Read Online Creatures of the Pool by Ramsey Campbell - Free Book Online
Authors: Ramsey Campbell
Tags: Fiction
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the caller removed from the air, but otherwise the presenter seems content to let monologues run uninterrupted. My father’s sounded all too reminiscent of the kind a late-night phone-in show attracts.
I may as well carry on listening, since I have to stay home in case my father calls the landline. My mother is giving him until midnight to phone one of us before she contacts the police, a deadline that seems both magical and ominous. Next on the air is a woman from Garston who declares for several strident minutes that she wasn’t involved in the slave trade and sees no reason why the city should apologise to the descendants of the victims for owing some of its wealth to the business. I’m tempted to retort that when the government proposed to abolish the trade, the city council objected at length. I’d be wasting my time, since her call is close to twelve hours old, and playing back on the station’s web site. “Maybe some of our black listeners have an opinion,” the presenter risks suggesting when she eventually departs. “Now I hope you’re listening, Deryck.”
For a moment I share the hope, but I’m not making sense. “Here’s Frank from Old Swan,” the presenter says. “What’s your story, Frank?”
“They used to say the devil left his footprints in St Cuthbert’s down near the docks.”
“The devil they did. Did you see yourself?”
“Some of us thought we did. We were just kids. It was bombed in the blitz and we used to play there. We’d dare each other to stand in the footprints. Told the girls if you looked behind you while you were standing in them you’d see the devil creeping up.”
“Used to make your own amusement in the good old days, eh? What did these footprints of yours look like?”
“Nothing much. They got bigger and smaller as they went along, and you wouldn’t know what shape they were trying to be, except one looked like a man’s foot with the toes gone wrong. They must have been worn away, all the footprints. My granddad said that part of the floor was made out of mud so old it’d turned to stone. One kid swore he went in there one night and saw the devil wriggling out of a hole in the floor. Said it didn’t know what shape to be. He was always a bit peculiar, though. Got put away when he grew up. Is that the kind of thing you’re after?”
“Deryck might be. Are you out there, Deryck?”
I don’t know if my father heard. Did he follow up any leads the show provided? “Now here’s Mildred from Great Homer Street,” the presenter is saying. “Have you got a tale for us, Mil?”
“It’s another one out of the blitz.”
“Before my time, love. Part of our history, though. Were you there?”
“My dad was, and his mate Tommy Lawless. You’ll have heard of Tommy, will you?”
“I’d call a lot of folk lawless these days, but I don’t know about him.”
“They were in the papers and a book as well, and it wasn’t for doing anything bad. They found the man in the metal thingy, what do you call it, a cylinder. He must have crawled in and not been able to get out, that’s what the book said. We used to wonder what he was trying to crawl away from. It was in the 1880s, and then he stayed hid till a bomb dug him up. Thomas Cregeen Williams, his name was, and he had his own business in Leeds Street. And the coroner that did the inquest was a Mr Mort.”
“Mort the coroner, eh? Never heard that before. The old ones are the best. Next up is Beverley from Everton. Hiya, Bev from Ev. Is that what your friends call you?”
“Not to my face.”
“We can’t see that. We’ll use our imagination. You’re on about the blitz as well.”
“We never liked going down in the shelter because one boy kept saying he could hear somebody on the other side of the wall where there was nothing but earth. Funny, his name was Deryck as well. It wasn’t Deryck Meadows on before, was it? That was him.”
“A friend of his, are you? We’d never have guessed. Have you
I may as well carry on listening, since I have to stay home in case my father calls the landline. My mother is giving him until midnight to phone one of us before she contacts the police, a deadline that seems both magical and ominous. Next on the air is a woman from Garston who declares for several strident minutes that she wasn’t involved in the slave trade and sees no reason why the city should apologise to the descendants of the victims for owing some of its wealth to the business. I’m tempted to retort that when the government proposed to abolish the trade, the city council objected at length. I’d be wasting my time, since her call is close to twelve hours old, and playing back on the station’s web site. “Maybe some of our black listeners have an opinion,” the presenter risks suggesting when she eventually departs. “Now I hope you’re listening, Deryck.”
For a moment I share the hope, but I’m not making sense. “Here’s Frank from Old Swan,” the presenter says. “What’s your story, Frank?”
“They used to say the devil left his footprints in St Cuthbert’s down near the docks.”
“The devil they did. Did you see yourself?”
“Some of us thought we did. We were just kids. It was bombed in the blitz and we used to play there. We’d dare each other to stand in the footprints. Told the girls if you looked behind you while you were standing in them you’d see the devil creeping up.”
“Used to make your own amusement in the good old days, eh? What did these footprints of yours look like?”
“Nothing much. They got bigger and smaller as they went along, and you wouldn’t know what shape they were trying to be, except one looked like a man’s foot with the toes gone wrong. They must have been worn away, all the footprints. My granddad said that part of the floor was made out of mud so old it’d turned to stone. One kid swore he went in there one night and saw the devil wriggling out of a hole in the floor. Said it didn’t know what shape to be. He was always a bit peculiar, though. Got put away when he grew up. Is that the kind of thing you’re after?”
“Deryck might be. Are you out there, Deryck?”
I don’t know if my father heard. Did he follow up any leads the show provided? “Now here’s Mildred from Great Homer Street,” the presenter is saying. “Have you got a tale for us, Mil?”
“It’s another one out of the blitz.”
“Before my time, love. Part of our history, though. Were you there?”
“My dad was, and his mate Tommy Lawless. You’ll have heard of Tommy, will you?”
“I’d call a lot of folk lawless these days, but I don’t know about him.”
“They were in the papers and a book as well, and it wasn’t for doing anything bad. They found the man in the metal thingy, what do you call it, a cylinder. He must have crawled in and not been able to get out, that’s what the book said. We used to wonder what he was trying to crawl away from. It was in the 1880s, and then he stayed hid till a bomb dug him up. Thomas Cregeen Williams, his name was, and he had his own business in Leeds Street. And the coroner that did the inquest was a Mr Mort.”
“Mort the coroner, eh? Never heard that before. The old ones are the best. Next up is Beverley from Everton. Hiya, Bev from Ev. Is that what your friends call you?”
“Not to my face.”
“We can’t see that. We’ll use our imagination. You’re on about the blitz as well.”
“We never liked going down in the shelter because one boy kept saying he could hear somebody on the other side of the wall where there was nothing but earth. Funny, his name was Deryck as well. It wasn’t Deryck Meadows on before, was it? That was him.”
“A friend of his, are you? We’d never have guessed. Have you
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