Darkness Demands Part 11

At that moment Mary felt as if she woke from a dream. With a moan she pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. "Oh, G.o.d, what have I done? He's never coming backa oh G.o.d, you stupid b.i.t.c.h, he's deada he's deada"

A breeze rose. For a moment it seemed to rush, cold and loathsome, from some dark void beneath her feet. Branches creaked, leaves rustled. To her ears the sound came as a high giggling that mocked her stupidity.

Suddenly she saw in her mind's eye what she must have looked like. A woman standing in a graveyard at midnight, wearing a cotton nightdress that barely reached the tops of her thighs; her hair a G.o.dawful mess; her mind scrambled by griefa trying to turn back time by offering chocolate to a statue.

Christa fury erupted. How could she be so f.u.c.king stupid? That hideous little statue could do nothing! Absolutely f.u.c.king nothing!

Engulfed with rage, with self-pity, with self-hatred, with grief, she howled like a wounded animal. Seconds later, she was swearing, scrambling down on all fours, clawing up handfuls of dirt, which she hurled at the statue. Then crying out in rage, she was on her feet tearing at her hair. She ripped her nightdress open, exposing her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" she screamed. "I'll break youa I'll break you to f.u.c.king nothing!"

She kicked at the statue with her bare feet, shattering her toes, bursting open her skin so the boy appeared to weep gobs of blood.

"I'll murder you!" Ranting wildly she dragged her nails across her own flesh from her left shoulder to her right hip. Blood ran from the furrows in the flesh, smearing her naked b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

Still she felt nothing. Even when she clawed her way forward on all fours to swing full-blooded punches at the head of the weeping boy. The crack of a snapping knucklebone didn't even make it through her eardrums to her brain. Inside her, she had become a vortex of rage. Nothing mattered now. Nothing but the overwhelming urge to destroy. And when her blows did no harm to the statue, other than smear it with blood, she realized what must be destroyed. What must be annihilated.

On broken, bleeding feet she sprinted back down the path. Seconds later she'd reached the edge of the cliff. In one fluid movement she had seized hold of the rope swing that overhung the maze of tombs below, then she noosed the rope around her neck.

She saw the moon. The roofs of Skelbrooke. The glint of the lake across at the Water Mill. She saw a misty face hanging before her. Pray G.o.d it was Liam. Her baby was welcoming her across to the other side.

"Waita mommy's coming!"

Air rushed around her ears; the nightdress rippled about her.

"No!" was the only word she managed to scream as she fell-and before the rope snapped tight. The face wasn't her baby's. The eyes bulged. They glinted with eerie lights. Veins stood out from them as thick as earthworms.

After the echoes of her final cry faded, the cemetery fell silent again, apart from a rus.h.i.+ng sound as Mary Thorp swung back and forth, hair streaming from her wide-eyed face. She swung in long, slow sweeps like a vast pendulum. While her blood fell onto the crypts below as lightly as summer rain.

CHAPTER 8.

1.

Friday morning. The day after Elizabeth's fall from the bike. Early morning mist burnt away by the sun, promising another sizzling day. John Newton walked Elizabeth to school (she couldn't wait to show off her bandages to her friends). Paul went under his own steam to the bus stop.

Later, John finished was.h.i.+ng the breakfast things as Val zipped around the kitchen brus.h.i.+ng her hair while picking lint from her business jacket. "Why I had to choose plain black," she said. "It shows every speck of fluff. There. Now, shoesa shoes." She slipped them on. The dog, interpreting this as a promising sign for a walk, wagged his tail. "Not now, Sam. I'm going to worka right, John, I'll see you tonight."

"Got everything?"

"As far as I know. Uh, mobile?"

"It's on the hallway table."

"Thanksa there go the sirens again."

"It was like that all yesterday afternoon. It sounded more like the Bronx than sleepy old England."

He followed her through the hallway, where she paused to check her reflection in the gla.s.s. She looked composed. She was in working girl mode now. But he still remembered with a thrill how she lay naked on the bed, her hair mussed, murmuring some very provocative, not to say erotic, suggestions, while her eyes sparkled with sheer s.e.x. Christ, why did she have to go to work today? They would have the house to themselves. He could watch her stroll around naked all day.

"Down boy," John whispered to himself.

"What's that, hon?" she asked back over her shoulder.

"I was just saying have a good day."

"As good as I can. Roll on the weekend."

"We on for that barbecue Sat.u.r.day?"

"If the weather holds. Oh, nearly forgot." Val slipped her mobile into her purse. "Can you pop round to the Haslems?"

"They're away."

"I know, but I noticed they'd left a window open downstairs. I don't want a burglary on my conscience."

"I'll see to it."

"Thanks."

"See you tonight."

"Ciao!"

After kissing her he watched her climb into the car, then drive away in a swirl of dust.

John turned to the dog. "There's only me and you now, kidda."

The dog wagged his tail, then went to stand by the closet where his snack treats were kept.

"No, you've just had your breakfast. Why don't you go sit in the sun or chase rodents or something?" John clicked his tongue. "You know, John old buddy," he said to himself. "You've got to stop having conversations with the dog. Or one day they'll take you away to the happy place."

He glanced at his watch. 8:30. He should really be sitting down at the computer to tackle the first chapter of Without Trace. But he'd promised Elizabeth he'd take a walk downstream on the off chance that her moon ball had beached itself somewhere. And it was such a perfect day. The great outdoors could have been sweetly calling his name, inviting him to slip on his sungla.s.ses and stroll for a while. What's more, the sirens were now fading into the distance to be replaced by birdsong.

"Come on then, Sam, just a quick walk. Then it's back to work. If I don't have that chapter done today smelly stuff starts. .h.i.tting the fana G.o.d, there I go again. Talking to you."

The dog p.r.i.c.ked up his ears, his bright eyes on John's.

"Yup," he said. "I'm on my way to be a fully fledged basket case."

He walked for longer than he intended. Partly he wanted to see the look of delight on his daughter's face if he recovered the ball. Partly because it was such a pleasant day with the sun streaming across the meadow. And partly, yes G.o.d dammitt, he was postponing that moment when he had to switch on the computer and start work on the book. He knew full well now that Without Trace wasn't going to be another Blast His Eyes. Without a new angle the book already had the distinct whiff of failure about it. Just for a second he could picture 'For Sale' signs appearing outside the Water Mill.

He walked on, following the line of the stream through the field. Cows munched gra.s.s. Skylarks sang. A great day to sit by the lake with a beer and a book. Not a great day to sweat in front of a computer screen with the blind drawn. Sam was ready for a cross-country hike and only turned back reluctantly when John called him. The Man In The Moon Ball would have to be written off as lost without a trace. As Paul was responsible for its loss, the cost of the replacement would be Paul's responsibility, too. Greata that would do nothing to enhance domestic harmony tonight.

John cut across the field, heading for the lane that would take him on a more direct route back home. Then he'd check the Haslem place and close the window. At that moment Sam darted into long gra.s.s only to emerge with a mouse gripped in his teeth by its hindquarters. The mouse squealed while twisting from side to side, its black eyes beady with panic. Sam tossed the mouse into the air before catching it in his mouth headfirst.

With a grimace John looked away as the dog chewed with sheer pleasure, the tiny mouse bones crackling.

"Sam, you are one gross beast."

From past experience he knew the dog would swallow the mouse whole without spilling so much as a drop of blood. He walked a little faster in the direction of the Haslems' house.

2.

Sam accompanied John into the Haslems' garden. This was unfamiliar territory for the dog and John watched him run across the lawn, nose to the ground.

John checked that the front door was locked, then headed round the back. The house, a reward for Keith Haslem's years building up a law firm, looked unmolested. Standing back he shaded his eyes against the sun to look up at the bedroom windows. Everything looked normal. But then if it wasn't he still didn't know how he'd get a message to Keith. The family might be up the Amazon for all he knew.

Maybe the law firm wasn't doing as well as was supposeda John turned over some possibilities in his mind. Perhaps Keith Haslem had indulged in a little embezzlement. These things happen. And it tended to be those that you least suspecta The detective inside of him was flexing his muscles. There was a whiff of mystery about Keith's abrupt departure.

Sam bounded across what for him was virgin ground. He marked his new territory with a golden splash at every other bush.

"The mystery thickens," John murmured to himself as he went to push the window shut.

Inside, the kitchen was a mess. Someone had broken off preparing a roast. Now a slab of raw beef in an oven tin was alive with crawling flies. The place would be a ma.s.s of maggots within days. He could also see breakfast dishes on the table. Cornflakes and milk congealed in bowls. A knife smeared with b.u.t.ter lay beside a loaf of bread that was probably hard as a brick in this heat. The whole house would stink vile within a day or two. John weighed up the ethics of what amounted to friendly trespa.s.s. He'd have trouble squeezing through the window he'd just pushed shut. But maybe Paul could make it through. Then at least he could dump the rotting food safely in the trash. Of course that might trip the alarm. But it was all in a good cause.

The dog by this time had his head in the herbaceous border, snorting loudly. John guessed Sam might have the scent of another mouse.

"Leave it, Sam. Here, boy." John didn't relish listening to the dog crunch up another rodent for a morning snack. The dog snorted noisily, not wanting to quit the delights of the flowerbed.

John crossed the lawn. He'd done what he could do for the time being. The house hadn't been ransacked, and although he couldn't lock the window from the outside at least it didn't present such a blatant invitation to local felons.

Then once more John Newton's internal detective showed himself to be on the ball.

"Now, there's a thing," he murmured to himself.

In the center of the flowerbed was a birdbath. A run of the mill thing, it consisted merely of a concrete post that stood about waist high with a concrete bowl on top.

It was what lay in the concrete bowl that made it special. He stepped up to the edge of the gra.s.s to take a closer looksee.

What he saw only added to the mystery. In the birdbath was a layer of ashes. Scattered around the birdbath, on the soil and even resting on the leaves of the plants were dozens of matches. All but one or two of the matches were used. The empty box lay open on the soil.

"So, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he murmured to himself, "what do you make of this?"

He picked up one of the matches then struck it against the box, where it flared brightly. So, the matches weren't duds. Unconsciously he slipped into the role of detective. A trick he'd practiced since childhood.

"OK," he said. "Give me the scenario." He rose to his feet. "Keith or Audrey Haslem came out of the house, crossed the lawn, placed a piece of paper in the birdbath and burnt it to ashes. But why not just drop it in the trash?" As was his habit he answered himself. "Because it was no ordinary piece of paper. They wanted it destroyed completely. Either to hide its contents or because the doc.u.ment became a subject of their hatred. Like a jilted lover burning the photograph of their ex. But why all the unused matches?" He turned the matchbox over in his hand. Again the answer seemed simple. "Because whoever burned the paper had been in a tearing hurry. No. It's more than that. They'd been gripped by sheer panic. So they'd run out here, dumped the letter in the birdbath, fumbled with the match box, spilt the contents into the flowers, managed to set fire to the paper, then ran back to the house without bothering to pick up the matches."

In his mind's eye, he played out the rest of the scenario. After burning the paper Keith Haslem had bundled his family into the car (leaving the kitchen Marie Celeste like, with half-eaten breakfasts, raw meat exposed to the summer air, the window wide open).

He figured the burner had to be Keith. Yesterday morning the man was certainly the driving force in getting his family into the car and then the h.e.l.l out of Skelbrooke as if Lucifer himself had gotten a scent of his a.s.s.

"So what were you burning, Keith old buddy? Check stubs, phony receipts, forged t.i.tle deeds?"

John stepped closer to the birdbath, then with a finger and thumb delicately removed a fragment of burnt paper. It was fragile enough to turn to dust when he touched it. With even more care he lifted another fragment, which he rested on the palm of his hand so he could study it more closely.

He'd enjoyed himself in his role of detective. But suddenly that sense of enjoyment vanished with a pang that snapped his stomach muscles tight.

On the blackened paper nothing remained of the handwriting but a ghostly trace. Instantly John recognized the looping l's and y's. Then he deciphered one word 'grief-stone.'

"d.a.m.nation." His voice was hushed. "So you got the same letter, too."

3.

"Paula Paul?"

Paul Newton turned to see Miranda catch up as he walked between the school blocks.

"Miranda? I thought you had Technology this morning."

"I have but I wanted to catch you before lunch."

He smiled. "You've caught me."

"I can't see you after school tonight."

"Oh, no problem." He sounded cool but disappointment crashed inside of him. h.e.l.l, it was over so soon. No more Miranda Bloom. No more of those delicious Spanish eyes looking up into his.

She looked as if she needed to hurry away, and she cast glances back over her shoulder.

Maybe there was someone else, Paul thought morbidly. No doubt she wanted to dash off to meet some studa oh c.r.a.pa why does it always have to rain on mea Yesterday he felt as if lightning had flickered out of his scalp, sparks out of his fingers and toes. He'd never been that close to a girl before. He felta well, he felt transformed. That memory of her freckled b.r.e.a.s.t.s had stayed glued inside his head ever since last night. He was certain the others in cla.s.s must have realized he looked different. Even the security guards must have noticed a difference in him on the CCTV monitors as he zombied his way from cla.s.s to cla.s.s, his eyes somehow turned inward looking. Gazing only at mental images of Miranda, with that lovely smile, her twinkling Spanish eyes; the dark tipped b.r.e.a.s.t.s with their delicious dusting of freckles. G.o.d, he was away with the fairies even now as she stood right next to him, telling him the whole deal was off. They were going their separate waysa adios amigosa The thoughts flashed through his head at a million miles an hour.

Or so it seemed. And she'd not noticed any change in his expression.

No, there she was, smiling sweetly, holding that technology file to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s (oh, G.o.d, that lucky technology file, pressed so firmly against her body)a "So, that's OK with you, Paul?"

What was OK with him? What had she asked? He smiled a casual smile, but inside his head sheer turmoil reigned. He'd missed some vital words. What had she just asked him?