into the wind and shrugged further into her coat. The dog finished nosing around the base of the trees and came bounding along when she set off back to her cottage.

It was then she heads the door banging, her front door. She stopped dead, rooted to the spot in terror. Michelle Taylor knew she had closed it. Was there somebody in there waiting for her?

Joe?

For a moment she stared at the door swinging and banging in the wind. Perhaps the latch was not down? It must be the wind. In desperation, she tried shouting.

"Is that you, Joe?"

She did not shout loud enough. Her voice carried away by the wind.

The door continued to bang.

It could not be Joe. He would never leave the door like that.

Her teeth began to chatter. She realized she would have to do something and soon. If she stayed out in the freezing night much longer, in the middle of the night, she would end up in real trouble.

Desperately she rallied herself and edged nearer to the door. She could see nothing inside, only blackness. What frightened her the most was that she only had oil lamps for lighting. She would have to go into the darkness, find the matches on the table, and wait until the wick lit before she would be able see.

The wind gusted again, its icy fingers reaching right into her. She did not realize she whimpered as she stopped the door from banging with her foot and eased herself into the cottage.

It felt like standing in oblivion. She could see nothing, either through absolute darkness, or eyes that were so terror-stricken that they refused to function. Only her heart pounding kept her in touch with reality.

Hand outstretched before her, she moved in the direction of the table, ready to scream and run directly they brushed anything, anything remotely abnormal.

Or alive.

She found the edge of the table, but in her haste, she knocked the box of matches on to the floor.

Michelle Taylor knew at last she sobbed as she sank to her knees, hands groping around on the floor, dreading the contact with a foot.

She found the box, steadied herself and held it while she struck a match. Its flare blinding, and then it seemed to burn without light.

She held it in front of her and stood up. All it would reveal would be the lamp on the table.

Almost out before her shaking hand lifted off the glass globe and touch the moist, waiting wick. She let it blaze and whirled around.

Her thankful release of breath audible, as in the flickering light only the familiar things she wanted to see were there. The old chairs, the new desk, and the laptop.

She laughed out aloud with relief and fixed the globe over the wick.

Michelle Taylor felt utterly foolish.

"You bloody idiot."

She said to herself.

She almost felt back to normal as she made for the banging door, to shut it and lock it.

Because of her relaxed state it took a second for her to become aware of the shape that filled the entire doorway.

Michelle Taylor did not scream immediately. Her heart stopped, and then fluttered again, her blood pressure dropping. Fainting, she fell back, urine streaming down her legs, her disintegrating mind full of revulsion and fear.

As Charlie, eyes bulging, tail between his legs raced away into the night, he heard his mistress for the last time.

Michelle Taylor had at last started to scream.