Darkness Demands Part 19

"What's this, then?"

h.e.l.l.

He exploded from the bedclothes to grab the packet of condoms from Elizabeth as she tried to tear open the cellophane with her teeth.

"Ouch, Paul! Don't s.n.a.t.c.h."

"It's not yours, Elizabeth."

Oh my G.o.d, he thought, his face burning, can you imagine what his parents would say if Elizabeth had gone downstairs with those in her hands?

"I only wanted one piece." She scowled. "Greedy guts."

"It isn't gum." Sweating hard, he rolled out of bed and slid the condom packet high on a shelf where Elizabeth couldn't reach.

She went to bounce on his bed, her hair flying up and down. "What were they then? Cigarettes?"

"No. You know they weren't cigarettes."

"Might be little ones."

"Why aren't you out playing?"

"I'm going to help make breakfast. What's in the packet?"

"Nosey."

"I'll tell Dad."

"They're just staples for the stapler. I've run out."

"Why have you gone so red?" She licked her finger and held it out as if touching hot metal. "Sss!" she hissed. "I know what they are." A grin spread across her face. "You bought them from the drugstore."

This time his entire body blazed hotly. "It's just a pack of staples."

"I don't believe you. You've got a girlfriend."

The heat spread through every vein of his body. She was sure to snitch.

"You went to the drugstore because you've got a girlfriend."

"Elizabeth-"

"You've gone and got some cream for your zits, haven't you?"

"I haven't got any zits, Elizabeth. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to get dressed."

Elizabeth gave the shelf where he'd left the condoms an appraising look, then before she grudgingly left the room she said, "I'd buy another packet." She grinned. "You're going to need lots and lots now you've got a girlfriend."

"Like I'm going to be covered with a million zits. Yeah, whatever, Elizabeth. Whatever."

Giving a knowing smile, she echoed. "Yeah, whatever, Paul. Whatever."

Once she'd left the room he quickly moved the condoms from the shelf to a box beneath his bed.

The next time he met Miranda those little beauties would be in his pocket.

2.

Reading the letter wasn't easy. With it being Sat.u.r.day morning Val, Paul and Elizabeth were at home. Short of sneaking the letter into the bathroom to read it as if it was from a secret lover John Newton realized it might be some time before he could be alone.

By nine the day was already warm enough to sit out on the patio for breakfast. Sam showed no sign of his scare from the night before. He lay in the shade only glancing up as Elizabeth then Paul came out to join them for toast and fruit juice. The meal was relaxed. Everyone seemed to be in good spirits. John did, however, find his eyes drawn to where the letter had made its mysterious appearance beneath the fragment of headstone. For some reason he expected there to be a stain or something on the stone slab where the letter had rested. Of course, that didn't make a lot of sense, John told himself. But there was some quality about the lettera as if it swarmed with bacteria or some unidentifiable contamination. Touching the letter with his bare fingers made him uneasy.

Again he found himself asking who would go to the trouble of finding sheets of antique paper-blank antique paper at that-then writing a message in it in a Gothic hand? And why had the hoaxer sent letters to such a disparate bunch of people? As far as John knew the recipients had been himself, a writer. Keith Haslem the lawyer. And Stan Price, an elderly and senile man. If it was someone's idea of a joke then it wasn't a particularly hilarious one.

A thought struck John all of a sudden. It was an uncomfortable thought at that. Maybe this was some perverse experiment? Maybe the letter sender intended to study the recipients' reactions. That put a different spin on things. He found himself scanning the hedges, then the meadows beyond, for a staring face, or the flash of reflected sunlight on a telescope lens. Was his family being watched as they sat out here eating toast?

h.e.l.l, now he did feel vulnerable. And all too exposed. After all, last night a man or woman had left the letter on that very paving slab in front of him. If nothing else, weren't they guilty of trespa.s.s? Come to that, they could easily have slipped into the house through the back door as he walked up by the lake with Sam. What might they have done then?

"Anything on your mind, John?" Val looked at him over the rim of her orange juice gla.s.s.

"Nothing much." He smiled. "I wondered if we had enough pork chops for the barbecue."

"There's a full bag in the freezer. We could do with more mayonnaise though."

"I'm going down to the supermarket later. I'll grab some then."

"Don't forget the beer."

He grinned. "Don't worry. I won't."

Paul heaped marmalade onto his toast. "Bud for me, Dad. And plenty of it."

"John have you been giving our son beer again?" Val pretended disapproval but she couldn't help but smile.

"Just the occasional one." John returned the smile. "To educate him as a responsible social drinker."

"I'll wash the car for you this morning, Mum," Paul said quickly.

"Why thank you very much," she said, surprised. "It could certainly do with it."

"White shows dirt," Elizabeth told her. "You should have a black onea Emm's Dad's got two black cars. One has a roof that comes right down."

"BMW's," Paul added. "Top of the range. Her dad's got a Harley as well. Goes like a bat out of h.e.l.l."

Val smiled at John. "Maybe we should have inherited rich grandparents."

"Oh, hon. Think of the satisfaction we get slaving away all week for our crust of bread at the weekend."

"Hmm, John, I always guessed you had a puritanical streak running through you."

"Just a good honest work ethic."

"All right, dear heart, you might as well exercise it right now by making me a cup of coffee."

"I'll do it," Paul said.

"Then one for me as well, please," John said, surprised.

After he'd gone Val said, "Something tells me that Paul will be asking for a favor before long."

After breakfast the family went their separate ways for a while. Paul finished a homework a.s.signment. Elizabeth threw a ball for Sam. Val caught up with telephone calls to friends. John grabbed the opportunity. He went to his study where he pulled the letter from his back pocket. Maybe I should have worn latex glovesa there's something about the feel of the papera like skina Cold, dead skina Holding the letter to the light that fell through the window he read it in full.

Dear Messr. John Newt'n, I should wish that yew pore a pinte of porter onto the grief stowne of Jess Bowen by the Sabbath night. Yew will be very sorry if yew do not.

Immediately he went cold. He s.h.i.+vered, dropping the letter onto the desk as he did so.

Straight away he felt ashamed of his reaction to the letter. Come on, Newton, it's just a letter. A sick letter from some sick bozo. Did it chill him so much that the letter writer knew his name (and probably a d.a.m.n sight more about him)? Was it because he sensed he was under surveillance? That some stranger watched him? They knew his movements. They'd sneaked onto his property to leave the letter there.

He had to nail the b.a.s.t.a.r.d who was doing thisa He found himself seething with anger. This was nothing less than an invasion. An invasion of property. An invasion of his life. An invasion of his right to privacy. Fists clenched, he glared at the letter.

Pore a pinte of porter onto the grief stownea For one thing, what the h.e.l.l was a pint of porter? He all but s.n.a.t.c.hed the dictionary from its shelf. "Porter, porter, porter," he growled under his breath. Finger stabbing down on the page, he scanned down the list of words.

Portage.

Portal.

Portend (despite himself a little of the definition leapt at him. Portend: an omen, especially of evil). Oh no you don't, he told his insidious imagination.

Porter: door or gatekeeper.

No, not that one. He skipped to the next definition. Porter: one employed to carry baggage. No. Next. Porter: a dark brown, bitter beer.

A pint of porter? So that's what the letter writer wanted. A pint of beer. Why not a gallon? A bucket full? Or a whole hogshead? Why just a miserly little pint?

"And why use the old name for beer, you pretentious little jerk?"

He picked up the letter again, his eyes burning at the handwriting. It didn't flow in the elegant style he would have a.s.sociated with an archaic style. There was something spiky about it. A neurotic's hand writing he decided. Someone with a monkey on his backa someone eaten up witha "Yo, Dad! Can you move the cars?"

"What?"

"Sorry, Dad."

"Paul," he snapped. "Jesus, don't you ever think to knock!"

"Dad, I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were working."

s.h.i.+t. This letter was poison. He was brooding so much over it he'd wound up biting his son's head off. The thing was sending him cranky as h.e.l.l.

"Don't worry, Dad, I'll ask my mother."

"Paula Paul?"

But Paul had gone. John sighed. He felt a real mean son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h now. Paul didn't deserve that. He picked up the letter and glared at it. "This is your fault, you little b.a.s.t.a.r.d." Anger burned in his voice. "You're not getting anything out of me. Nothing."

3.

Paul scrubbed the white paintwork of Val's car hard. After that, he hurled bucket after bucket of cold water to s.h.i.+ft the foam. Then he went to work with the wash leather.

Val looked up from her newspaper as John crossed the patio. He saw her knowing smile.

"Mystery solved," she said.

"Pardon?"

She knew about the letter?

"Mystery solved," she said again, nodding toward Paul, who was attacking the car's lights with what to John looked like sublimated fury. No doubt he was still angry at John's chewing out a few minutes ago.

"Paul?" The cogs inside John's head whirled furiously, trying to engage. Val knew about the letters? She was saying that Paul was responsible? He gave a puzzled shake of his head.

She smiled. "I know why Paul's so eager to wash the car."

"Well?" He made a point of smiling casually.

"He wants me to teach him to drive."

"Oh." His muscles unclenched. "I see." Now his smile was one of relief. "He did seem suddenly eager to start was.h.i.+ng the cars. At least we can be guaranteed the s.h.i.+niest paintwork in the village for the next few months anyway."

They sat for a while in the sun. John watched Paul at work (and detecting one or two reproachful glances from his son). I admit it, OK. I snapped when I shouldn't have done. I sounded like an irritable old whiner. It's the letters. They made me lose my sense of proportion. Look, John Newton, the sun is s.h.i.+ning, life goes ona so don't dwell on stupid letters written by some looser with nothing better to doa Now, you go across there and make up with your son.

He strolled across to the car.

Paul'd certainly lavished some care and energy on Val's car, something that was guaranteed to get into her good books. The Golf was her pride and joy. She'd saved hard for it from her own salary for over two years. When she first bought it he'd hardly seen her for days on end. She found endless reasons to buy a newspaper, or carton of mushrooms, or get a sudden urge to visit a friend-any excuse to simply get into the car, turn the ignition key, then surge away down the road. He suspected she'd followed some weirdly Byzantine routes for those mushrooms or newspapers. But why not? She'd earned the right to savor the pleasures of driving what was one s.e.xy set of wheels.