Someone Like Me Read online

  So I made a sort of deal with myself. If it turned out she was headed for the woods after all, I’d give up and go home. If she’d gone down the tunnel, then I’d give it a try. It sounds a bit daft, but I’m happier down a tunnel than in the woods. It’s what I’m used to, after fifteen years hunting them. Down a tunnel, in the dark, I know the rules.

  I like it when I’m right about something, but it can be a pain in the bum at times. Just as I’d been expecting, the tracks led me straight to that dip I was telling you about. I followed them right up to the tumbledown old building where the tunnel mouth was.

  That’s when I should’ve stopped and used my head. Really, you see, it was a two-man job. One man with the lantern, the other with a short spear or a crossbow. If I was going to do it on my own, I couldn’t have a light — no spare hand to hold it with, see. But that didn’t bother me particularly. I’ve done some good work in the dark, though I say so myself. I’ve got good ears, and I can smell Them almost as well as They can smell us. What you need for tunnel work is good hearing, patience, a cool head and a short, sharp knife. Well, at any rate, I had the knife.

  You do some daft things in this business.

  So I got down on my hands and knees, and nosed about in the brambles like a dog till I found the entrance. Not hard to spot, actually. My guess is, once upon a time it was a proper doorway, an arch, plenty high enough to walk through without lowering your head. But as the years went by it got all clogged up with fallen leaves, and they rot down into soil, and so the arch got buried. Then stuff started growing in the sweet soil there, brambles and withies and that sort of thing. And it’s got to the point now that you need to turn round and crawl in backwards just to force a way in without getting your face all scratched up.

  Before I started to crawl, I took the knife out and tucked it up my left sleeve, good and handy when I needed it. I thought about taking the sword, but down in the tunnels there just isn’t room to swing something like that. So I unbuckled the belt and stuck it under a tangle of brambles, out of sight. You can get the sack for leaving your kit lying about, which strikes me as a bit harsh.

  Once I was in through the curtain of tangled stuff, I stopped and listened, but all I could hear was my own breathing. It’s important when you’re down the tunnels to take it nice and slow and easy, because if you get out of breath you can’t hear anything over the racket of your own puffing and panting. I took a long, deep sniff, too, but I couldn’t make anything out’ other than the usual smells you get in tunnel mouths. Earth, rotten leaves, damp, stale air, and the filthy shitty smell that hangs about in those places, don’t ask me why. I was a bit surprised that I couldn’t smell blood, since I knew it’d trodden in the stuff earlier. But I remembered an old-timer telling me that if They get blood on their feet, They’ll stop and lick it off just to keep from giving Themselves away. Smart.

  Once I was ten yards or so inside the tunnel it was pitch-dark, so I couldn’t see a damn thing. But I could feel something smooth and hard under the palms of my hands as I crawled along, rather than damp earth, so I risked it and stood up slowly. That far down, the wind can’t blow in leaves and stuff, so the tunnel’s not all blocked up and you can stand upright. I knew from other tunnels I’d been in when I had a lamp with me that the smooth hard stuff I could feel was most likely tiles. That’s what the people who built the things used to cover the walls and the floors with.

  Amazing, really. There must be thousands of tiles for every ten yards — that’s millions all told. Imagine what the tunnel-builders must’ve been like, to be able to make and lay a couple of million tiles. These days, there’s nothing people make that you can count in the millions — not arrowheads or nails or anything. They must’ve had thousands of people back then who did nothing all day but make tiles, just so the floors of these tunnels could be kept dry.

  The drill is, you walk along as quietly as you can, keeping your ears and nose open all the time, and you count how many steps you take. Every thirty steps is my rule. Every thirty steps I stop, listen for a count often, and take five great big deep breaths, nice and slow. You’ve got to have a pattern when you’re down there, because otherwise it’s so fatally easy to lose track of what you’re doing or where you are. I heard a story once about one of our lot who was blind, couldn’t see at all even in broad daylight. But he’d found and killed more of Them than anybody else in his squad, because down in the tunnels seeing doesn’t help you at all, but a blind man’s so used to going by what his other senses tell him that really, he’s in his element. Anyhow, I kept going, counting my footsteps. Stop, listen, sniff — bit like a dog, I guess, when you take it somewhere it’s never been before.

  Anyhow, there was nothing to hear, and nothing to smell, so either it’d never come that way after all, or else I wasn’t trying hard enough, and I was missing all the signs.

  I kept on moving. I was doing what I generally do when it’s not going how I’d expected. I was promising myself. Another thirty steps and if I still haven’t heard anything, I’ll turn back. Then, thirty steps later, I made myself the same promise, and so on.

  The idea is, of course, to keep yourself from panicking, which isn’t so easy to do, even if you’ve done it all before more times than you like to think about. Somehow, it’s easier to keep going if you can tell yourself you’ve got somebody’s permission to run away, even if it’s only permission from yourself.

  I’d more or less decided to pack it in and get out of there when I smelt something. It wasn’t anything I’d been expecting — not blood, or the stink of Their sweat, or that very slight freshness in the air that tells you you’re close to a junction with another tunnel or a vent shaft. Looking back, I think the reason I managed to keep going was that I didn’t recognise the smell. It was one of those kitchen smells you remember from when you were a kid, herbs and spices and stuff. I’m no expert, but I think it was rosemary. Whatever it was, I couldn’t begin to imagine what it was doing down a tunnel where They came and went. So I closed my eyes — you feel better in the dark with your eyes closed, don’t ask me why — and pressed on.

  Wasn’t long before I found out where the smell was coming from. I tripped over it, literally. That’s a bad thing to do in the tunnels, because you can’t help making a hell of a racket. First there’s your boot bashing into whatever it is you’re tripping over. Then your boot soles scuff as you try and keep your balance, then a thud as your shoulder hits the tunnel wall. It’s a bit like lighting a fire on a hilltop in the dark. Suddenly, everything within a square mile knows exactly where you are.

  I lurched into the wall and slid down against the smooth tiles. Funny thing is, I’d guessed what it was as soon as my foot caught in it. In the dark, you get the knack of recognising the feel of things, and I knew straight away that my boot had hit bone. It’s nothing at all like stone, a bit like old, dry wood but denser. Also, as I connected with it, there was another whiff of that herb smell.

  I found myself sitting on the tunnel floor, and I reached out to touch the thing I’d tripped over. First thing I felt was cloth — quite thin and fine, very smooth, maybe silk or something like that, which is the kind of thing women wear rather than men. Next, my fingers touched bone. There’s no mistaking how it feels under your fingertips, dry and slightly rough. It was quite big and rounded, and after a bit my fingers slid into holes that were plenty big enough to be eye-sockets. A skull, then —somebody’s skull.

  I carried on until I’d found the neck-bone, and I followed that down to a pair of collar-bones. The rosemary smell was quite strong, but there wasn’t any stink of bone or rotten flesh. That told me that the bones had been down there a very long time, long enough for the ants to have stripped off every last scrap of meat and skin. I guess they didn’t like the taste of the silk, so they’d left it alone.

  Over the silk I felt ordinary cloth, probably linen. I found a pocket, and in it some very dry bits of stick or twig. I took a pinch of them between finger and thumb and held them close t
o my nose. That was where the rosemary smell had been coming from. Herbs. My guess was that the ordinary-feeling cloth was an apron. A woman, then, most likely. She’d been cooking in her kitchen, with some rosemary leaves in her pocket. Probably she’d just gathered them fresh off the bush that morning.

  I really wanted to go back then, but I couldn’t make myself do it, not with her lying there next to me. I knew a man once who had this bad dream. He had it over and over again, four or five nights in a row and then it’d go away again. and he’d be all right for a bit until it came back and the whole thing started off again. In his dream, he’d be waking up in bed in the morning. He’d turn round to give his wife a kiss, and she’d be there lying next to him but she was dead, all shrivelled up into a skeleton, with the skin stretched tight over her skull and her hair spread out on the pillow all round her. He’d jump up, in his dream, and run next door to the kids’ room, and they’d be the same, lying in bed, just bones and withered skin, like thin rawhide.

  Sometimes he woke up then, other times he’d dream he ran out into the street, and there were more of them, dead people sitting up against the walls of houses, all shrivelled away. He told me that when he woke up after the dream, he was always blazing angry, as though it was somehow all his fault, but he wanted to blame someone else and take it out on them.

  Well, I was feeling angry as I sat there next to the dead woman. Odd thing is, I wasn’t really angry with Them for killing her. It was more like I was furious with myself, but I couldn’t figure out what it was I’d done wrong. All I could think of was how stupid it’d be if They found me there in the dark and killed me all because I’d tripped over some old bones. Like it was the woman’s fault, for leaving her dead body lying about where people could fall over it. Crazy, but you catch yourself thinking all sorts of weird shit in the dark.

  I made an effort and pulled myself together. If there were any of Them about, it was a pretty safe bet They’d heard me. Question was, would They scamper away and hide, or would They come after me? It could be either, depending on how many there were, whether They were scared or hungry, whatever. I remember thinking, do They have to play games and tricks on Themselves to make them keep going when they’re frightened? Are They hunting me yet, or am I still hunting Them?

  Whichever way it was, I knew for sure I wasn’t doing myself any favours hanging about there. Chances were, if They’d been using this tunnel for any length of time, They’d know about the skeleton and They’d have a pretty good idea where it was. In fact, They could use it as a sort of alarm, to let them know if anyone was coming. It struck me as a bit hard that once They’d killed the poor woman, They could use her body against me like that.

  Well, these things work both ways.

  I had to be very careful, so as not to make any noise. I got down on my knees and felt carefully till I’d found her ribcage. I got a good firm grip on her and lifted her up, just enough so her bones wouldn’t trail on the floor and make a noise. Then I started forward, carrying her in my arms.

  She didn’t weigh hardly anything. Bones don’t. They’re very light once all the muscle and marrow and stuff have gone. Even so, it was hard going, let me tell you, because of having to keep dead quiet all the time. I couldn’t put her down to rest my arms for fear of making a racket or one of the bones dropping off, so I had to keep moving. If the idea I’d had was going to be worth the effort, I had to go at least fifty yards, more if possible.

  In the end I think it was more like seventy.

  Anyhow, when I simply couldn’t go a step further, I laid her down, gently as I could, and shuffled back a few feet to wait and see what happened.

  Simple enough idea. If They knew where she was, fine. What They wouldn’t be expecting would be for her to have moved seventy-odd yards up the tunnel. With any luck, if They were coming for me, They’d come blundering along not expecting to meet with anything, trip over her and come crashing down right where I’d be waiting.

  So I didn’t exactly feel wonderful about it, using a poor dead woman as a trap, like she was just a thing. I couldn’t help thinking. That’s what They’ve been doing. On the other hand, I reckoned that whoever she was, she wouldn’t mind helping a fellow human in a bad place —sort of her way of getting even with them for killing her.

  I can’t say I worried too much about it, at that. I think I’m a very different person when I’m down a tunnel in the dark. At least, I hope so.

  CHAPTER THREE

  YOU’VE GOT TO BE patient in this line of work. If you can’t stay still and quiet, you won’t last long. The trick is, like with any sort of hunting. You’ve got to learn to think like They do. Like, if I was one of Them and I heard a noise, how long would I wait and listen before I set off to do something about it? The problem is, of course, They don’t think like us, and we haven’t got a clue how They do think, because They’re so different. You’ve got to try and learn, by watching Them, remembering all you can.

  So I sat there in the tunnel, behind my pile of bones, and I waited. To begin with, I had the fidgets pretty bad. It happens sometimes. You feel like you can’t bear to keep still a moment longer, but you do, somehow. But it wears off, and after that you’ve got to be very careful you don’t let your mind wander. Easily done. You can even fall asleep. Anyway, it’s bloody hard keeping track of time, so I can’t honestly tell you how long I’d been waiting when one of Them turned up.

  Bloody hell, didn’t it make me jump. I guess it was because I’d been down there so long in the dead silence. Thinking back, of course, it can’t have been any louder than the row I made when I fell over exactly the same pile of bones, but to me it sounded like a roof falling in. For a split second. I forgot where I was, what I was doing, what was going on, all that. Then I remembered, and I started groping for my knife.

  You do stupid things when you’re all wound up. I knew for a fact I’d put the knife up the sleeve of my shirt, so it’d be handy when I needed it. I knew that perfectly well, but even so the first thing I did when I heard the racket was reach down to my belt. That’s where the knife-sheath usually is. Pure instinct, see. As a result, I wasted two seconds, maybe even three, before I managed to get my hand on the knife and pull it out. That’s a very long time, three seconds.

  Meanwhile, it must’ve fallen flat on its face over the skeleton, because I heard a crack, one of the poor dead woman’s ribs breaking. Then I could hear claws scrabbling on the tiles as it tried to get up. I guess claws are a handicap on a smooth surface. By now my brain was working again — in situations like that, you’d be surprised how fast you can think — and I leaned back from the waist to put as much distance between me and it as I could manage.

  Distance means time, you see. I needed time to figure out exactly where it was, because I couldn’t see to stab it, I had to calculate where to stick the knife by what I’d heard and what I could remember. In the end I made a guess. I reached forward and jabbed. I felt the knife go into something, a good two inches, and then stop. That meant I’d hit bone. I gave the knife a hard twist to free it — if you’re not careful They twist and thrash around when you stick Them, and that can jerk the knife out of your hand —and pulled it back.

  Something hit me in the face. Looking back, I think it was probably a foot, kicking out wildly in pain. It caught me on the side of the jaw. My head went back and met the tunnel wall. That was bad, because there wasn’t anywhere further for it to go. I was caught between the kick and the wall like a bit of steel between the hammer and the anvil. I remember doing a sort of check, to see if my jaw was busted or just bruised, then it was back to business. I kicked out with both feet, and I connected with something firm. Muscle — I’m guessing either leg or shoulder. I must’ve pushed it away from me a bit, because the next thing I knew was something sharp scratching across my face — just the claws this time, rather than the whole foot. I slashed with the knife at where I guessed the leg ought to be, but I missed, and something dug hard into the pit of my stomach.

 
; All in all, I wasn’t doing as well as I’d hoped, I’d landed one good stab on the bastard, but it didn’t seem to be slowing it down so you’d notice. Meanwhile it had given me a bash in the face and knocked all the wind out of me, and I’d lost my element of surprise. I was running out of time, I knew that, so I grabbed with my left hand and caught hold of what must’ve been its shoulder. Before I could stab again, though, it wriggled free and I could hear it scampering up the tunnel. I couldn’t follow, because the bones were in the way.

  I sat down and caught my breath. No point in trying to follow. Very dangerous, too, if it turned round suddenly while I was chasing flat-out after it. Instead, I made myself breathe slowly, till my pulse was back to normal. I tried to think things through. I’d stabbed it. That meant there’d be the smell of blood, I could follow that. Also, there’d probably be blood spilt on the tiles, which I’d be able to feel. Chances were, now that it’d been cut about a bit, it’d be more interested in getting away than coming after me, so the choice to go on or turn back was mine to make. If I went on after it, it’d be me hunting it, rather than just self-preservation. That didn’t necessarily mean it’d be less dangerous, of course — far from it. They’re like people in that respect. Pain and fear make them cunning and vicious.

  I thought it over, and I said to myself, Well, you’ve come this far. And if you don’t finish it today, chances are you’ll have to do it all over again from scratch another day. Then it struck me that I’d been assuming there was just the one of them down here. If there were two, or more, even, I could still find myself in a whole lot of trouble if I carried on. Still, I thought, if you start thinking like that you’ll never get anything done.