Darkness Demands Part 32

1.

The cursor pulsed on the screen in front of him. In that disconnected state he entered after working for a while he wrote, lost in the words that appeared on-screen. He was no longer conscious of the world around him. The hot sun on the blind. The dog asleep beneath the desk. A wasp buzzing against the windowpane.

Every now and again a sense came strongly to him that the laws of time had melted. As his fingers. .h.i.t the keys he could picture Herbert Kelly typing in this room seventy years ago. Both he and Kelly had the same thing on their minds. Letters that arrived at the dead of night. Kelly must have asked himself the same questions that John Newton asked now. Where did the letters come from? How were they delivered? Who wrote them?

Did Kelly wrestle with the concept that no human being was their author?

He must have done. And Herbert Kelly must have paused typing, too, to stare at the wall lost in thought. No doubt as the same sun struck the blinds, as a wasp murmured against the window pane and as another dog in another decade dozed by his master's feet.

John wrote, conscious that he'd become a near echo of Herbert Kelly. Both were the same age when the letters arrived. Both must have reacted the same way initially. Surprise, even amus.e.m.e.nt, followed by a degree of outrage that an intruder had crept onto their property. Then outrage giving way to unease and fear. Probably Kelly had gone the same route as John, hunting out others who'd received anonymous letters with demands for trivial gifts, yet uttering threats for non-compliance.

John had been sitting at the desk two hours now, devouring books on British myths and legends, then typing with machine gun speed, filling the screen with black print.

Someone once said that 'the past is another country.' That may be, but humanity had arrived at this country of the present, still carrying baggage from 'the old country' of long ago. And that old country of the past was awash with superst.i.tion. No one could escape it. It governed lives as much as the laws of government today. Similarly, to break any of those laws of superst.i.tion, either deliberately or accidentally, could land you in a whole heap of trouble. He ran through a list he'd written.

It's bad luck to point at the sun. Bad luck, also, to walk counterclockwise around a church. And bad luck for all the following, too: not to bow to a new moon; to put shoes on a table; to open an umbrella indoors; to bring elder branches into the house, and most definitely it's bad luck to cut the fingernails of a child under the age of twelve months (the child would become a thief). Omens of death included seeing a b.u.t.terfly at night, seeing a cricket leaving the house. Or if sunlight fell on a mourner at a funeral it meant that person's imminent death. On the other hand, you might encourage good luck to come your way by stirring your pans clockwise or nailing a horseshoe to your door.

Even hardheaded lawyers couldn't shrug off the idea that the sun and the moon had supernatural powers over people. The Lunatic Act of 1842 coolly defined a lunatic as 'a person afflicted with a period of fatuity (fancy lawyer-speak for idiocy or lunacy) in the period following the full moon.' In short lawyers were even prepared to accept that seeing a full moon might drive you nuts.

Smart people not only learnt to recognize bad omens, but also learnt measures to protect themselves from evil. Horseshoes were a favorite. If you were really smart you could tap into the occult powers. A girl curious to know the ident.i.ty of the guy she'd marry would peel an apple then throw the peel back over her shoulder. If it formed a letter, then that was the initial of the man she'd get hitched to. And just because the calendar had scrolled on a few years that didn't drain superst.i.tion of its potency.

John recalled a physics teacher at school; a practical man to the very marrow of his bones. Once he'd talked about leukemia treatment he'd received as a child. The teacher had finished off by saying, 'I'm healthy enough now, touch wood.' And he'd actually looked for a piece of wood to touch. That had meant him walking a dozen paces to press his finger against a doorframe.

Someone piped up, 'Are you superst.i.tious, sir?'

The teacher replied, 'No, of course not.'

'Then why did you touch the wood, sir?'

'Because I'd be a fool if I didn't.'

Which just about summed up modern humanity's att.i.tude to superst.i.tion, John told himself. Deep down we feel we must protect ourselves from some ent.i.ty that has the power to inflict bad luck. So we still throw salt over our shoulder into the eye of the Devil, or we touch wood, or we avoid walking under ladders. Superst.i.tion in its many forms continues to leak into our lives. John scanned the list on the computer screen again.

If you suffer from warts rub the wart with a potato, then put the potato in a dry place. As the potato shrivels the wart shrivels with it.

To cure an alcoholic give him a drink from a cup made of ivy wood.

To bring good luck to a new home bury a c.o.c.kerel in the foundations.

To protect your home from evil plant hedges of holly.

On impulse he went to the window.

"Just look at that, Sam," he murmured, "in every garden a holly bush. But we'll be all right, won't we, boy? Touch wood."

2.

By mid-day the sun had taken the shadows. Temperatures climbed remorselessly now, drying the soil into scales. John fed the dog, then returned to the briefcase in the shed. The key wouldn't turn in the lock. He sprayed more oil through the keyhole. d.a.m.n. The contents could have been sitting in a valley on Mars for all he could get his hands on them.

He realized he could cut the leather strap, but that would be like desecrating one of Herbert Kelly's cherished possessions. He could imagine the young schoolmaster of more than seventy years ago, setting the white Panama hat on his head, kissing his wife and daughters, then walking to the village school, whistling as he went while proudly swinging the briefcase.

No, there wouldn't be much left that Kelly held dear. He'd not damage the briefcase.

John was making a sandwich when Paul walked through the door. John noticed the time stood a little before two, then he shot a questioning look at his son whose expression was stone-like.

"You're home early, Paul."

"I don't feel well."

"What's wrong?"

Paul hung his bag on the back of a kitchen chair, then kicked off his shoes. One struck the dog's bowl splas.h.i.+ng water against a cupboard.

"OK, I'll wipe it up," Paul snapped before John could open his mouth. Angrily he dragged a bundle of kitchen tissue from the roll.

As casually as he could John asked, "Can I get you anything?"

"How do you mean?"

"Aspirin or a drink."

"No, I just feel sick that's all."

"Oh."

John sensed he walked on eggsh.e.l.ls now. Paul looked tense. Something had happened at school. But just what was anyone's guess.

John finished making the sandwich, then said, "Is anything bothering you?"

"What do you mean?" Again that defensive rise in his voice. "Nothing's bothering me."

"Paul, if there's a problem you can always-"

"There isn't a problem. Why do you always have to ask that? Like I'm a mental case or something!"

"Paul, if you give me a chance to-"

"OK! I smoke dope and f.u.c.k the Pope, what more do you want to know?"

"Paul. There's no need to kick off like that. I only asked-"

"You only ask this, you only ask that. What's wrong? Can't you write the f.u.c.king book!" His face flushed red. "Jeeza I hate this!"

John had never seen his son like this before.

Paul looked a step away from totally freaking out. He glared round the kitchen, his fists clenched. He seemed to be looking for something to hit.

Then he s.n.a.t.c.hed the bag, sending the chair skittering across the tiles with a teeth-jagging screech. Without saying another word he marched out of the room. A moment later John heard Paul's bedroom door bang.

After that, John sat with the uneaten sandwich in front of him. He felt like an idiot, knowing he should say something to his son. But what? And what had brought on that near epileptic outburst?

Is that you, Baby Bones?

Did you make this happen?

I've given you what you want. So why are you s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around with my family? I've yielded to your demandsa I don't ignore your letters anymore. Baby Bones? Do you hear? Give us a break. I don't ignore your lettersa I'm missing a letter.

The thought hit him hard enough to make him sit up straight. No- that wasn't possible. He'd found each letter out there on the patio. With the exception of the first one, he'd quickly complied with whatever was demanded-the beer, the red ball. So, the demands were trivial but he'd played by the rules of the letter writer's game.

He went out onto the patio, his eyes scanning the stone slabs. They were clear. No chunks of gravestone. No letters waiting there as insidious as drops of poison.

He s.h.i.+elded his eyes against the burning sun. No. This was ridiculous; he was turning frigging paranoid. He'd gotten like those poor saps who daren't get out of bed on Friday 13th, or slept with a row of onions on their window to stop the boogie man from climbing in. He wouldn't let superst.i.tion eat into him like some mental cancer. That was nothing less than f.u.c.king schizophrenia.

The heat bore down on him, his s.h.i.+rt burned against his skin, making him itch uncomfortably. The dog paced nervously some way off, eyeing him as if he'd turned rabid.

Yeah, man bites dog. That's a headline.

s.h.i.+ta think straight, Newton.

Paul's been stung with some s.h.i.+t that teenagers get stung with every now and again. Now he's come home to p.i.s.s pure liquid anger over everyone. That's all! You can't blame this on the big bad spook that lives under the hill.

But no. He felt it in his guts.

Once more he searched the patio. This time, right under the patio table he saw that one of the shadows had acquired a lump. Skin crawling, he dived down at it. He grabbed the black lump as if he was grabbing a live rat and pulled it out.

There in his hand, a little larger than a paperback book, sat a shard of tombstone shaped like a heart. On it was one word: taken.

His mouth dried. He'd not seen this stone before. He'd swear.

A moment later he confirmed the fact when he counted the pieces of tombstone that had arrived with the letters. He'd received three letters. But now he had four lumps of dead stone.

How's your arithmetic, John? Four pieces of stone? Three letters?

One of the letters is missing.

CHAPTER 29.

1.

That afternoon John, by turns, looked for the missing letter or fumed over the recalcitrant lock. He sprayed more oil into the keyhole then left the bag on the workbench to allow the lubricant to seep into the mechanism.

By now, he couldn't look at the brief case without his heart beating faster. There was crucial information in there, he knew it-a treasure chest of answers.

Next he went through the trash. As he slipped a pair of polythene freezer bags onto his hands to serve as mittens to keep the festering goo off of him, he wondered if Val had gone onto the patio that morning, seen the letter, and simply dumped it. Alternatively, Paul or Elizabeth might have moved it.

Flies attacked the trash as eagerly as he did. They clamored around junked food that had been sweated good and hard by the sun. He plunged his hands down through layers of cans, paper bags all soggy and brown, empty coleslaw cartons, garlic dip, salsa and cottage cheese. h.e.l.l, this was a witches' brew and a half.

At first the dog came, his nose high, sniffing, as the fresher food smells rolled out of the trash can. But as John excavated deeper, turning up a full carton of cream that oozed green pus, the dog backed away, sneezing.

No joy. Queasy from the stench, he peeled the plastic bags from his hands.

John Newton was convinced a letter had arrived. He realized the repercussions if he failed to meet the demands. Bad things would happen. To his family. To him. Simple as that.

Look at Keith Haslem. He believed he could escape the influence of the letters simply by leaving the village. He'd thought wrong. Now he lay in a hospital bed, paralyzed by a stroke; his face melted by a boiling shower.

After scrubbing his hands he went upstairs.

Paul lay on his bed, fingers knitted behind his head, staring up at the ceiling.

"Paul?"

"Yeah."

"How're you feeling?"

"Great," he grunted.

"Can I get you anything?"

"I'm trying to sleep, Dad."

"Sorrya just one thing though?"

"What?"

"You didn't find anything on the patio this morning?"