Darkness Demands Part 3

Now it was the middle-aged couple hurrying red-faced up the hill.

John didn't know their names but he'd seen them before in the village. The woman was mousy, dressed plainly and struck him as being shy; certainly way down the list when it came to saying boo to a goose. Her husband was st.u.r.dily built, smiled a lot and spoke loudly when he came into the pub. He was one who'd call out, "Usual, love!" to the barmaid no matter how many were at the bar before him.

Today they looked like yet another Skelbrooke family in crisis. On seeing John the man's face s.h.i.+fted from fuming irritation to broad smiles. The pair continued by as if enjoying nothing more than a walk up the lane.

But once they'd gone by, John heard the woman whisper, "Robert. Ask him?"

"Noa do you want everyone to know?" This was also whispered but Robert's whisper was the kind that people in the next street hear.

"Robert, pleasea"

"Uha all right."

By this time John had the gates open and was heading back to the car.

"Eha excuse mea ah?"

John turned to look back at the man.

"Sorry to trouble you," the man began; the voice gruff, no nonsense; not apologetic in any shape or form. "But we're looking fora uhma"

"We're looking for my father." This time the wife had plucked up courage to speak. It was probably fear that did it. Her voice was quick sounding, breathless. "I wonder if you've seen him. He was wearing pajamas and he's a bit, well-"

"Forgetful," the man said, tactful at last.

John nodded. "I did as a matter of fact."

darkness demands "Oh when?" The woman sounded brighter now.

"Just a few minutes ago."

"Oh, you couldn't show us where, could you? We're ever so worried about him."

She looked worried. His eyes still carried a flash of anger.

"I'm sorry. I can't, my daughter's had a fall from her bike. I need to get her to the hospital." As soon as he said the words he felt like an unfeeling s.h.i.+t; an uncharitable s.h.i.+t at that.

"Oh, no, don't worry." The woman sounded embarra.s.sed for having asked. Her dark mouse-like eyes darted nervously as she spoke. "Don't let us keep you. I'm sure we'll find him."

Guiltily, John Newton walked back to the car. Elizabeth's injuries weren't life threatening by any stretch of the imagination. Perhaps if he spared a few moments to help look for the old man? John felt a sudden sympathy for the woman. Certainly her husband wasn't showing much in the way of compa.s.sion. The man was standing on the gra.s.s banking, a hand s.h.i.+elding his eyes as he scanned the meadow. He looked more like a hunter searching for something to kill rather than a man looking for his elderly father-in-law.

But the moment John saw Elizabeth he knew where his priorities lie. She looked pale now. Shock had started to kick in. The tissue had turned a soggy ma.s.s of red.

"Come here, hon," he said, climbing into the car. "Let me take that tissue away. Therea use the towel instead."

"But it'll get messed up with blood."

"Don't worry," he said gently. "It might help stop the bleeding."

"Will it wash?" She sounded anxious.

"I'm sure it will."

"Are you sure my shoes aren't ruined?"

He didn't give them a second glance; instead he gave her a warm, rea.s.suring smile. "They're fine. The important thing is that we get that chin of yours fixed."

Holding the towel to her chin, she nodded. "I'll be glad when we get to the hospital."

He figured by that the wound was beginning to hurt. Starting the car, he reversed out onto the lane. The couple were standing on the gra.s.s bank looking over the hedge into the meadow.

As he turned the car he saw a pair of figures moving slowly-very slowly-down from the top of the lane. There was the elderly man in striped pajamas. His head hung down with exhaustion. Helping him carefully by the arm was Mr. Marcello from the post office.

The daughter and son-in-law hadn't noticed the pair yet. Both still stood looking over the hedge.

John, relieved to be of some help, touched the horn long enough to catch the couple's attention. When they looked at him he pointed in the direction of the old man and Martin Marcello. The couple saw the old man immediately. The woman shot John a grateful smile.

As John drove forward down the lane toward the main road, he said to Elizabeth, "There's my good deed for the day."

"What good deed, Dad?"

He smiled. "It doesn't matter. How're you feeling, hon?"

"Fine. It doesn't hurt."

Which he interpreted as her chin was hurting, only she was trying hard to be brave.

What a day! And it wasn't even halfway through yet. His neighbors had fled from their house, apparently half crazy with fear. He'd witnessed a geriatric runaway. His daughter had opened up what looked like a second mouth under her chin-blood everywhere. He even felt its sticky grip on the steering wheel. But he'd no need to worry now. The hospital would fix the wound. Soon she'd be back watching cartoons. John decided to buy some comfort food for her on the way home. Perhaps one of those bright green fondant frog cakes from the baker's in the village.

Turning onto the main road, he told himself it had been one of those crazy daysa or crazy mornings, he correcteda when everything had either gone wrong, or had been downright weird. Already he half glimpsed a pattern to the weirdness, as if the runaway old man and the fleeing family, and maybe even his daughter's accident, yearned to be connected together into a coherent pattern. But he was still too shaken by all that blood to think about it right now.

As he accelerated away from the village Elizabeth asked if she could listen to her favorite CD. He said it was. Then he tried to concentrate on the road ahead. Not the redness that bloomed like a flower through the towel she pressed to her chin.

CHAPTER 4.

1.

The old man called from the bedroom window. "Harry, the letters have started. Go up to the Water Mill and warn Mr. Kellya he'll know what to do. There'll be trouble if we don't do anything. Harry? Where are you, Harry? Why won't you answer me?"

In the garden below Robert Gregory shook his head behind his paper.

The old man called again louder, "Harry? It's me, Stan Price, why won't you answer me, Harry?"

"Because he's been dead for the last five years. You went to the funeral, you stupid old goat."

"Robert? Did you call me?" The mousy woman came out through the back door. She was carrying a bowl full of potato peelings.

Robert Gregory jerked his head at the bedroom window where the old man leaned out. "He's been calling from that window for the last twenty minutes. Can't you do anything to quiet him down?"

"I'm sorry, Robert, he's never like this usually. It's probably that nasty letter. Whoever sent it wants locking up."

"I've told you, Cynthia. It'll just be kids. But can't you do anything with him?"

"Robert, he's confused."

"He's upsetting the neighbors, Cynthia."

"He's never usually like this. It's the-"

"The letter, I know." Robert returned to his paper, staring gloomily at the sports pages. "But we can't have him yelling out of the window all day. I won't be able to show my face in the pub at this rate."

"Once he's had his dinner he'll quiet down."

"Lord, let's hope so."

The old man's voice sprang up again. A notch higher, as if in desperation. "Harry! Harry! The letters have started again. Go up to the Water Mill; warn Mr. Kelly. Harry?"

"Jesus wept," Robert Gregory muttered.

Cynthia Gregory looked up at the window. "Don't go upsetting yourself, Dad, please."

"Harry!"

"Go back to bed, Dad."

"Harry! It's the letters!"

"Oh, Dad, please. I'm making your dinnera"

"Harry. It's Baby Bonesa Baby Bones is back."

Robert muttered to himself. "Christ. It's a d.a.m.n mad housea we'll all be as bad as him before we're through."

"Robert." Cynthia sounded wounded. "It's not his fault. He's suffering from dementia."

"It's not him that's suffering from dementia," Robert grunted. "We're the ones suffering from it."

"Harry! Come to the window, Harry! It's the letters again. Tell Mr. Kelly."

In a tight voice Robert Gregory spoke to the old man in the window. "Dad, don't you remember? Harry's dead. He died five years ago. You went to the funeral."

"Harrya Harry! I got a letter! Harry, I'm frightened!"

"Poor Dad." Cynthia's eyes watered.

"Poor us."

"He's calling his old friend," Cynthia said, "They were friends before they even went to school together. Harry lived in the house there, just over the back fence. Dad used to tell me he'd call Harry from his bedroom window just As he's doing now, then they'd go fis.h.i.+ng together."

"Harry! Hara reee." The old man's voice cracked. He sounded close to weeping.

Cynthia sighed, "Oh, I better go up to him, I suppose."

"Harry! Listen to me. It's Baby Bonesa He's back. He's back!"

"Dear G.o.d," Robert Gregory murmured into his newspaper. "If I ever get like that put a bullet in my head."

2.

John Newton had returned home from the hospital by early afternoon. He had managed to get a message through to Val about Elizabeth's accident. She'd called in some favors to finish work early. As they made sandwiches in the kitchen at the Water Mill he'd run through the day's events. He told her about the departure of the Haslems, and seeing the old man attempting to flee the village up the back lane. How Martin Marcello had followed him from the post office, after noticing old Mr. Price, shuffling away from home in his pajamas. And how the old man had finally been reunited with his daughter and son-in-law.

Val washed cherry tomatoes in the sink. Her mind was still firmly with Elizabeth. "Did they say anything else at the hospital?"

"No, apart from not getting the wound wet for a week."

"And they're certain she doesn't need st.i.tches?"

"No, they used tape to hold the wound together."

"There's bound to be a scar."

"There will. But it will be right under here." John pointed with the tip of the knife under his chin. "No one will see it."

"G.o.d, I'm away a couple of hours and all h.e.l.l breaks loose."

"Hey, you're not blaming me, are you?"

"No, John." She smiled, relaxing a little. "I know these things happen. She's going to be all right, that's the main thing."

"And perhaps a bit wiser, too," he said. "She might not go so fast on her bike again."

"And pigs might fly. Just make sure she wears the helmet, John."