He
misses the turnoff to the village, curses and drives on. He’s already late,
caught out by the tail end of Friday rush hour.
Minutes
later, smeared through the rain, a second sign appears.
Little
Belliston (via the Heart of a Black Star)
He
blinks, but takes the turn.
On
the deserted single-track lane, he casts around for an explanation of the
sign’s intent. There is nothing.
And
then, without warning, there is nothing. Primal darkness tumbles in from
all directions, cascading dreadfully down the hillsides, gushing up through
potholed tarmac.
What–
what is–
The
rain abates, or is overwhelmed. Pressure builds rapidly inside the car; his
ears pop, his eye sockets throb like badly wired toothache. Panic rising, he
steers through a void.
Time
flattens out like roadkill. Direction signs buckle under his skittering
headlights. He is inverted, then backwards, then spinning end over end. Masonry
and fenceposts ricochet off the roof. His nose bleeds. The droplets hang in the
air.
He
is going mad. He should brake, put his hazard lights on, try to control what’s
happening. But now there is no air. There is a terrible, charring heat that
swallows everything. His bones groan under unbearable strain. He makes sounds
of deep distress, or tries to.
A
rich black scent invades the car and he thinks, eternity.
Rain is sheeting down the glass. The
road grumbles beneath him. Watery daylight returns. Breath rushes into his
lungs.
According to the car’s clock, it’s
Sunday morning. He has 11 missed calls.
He drives into Little Belliston.
The village hall looks quaint.
