Darkness Demands Part 29

That shut you up, you old s.n.a.t.c.h.

Cynthia must have been hovering outside the bathroom door. Robert heard her voice again with that frightened trembling quality he hated so much. "Robert. Dad likes to have his hair dried straight after it's washed. Would you-"

"Cynthia." With an effort he softened his voice. "Cynthia, why don't you go downstairs and put your feet up. I can manage."

Yes, I can manage to bathe the old wretch. I've been doing it G.o.d knows how many months now. I've soaped that old cabbage leaf skin of his, washed his hair until it looked like a bunch of rats' tails; dried it, combed it, powdered the old man's a.s.s. And I'm sick of it.

"All right, Robert," came Cynthia's watery voice. "I'll go down stairs, then."

"Yes, you do that. I'll make us all a coffee when I come down."

"B-b-berra bera"

Robert didn't know if the old man was trying to speak or just blowing water from his lips.

"Soon have you done and dusted," he boomed at Stan. Then he turned on both bath faucets. The water came out in fat glistening jets, swirling round the old man's legs, rising up along the tub sides, covering the old man's genitals. The p.e.n.i.s was large and thick, not at all shriveled as he would have expected. But it was unusually white and looked more like a stick of celery lying there in the bath.

Robert gazed at the rising water. The shock of the cold dousing had shut Stan up nicely. No more babble about Baby Bones or Harry, or whatever else obsessed that senile brain.

The old man's ear must have been sore still from the lightning strike. A blister swelled from the skin like a black grape.

Robert shook his head. What had happened to his luck? Here he was living with his rich father-in-law, waiting for the b.a.s.t.a.r.d to die. The man gets an ear full of electricity when lightning strikes the telephone lines but all he suffers is a single blister on his ear. G.o.d Almighty. The old b.a.s.t.a.r.d's indestructible.

A rage that was bitter and dark swept through Robert Gregory, searing him from head to toe. Where was the justice? What had happened to his-Robert Gregory's-luck? Had he broken a mirror, or shot a freaking albatross or something?

Eyes glazing, he watched water rush into the tub, climbing up the sides, swirling round Stan's chicken bone chest. A few minutes ago Robert had been running his eyes over the man's bankbooks. There was the money. Tens of thousands. Like rows of b.l.o.o.d.y telephone numbers. But Robert Gregory couldn't touch a penny of it. Then there were the great bundles of t.i.tle deeds to Price's dozens of properties. The wily old beggar had not just run a chain of TV rental stores, he'd bought the land on which they stood, and the buildings that housed the stores might be as much as four or five stories high. The upper-floors he'd let as offices. Although the Ezy-View TV business had gone, the money river still flowed. Only Stan Price was too addled to spend it. And the accountant Stan had hired years ago merely allowed a n.i.g.g.ardly amount through to cover the running of the house, food and taxes.

Dear G.o.da again that dark wave of bitterness ran through Robert. The money was so close he could almost taste ita Now all that Stan need do is something that thousands of men and women did the world over every day.

DIE.

It couldn't be simpler for the old man, could it? He didn't need what was left of his brains to figure out how to expire. All he need do was breathe his last breath. For his blood to curdle in his heart. Then all that lovely, lovely liquid money would come gus.h.i.+ng Robert's way. Dear Lord. The things he could doa Robert gazed down at the water bubbling over the old man's chest.

The moneya that's what Robert wanted. He could do so much. So many wonderful things. Dear G.o.da in Leeds he'd seen a beautiful little prost.i.tute doing her rounds in black leather pants; they'd been so tight shea "Bath's full. Bath's full."

The words were a slap in his face. In a white-hot fury he glared down at the man. "What's wrong with you?" he snapped. "I don't give you enough food to keep a rat alive and still you keep spouting your f.u.c.king gibberish." He mimicked a whiny voice. "Baby Bones, Harry, Mr. Kelly, letters, scary lettersa s.h.i.+t, you can't be indestructible! You can't!"

With that he put both hands on Stan's shoulders and pushed him down hard. The man's rump skittered along the bath; his head went under with hardly a splash.

From underwater the man's blue eyes gazed up into Robert's. They were so shot full of surprise that Robert wanted to laugh viciously at them. Bubbles streamed from the ancient mouth.

Robert bore down on the man. The only sound, the water streaming from the faucets into the bath.

He pictured the smiling face of the pretty little prost.i.tute. Oh, he knew she'd be so hot, so charged with s.e.x-not like that ragdoll wife of his. The money would be- "Robert. I've brought a clean pair of pajamas."

Robert's eyes snapped into focus. He saw the old man's face beneath the water. Blue eyes gazed limply up into his.

Robert snapped his head round. With her father naked Cynthia wouldn't come into the bathroom. Even so, she held her arm through the door, dangling the pajamas.

Dear G.o.d! This wasn't the way!

Robert thrust his hands down under the old man's shoulders and pulled him up clear of the water. The head rolled. Stan coughed out the water, then breathed deeply.

No, he couldn't drown the old mana the police would realize that he hadn't died of natural causes. No, there had to be another way. Subtle, think subtle, he told himself as he watched Stan wipe his face with those liver spotted claws of his.

h.e.l.l's teeth, the old man had the lungs and heart of a marine. It would need a bullet to finish him.

Outside the door Cynthia sounded agitated as if she guessed all wasn't well in the bathroom. "Robert. Is Dad all right? Why's he making that noise?"

Still she didn't come into the bathroom. Robert found himself talking to the hand that held the pajamas. "Dad's got some shampoo in his eye. We're taking care of it now." Robert sounded as hearty as ever. G.o.d, when it came to keeping up a pretence he was good. "We'll soon have you right as rain, won't we, Dad?"

Stan Price looked up. For a second there was just a hint of reproach in his eyes. But the man had the memory retention of a goldfish.

Confusion seeped back into his expression. He ran a hand through rat-tails of hair. "I'm hungry," he cried plaintively. "Is it suppertime?"

2.

Heaven is an abandoned railway station in a cemetery. The thought ran through Paul Newton's head as he held Miranda. This was the third visit to the old building. A dozen candles burned, sending wisps of smoke to the ceiling; a hundred shadows danced on the walls.

How many times had he made love to her now? Seven? Eight?

Eight, it must be eight. Condom factories would be forced to work overtime at this rate. Smiling, he nuzzled her fragrant hair. They should really put on their clothes again. There was a chance someone might slip into the ticket hall through the window with the loose board, just as Paul and Miranda had. And just like them, it might be another teenage couple looking for a piece of private heaven.

But it was so good lying here beside her on the upholstered bench. Her naked body was a whole landscape of curves, crests, hill, valleys. A place for his stroking fingers to explore, leave for new territories, then return a few moments later.

"Mmma that feels good," she breathed. "Are you sure you haven't done this before?" She kissed his chest.

"What makes you say that?" He smiled.

"Paul, don't kid me. You were a virgin until Sunday evening, weren't you?"

"Me? No way."

Her voice continued in a gentle sleepy purr. "Miranda knowsa Miranda knows. But I think you're well up the learning curve now."

"Practice makes perfect."

"Is there one left in that packet?"

He smiled. "Well, I do believe there is."

"Good," she said firmly, then she held him tight. "Use it."

CHAPTER 25.

Wednesday evening. At the same time as Paul lay with Miranda in the Necropolis station, and while old Stan Price coughed bath water from his throat, John Newton sat gazing down through the gla.s.s into the millrace. The floodwaters were falling but the bottom of the chamber still churned white as if beasts writhed beneath the surface. If he could have lifted the observation window like a trap door no doubt he'd have been struck by spray, along with an updraft of icy air and the roar of water.

Despite the fact he sat there without moving a muscle his thoughts mirrored the turbulent waters below. The result of searching the house was a great fat zero. This time he'd found no convenient tin trunk full of the letters Kelly received seventy years ago. Maybe he burned them. Maybe he dumped the whole lot over the s.h.i.+p's rail as it chugged across the great, wide Atlantic to Canada. John wouldn't have blamed the man.

Again he wrestled with his own dilemma.

So, he told himself, you can jump two ways with this. You could go with the scenario that there's some freak writing the letters, leaving them in the garden at night, then no doubt exulting in the perverse thrill of watching all those poor saps (including one John Newton) trekking shamefaced up to the Bowen grave with gifts of chocolate, beer and red b.a.l.l.s.

But then he could jump in the other direction. The direction pointed out by old Miss Kelly. That all this was the product of some monstrosity that had haunted these hills and valleys long before the Romans had even driven their highway through the place two thousand years ago.

He strained to accept the first scenario: the control freak forging letters. Then said freak laughing himself into a sweat while he watched all those jerked-around fools rus.h.i.+ng to pour beer over the grave. But John's instincts were pus.h.i.+ng him to the second scenario. He wished to h.e.l.l they weren't. It bordered on madness. Yet deep inside, a primeval sliver of his brain insisted, 'Yes. What the old woman told you is true.' It was the same cl.u.s.ter of brain cells that prompted you to throw spilt salt over your left shoulder, or not to walk under a ladder, or that gave you that momentary twinge of unease when you realized you had to take a flight on Friday the 13th.

Yes, of course it's a heap of c.r.a.ppola; it's all solid sterling silver b.o.l.l.o.c.ksa or so you tell yourself. But doesn't a knot of unease appear in your stomach when that magazine horoscope catches your eye? The one that warns you a spell of bad luck is coming your way? He remembered as a child when he lived at number 11 Hadrian Close. He'd always been amused by the fact that the house numbers skipped from 11 to 15. Hey, these were rational people in Hadrian Close-schoolteachers, lawyers, hardheaded salespeople. But were any of them happy to move into a house with number 13 on the door?

Were they h.e.l.l.

Superst.i.tion isn't a one-off peculiarity of Hadrian Close either. When he became a paperboy he never did find a house numbered thirteen on his round. The house after number eleven was either 11A or nimbly skipped ahead to 15.

He stared dreamily through the gla.s.s into tumbling waters now flecked green with pondslime carried down from the lake. All the time the gluttonous throat of the tunnel gorged on the water, sucking it down into the roaring darkness beneath the house. Driftwood raked stonework like fleshless fingers. It hammered against archways. The sound worked its way into his brain. He clenched his fists and shut his eyes because at that moment it seemed as if it would continue for an eternity.

CHAPTER 26.

1.

The June sun returned. That Thursday morning the heat hit the moist ground, raising a mist that buried Skelbrooke as deep as the rooftops.

Robert Gregory wiped the sweat from his forehead with a hunk of kitchen roll. His hands shook; his stomach twisted like a hundred little hands plaited the muscles.

Big daya it's a big day, Robert. A big daya He tried to stop the same thought shooting round and around his head. He couldn't. It was all he could do to stop saying it out loud. It's a big day, a big, big day. They don't come any bigger. It's aa "Robert, have you seen Dad?" Cynthia walked into the kitchen with an armful of was.h.i.+ng.

"Upstairs in his room as far as I know, dear." Robert sweated hard. He leaned forward resting his hands on the worktop making a show of staring out the window, so she wouldn't notice the way b.a.l.l.s of perspiration stood out on his forehead. "Will you take a look at that mist? I haven't seen anything as bad as that in years."

She looked. "Good heavens. You can't even see as far as the gate." With a sigh she began to push laundry into the was.h.i.+ng machine. "I hope it clears soon. I want to get this onto the line." Pausing, she frowned. "Are you sure Dad's still in his room? I thought I heard him coming downstairs about half an hour ago."

"Positive, dear. He was listening to his radio."

"I can't hear anything. I best check."

"No, dear. I'll do that." The muscle knots had reached into his throat. "I'll check in a minute. I was going to make some coffee first."

"Thank you, love. I'll make a start on the ironing."

Robert Gregory stood with his hands bunched into fists on the worktop. He stared out into the mist that swirled like a lake of milk round the house, hiding the gates in the garden wall.

A gleeful horror blazed inside of him. Cynthia could have stood beside him, stared into the mist-stared until her eyes bulged-but she wouldn't have seen that the gate was open.

Just a few minutes ago Stan Price had shuffled downstairs wearing a business suit over his pajamas. Robert opened the kitchen door, then he went down through the mist to the gate and unlocked it. When he'd returned to the house the old man was walking out of the outhouse with that dotty old straw hat on his head. For some reason he also clutched a briefcase to his chest like it was a sickly child. The briefcase had seen better days. The leather sides were cracked and wormy looking. Cobwebs clung to it in dusty white clots.

"I'm going to the office," he'd told Robert. "There's a consignment of color televisions due todaya you know, this time next year there will be a color television in every house." He adjusted the straw hat. "I'll be back around five."

Robert had shot a sweaty look at the house. Cynthia wasn't in sight.

"OK, Dad," he whispered. "I'd look sharp if I were you. You're running late."

"Oh, mustn't be late. It would set a bad example. Cheerio."

With that the man had hobbled away; the business suit pants not quite meeting the jacket, exposing a backside of striped pajama.

Robert had stood, not daring to breathe in case Cynthia appeared. If she saw her father it would ruin everything. But no. Stan moved off down the garden to be swallowed whole by the mist.

Now, twenty minutes after Stan's departure, Robert still looked out the window. His eyes burned into the mist. Even though he couldn't see more than thirty paces his mind's eye flew like a missile through the fog.

He pictured the man, shuffling in that rapid little step of his, straw hat on his head, filthy briefcase clutched in both hands. Stan Price was making for the Ezy View office in Leeds. An office that hadn't existed for the last ten years.

But that didn't matter to Robert Gregory. His heart hammered. He was frightened, elated, excited and sickened all at the same time. Because it took no effort on his part to imagine the old man walking through the misty streets. He'd be heading for the long disused railway station up by the Necropolis.

It was dangerous enough for a feeble old man up there. Even more dangerous was the main road he must cross. Through the thick mist trucks, buses, cars, motorbikes and vans would come ripping through the countryside. Of course they always drove too fast. Visibility was poor. A doddering oldster would be putting his life in his hands crossing a road like that.

Especially one as confused as Stan Price.

Robert Gregory's luck was changing. He could feel it. The blood roared through his head. It's a big daya it's a very big daya

2.