Banquet for the Damned by Adam Nevill Page B

incapable of anything besides a feeble whimper. It was talking to me, very quietly. In old English and broken Latin, I think.'
'It?'
'Yes. Not like a man's voice. Not quite. And not a pleasant voice either.'
'What was it saying?'
'To tell the truth, I was too frightened to concentrate and there was this appalling smell. But I understood one phrase. Although, in hindsight, it may have been my imagination, I think I heard, " Dies Irae ". Latin again. It means day of wrath.'
'Day of wrath,' Hart mutters.
'Insane, isn't it? Do you believe me?'
'Thousands wouldn't, but do you see me laughing?'
Mike begins to fidget. 'My imagination has never been so active. I enjoy science fiction, but this is all new for me.'
'I bet it is.'
'Well, Mr Miller. What's my problem?'
'Please, Mike, call me Hart, and as to what's wrong with you, I don't know. I could speculate, but it'd sound crazy. I'm used to studying undeveloped communities ridden with superstition and elaborate belief systems, where apparitions are never questioned, but in Scotland? I don't think any of you are ready for what I think.'
Mike smiles. 'I would certainly not entertain any thought of a supernatural cause. I was hoping for something a little more concrete.
A passing malady for instance, caused by stress or overwork.'
'Can't tell you what you want to hear. I think this goes way beyond mental strain or illness.'
Mike smiles and rises to his feet. 'Think I better consult a physician.
I've been worried sick about a tumour.'
'Do what you think is best. But if you want my advice, I'd leave town.'
'Not possible,' Mike answers, and then removes his glasses to pick at a lens. 'I think I'll ride this one out with sleeping tablets. Of the strongest variety. Here's my number. Please keep in touch.'
'I will. And look after yourself, buddy.'
As Mike descends the stairs, Hart has a hunch there is one more question he'd like to hear an answer to. 'Hey Mike, one more thing.'
Mike turns on the stair.
'It's a long shot, but did you go to any of the paranormal group's meetings? With Eliot Coldwell?'
Immediately, Mike blushes. Hart nods, smiling. 'I know, you were fascinated.'
Mike grins. 'Coldwell is an interesting man. I enjoyed his book immensely.'
'Did he hypnotise you?'
'No. I merely attended a few talks and watched a meditation session.
It's amazing what a man of his age believes.'
'Like?'
Laughing, he continues down the stairs. 'Perhaps, like yourself, Mr Miller, Eliot Coldwell is convinced of the existence of an unseen world. Rumour has it he communes with the dead.'
Hart follows him. 'Don't you think there could be a connection?'
'Gave it some thought, but found it too improbable. I'm even sure he was unable to suggest anything to me subliminally. One session involved a Mantra and some exercises in concentration. Some took fasts, they say, but I hardly think we were at risk. Goodbye.'
Rubbing his face, Hart walks back upstairs. He rewinds the tape. Thinking of a drink, he ambles to the fridge, deciding against scotch. It could knock him out and he still has Maria to interview in less than an hour. Instead, he plunders a four-pack of Budweiser. Drinking steadily, he drifts around the lounge, excited by the information but feeling something else too: like a diminishing sense of control, after being suddenly dropped into a small stone prison to rub shoulders with something unpleasant he's chased for years and never expected to run into.
Finding a chair by his favourite window, Hart sits down and enjoys the effect of the cold beer. After a while his thoughts roam across the garret flats, hotels and placid cottages of St Andrews, and he considers the young men and women who live here. They are protected from bacteria with bleach, nursed through colds with doctor's prescriptions, and coddled through broken hearts by parental cheques and union beer. But what of the night, and those who walk while others sleep? 'If it's all coming on down,' he mutters, 'breaking through, these people have no