Darkness Demands Part 5

"They've been locked years. The place isn't used anymore."

"At least this lot will rest in peace, then." He nodded at the acres of headstones lying beneath the trees.

"Maybe not. Lots of people come here after dark to be alone." She gave that beautiful smile again, her dark eyes catching the glints of light falling through the branches. "There are always couples sipping wine in the graveyard at midnight, if you know what I mean?" She wrinkled her nose.

He nodded and said that he did while frantically sifting his memory for the meaning of the expression. But the look in her eye was interpretation enough. She meant people made out here. He thought of naked bodies lying entwined on the grave slab of 'Nathaniel Benjamin 1863-1938, Mayor of Dewsbury and husband to Mary. Peace after great suffering.' Dear G.o.d, how could you keep your finger on the b.u.t.ton when you could picture Benjamin's skull leering up at you through six feet of grave soil?

"Come on," she said. "I'll show you round."

Then she did something surprising, yet wonderfully exciting-she took his hand in hers, then they walked hand in hand amongst the headstones-alone but for the bones of eighty thousand dead.

6.

While his teenage son was moving deeper into the graveyard and at the same time beginning to cross that boundary between boyhood and manhood, John Newton sat in an armchair at the Water Mill eating a sandwich. Val, from beneath a smoky fringe of hair, shot him glances with come-to-bed eyes.

Meanwhile, Elizabeth, with her bandaged jaw, lay on her side like a Roman aristocrat, her top half propped up on one elbow as she drank from a carton of juice. She'd chosen to lie on a gla.s.s section of floor that was the window to the millrace. Through it you could see water running beneath the house. It was certainly this square of gla.s.s some four foot by eight that had sold the house to them all those months ago. One look at it, as he and Val walked in for the first time, and WOW! They were well and truly snared.

Both had gazed in wonder. The gla.s.s panels set in the floor were incredibly strong-'you could march elephants across those' the vendor had told them. 'It won't so much as crack.' But still John Newton found it an effort of will to actually stand on the gla.s.s floor and peer down into what amounted to a pit of darkness. It didn't make it any easier when lights beneath the gla.s.s were switched on to reveal torrents of water cascading through the stone tunnel. In years gone by the flow would turn the waterwheel, which drove the millstones that ground wheat into flour.

So, Val and John had toured the house, climbed back into the car, telling the vendor that they'd other properties to see. They'd driven all of thirty yards when Val turned to him and said, "John, we've got to have it, haven't we?"

John had nodded. The Water Mill was irresistible. They'd gone straight back and made the offer.

Of course, as in the rest of life, nothing ever goes that smoothly. They offered less than the asking price. The vendor haggled. Then they'd sat and drank coffee over the millrace again, gazing in wonder at the hundreds of gallons of water tumbling just feet beneath their feet, then-collapse of stout party-they'd caved in and offered the vendor's asking price. After a protracted song and dance between banks, lawyers, structural engineers, surveyors and for some reason the lady who lived down the street, it was all settled. Five months after clapping eyes on the place the Newton's moved in. For weeks afterwards they'd switch off the TV and gaze down through the gla.s.s floor at those speeding waters. In the light of the spot lamps the torrents never looked the same twice. If it were sunny for more than a day or two the water would take on a hint of green from algae in the water. If it rained heavily, clays in the streambed dramatically stained the water blood red.

The effect was nothing less than magical. It hadn't even been dampened when Paul gleefully told Elizabeth there was a local legend that children had drowned there in the tunnel beneath the house.

Threats of grounding plus removal of the computer from Paul's bedroom encouraged him to retract the story.

Still, Elizabeth would gaze down through the gla.s.s at the waters swirling just four feet below and ask thoughtfully, "Dad, do you think anyone has ever drowned down there before?"

John always made a point of laughing as if the idea was just plain silly, then he'd distract her by changing the subject.

Elizabeth lay on her favorite spot on the gla.s.s, directly above the rus.h.i.+ng stream. Even though the thick gla.s.s s.h.i.+elded her completely from what must have been a considerable roar, Elizabeth told them she liked to feel the vibration of it tickling her behind as she sat there.

Once after a particularly heavy downfall of rain (and when both Paul and Elizabeth were at school) John made love to Val on the observation window. The vibrating gla.s.s certainly did have a stimulating effect. Even if the image did linger in John's mind of the gla.s.s giving way beneath their combined weight, and plunging them into the torrent below.

"How's the chin, hon?" John asked.

"OK," Elizabeth replied, more interested now in what was happening to Tom & Jerry on the TV than the state of her chin.

"Does it still hurt?"

"No."

John smiled and shook his head. The girl was made of iron and steel all right. He only wished she'd develop a greater sense of self-preservation. She sucked on the carton straw; some juice dripped down to stain the dressing bandaged there beneath her chin, so a blotch of raspberry contrasted with the rusty brown of the bloodstain. The dressing was maybe a bit too big for her chin, forming a projecting shelf onto which crumbs from her lunch had dropped. These John had to carefully remove with the pastry brush so they wouldn't become stuck in the drying gunk that was forming a scab.

"How's the book going?" Val asked.

"Not bad," he said, telling a little white lie. "I've written the first couple of pages." The last thing he wanted to admit right now was that he doubted if it would be even half as good as Blast His Eyes; and that already he'd begun to harbor fears that they might end up loosing the Water Mill before they'd even grown used to calling it home.

So, that was where the little white lie came in. It was there to protect Val, not deceive her. He didn't want her worrying needlessly at this stage. h.e.l.l, didn't he go through this crisis of confidence with every book he wrote? That comes with being a writer. Once you become c.o.c.ksure about your talent that's when you fall slap-bang on your face. Like taking an exam, or going for a job interview, a little fear was good for you. It spurred you on to make a greater effort. At least that's what he was telling himself now.

"Johna John?"

He looked up, snapping out of his gloomy trail of thought.

"John." Val gave him a direct look. "Seeing as Elizabeth is engrossed in watching television and Paul's out." She smiled. "I thought I'd have a shower. Come up and have one after me." Her voice was silkily casual. "Finish your coffee first, it will give me a couple of minutes to get ready."

Elizabeth was completely engrossed in the TV-the wonder that is Cartoon Network would keep her entertained for another hour at least.

Shooting him a provocative glance, Val left the room. Smiling to himself, he cleared away the plates to the kitchen, finished his coffee, returned the salad to the refrigerator, then locking the house doors, he told Elizabeth he was going up to shower.

"Mum, too?" Elizabeth asked in a disinterested kind of way. She'd seen this before.

"Yes, hon. Shout if you need anything."

His daughter nodded her bandaged head. "Enjoy yourself," she added obliquely.

He found himself coloring a little as he climbed the stairs.

Val lay beneath a white sheet. She lay on her back, hands behind her head, gazing up at the ceiling.

"Right on time." She smiled and pulled back the sheet so he could climb in.

Her body looked taut, almost cat-like, as she lay there naked. As he shed his own clothes, she stretched luxuriously. "I think we both need this." Her voice grew husky. "It will be therapeutic."

"I need some special therapy, I can tell you." Smiling he slid in beside her. Once more he marveled at how cool her skin felt against his. Her touch was deliciously gentle. Instantly the heat of sheer desire p.r.i.c.kled through him. Lightly, he kissed her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, paying particular attention to her nipples, which he feathered with his tongue. G.o.d, this felt good after all the s.h.i.+t today. The dull wearing ache of that two-hour hospital wait evaporated. He didn't think about the book. Or anything about the world outside.

He was going to escape into pa.s.sion. And pa.s.sion as hot and as sizzling as he could make it.

Already Val breathed deeply into his ear as she squirmed beneath the workings of his tongue. His hands joined in; either firmly ma.s.saging or caressing lightly.

"Oh, John," she sighed, pulling his head down to her nipple. Gently, he took the bud of hardening skin between his teeth and applied pressure.

"Harder." She moaned. "Bite harder."

The cry that came from her lips was powered by sheer pleasure.

Excited now, feeling a flame crackle through him, he rolled her fully onto her back. Her thighs closed round him, gripping his waist. He looked down at her face, her eyes were closed, her mouth partly open. Now her lips had grown big and red and moist. Her hair was a crazed veil half hiding her face.

"Now," she said urgently. "Now!"

He gripped her waist and drove himself into her. With every push of his hips, with every surge of her breathing, with her every moan of pleasure, the outside world-along with his baggage car of cares-receded into the distance and finally died away to nothing.

CHAPTER 5.

1.

Sunlight struck her face. It seemed nothing less than a physical blow as she ran from shadow to open ground. The place was an infestation of weeds, bushes, creepers, vines and acre upon acre of gravestones bulging from the ground like scabs.

Jesus Christ where is it?

She paused, sweaty, hot, breathless, a pain digging so deep into her side she cried with every breath she took.

Where the h.e.l.l was it? It had to be somewhere near here. She'd seen it plenty of times as a kid; she'd even freewheeled her bike across it once. It was a dare all local kids had scared themselves with at one time or other. Now the graveyard looked different to her. But then again it was fifteen years since she'd actually been in the place. The last time had been to offer up her virginity on some G.o.dforsaken tombstone shaped like a four-poster bed. The Virgin Buster they had called ita that's where many a Skelbrooke teenager had finally cut loose from Planet Childhooda h.e.l.l, she was rambling like a lunatic. This thing was. .h.i.tting her hard. Oh Jesus, she was so scared; she'd never been so scared. But where in Christ's name was the stone? She needed it now. She needed it so badly.

She took a path that forked to her right downhill. Trees reared over her once more like beasts from nightmare. Stone angels were overgrown and overwhelmed with bindweed. Nettles all but exploded from this tract of earth that held more than eighty thousand dead. As she ran, the carrier bag swinging from a balled fist, she read the headstones.

Corporal Stanley Harold Strong. Died of his wounds, Somme 1916. A glorious deatha Alice Wincanton Goodall, wife of Montgomery Nes.h.i.+t Goodall, yielded the spirit, December 25th 1879a Huxley Peter Wrathler, released by the Lord G.o.d of his suffering 1867, aged 93a Victoria Sefton, aged 6, drowned in the Water Mill Mere, July 2nd 1911-short was her race the longer is her rest, G.o.d called her hence because he thought it best, weep not for me my parents deara "d.a.m.n." The path ended, blocked by a pyramid-shaped tomb that was a full ten feet tall. Turning, Mary Thorp retraced her steps. She was thirty years old. Too young to die.

Again she toiled up the path, plunging into shadow before bursting into sunlight, sunlight so bright it felt as if laser beams where burning right through her eyes to sear her brain.

Dear G.o.d, where is it? It must be near here. She remembered the pyramid tomb; she remembered the statues of children on the Necropolis walla asweet little children taken into the arms of the lorda not dead, but sleepinga don't weep for us parents deara She was a slim blond woman, she looked fit, but this was taking a toll of her. A dozen different pains speared through her thigh and b.u.t.tock muscles. As she ran a branch speared the carrier bag, dragging her to a dead stop.

"s.h.i.+t! You b.a.s.t.a.r.d s.h.i.+t!"

Startled birds flew up from the bushes.

After dislodging the impaled carrier bag and checking that her precious gift was safe, she ran on, stopping every so often to read a headstone inscription, before howling with frustration. Mary Thorp prayed she found what she was looking before he found her. Him. Joe Budgen. That b.a.s.t.a.r.d was h.e.l.l-bent on tearing her apart. So she didn't wait for him while he was in gaol. What was she supposed to do? He'd gone down for eight years. How did she know he would be out in four? d.a.m.n prisons. Why don't they keep killers behind bars forever? Everyone knew that Joe Budgen had gone up to Harrison's place with the intention of killing him. Cops were so f.u.c.king blind.

Now Joe Budgen was out. He'd learnt she was living with Stevo; that she'd had a kid by him. And, Christ, Joe hated Stevo; he blamed him for gra.s.sing him up to the cops over that Ecstasy scam. And Joe would be even more p.i.s.sed if he found out that Mary fell pregnant with Liam within about three weeks of Joe being sent down.

She cut from the main path to wade through long gra.s.s. Sunlight forced her to squint so tightly she barely saw at all.

Where was that d.a.m.ned thing?

She had to find it soon. Had to.

Because now that was the key to everything.

She paused long enough to look round. h.e.l.l, the cemetery looked different from when she was last here fifteen years ago. Trees that were mature then had toppled in winter storms; those that were saplings would now be full-grown trees, altering the look of the place entirely. And there was that d.a.m.ned ivy; it was everywhere, snaking up over the faces of angels and cherubs like some spidery green cancer.

She climbed onto the back of a fallen Virgin Mary, trying to find some highpoint where she might see that distinctive tombstone. The one with the statue of the little weeping kid. Of course it might be gone now. Some teen stud showing off to his girlfriend (no doubt bound for the Virgin Buster) might have simply shoved the thing over into the nettles.

"Oh Christ, noa not yet."

The words came out in a groan. She hadn't seen the gravestone with the weeping kid. Instead she saw a denim-jacketed figure striding up the hill. Although he didn't wave or shout, she knew that he'd seen her.

"Oh, Christ," she groaned again. "He can't have found me that quicklya s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t."

She looked around. There was no one in sight. No one to run to. Not that it mattered. He was a f.u.c.king headcase. Once in the early days when they were together she'd bad mouthed him in a pizza restaurant and he'd simply leaned forward and stuck his fingers through her lips and tried to tear out her tongue there and then. Three st.i.tches-three f.u.c.king st.i.tches she'd needed at the hospital-then like an idiot she'd told the police that she'd bitten her own tongue eating pizza. G.o.d, she'd been stupid then, but yeaha same old storya she'd been in love with the thuga she'd believed he'd settle down; he'd change his waysa that they'd have kids and everything would be sugar 'n spice and all things nice. But Joe always said he'd never have kids ('Can't stand the little t.u.r.ds,' He'd spit the words out. 'Kids f.u.c.k you up.') Now there he was. Mary Thorp stared in horror. He was going to tear her apart. Hadn't he telephoned her the same day he'd gotten released to tell her just that?

"Mary. Consider yourself f.u.c.ked," he'd breathed down the phone. "I'm going to come down to Skelbrooke. Then I'm going to f.u.c.k your whole life awaya"

She believed him.

With a shout she ran uphill through a wilderness of brambles and trees and shadows and headstones. Her feet rapped against the ground hard enough to carry tremors down to the bones in their coffins, startling the rabbits that had nested there. The heat blazed in her face. Her eyes blurred with tears that came out in big glistening gobs.

Oh, G.o.da it wasn't as if she didn't know this was going to happen. She should have seen it coming. But she'd ignored that square of paper weighed down beneath a hunk of tombstone outside her front door.

"MARY!".

The voice hit her like the blast from a grenade. Stung by its force, a yelping sound spurting from her throat, she started running.

"Marya you can't run away from me."

She glanced back. Joe Budgen, his face oozing menace, was perhaps a hundred yards behind her. Even though he wasn't running, he surged through the gra.s.s like a tank. Her knees turned weak. For a moment she looked down at her legs, convinced they'd buckle, dropping her down in the gra.s.s, where all she could do was lie and wait for him to find her.

In terror she found herself crying out. But she wasn't crying out to him for mercy. She cried out to the source of her misfortune. "I'm sorrya I'm sorry. Listena I've been awaya I never saw your letter. Look!" She held up the carrier bag to the trees as if invisible eyes watched her. "Look! I've brought you what you want. But I can't find the gravestone!" Her eyes flashed with hysteria. "It's here! I've got what you want!"

She struggled on, half stumbling, ever conscious of Joe Budgen getting nearer and nearer.

"Please listen. I'm sorry I ignored your letter. But I've got what- what you want nowa pia per-leezzea" Her voice disintegrated into a stammer. "I-I got it. I-I G.o.ddittt!"

At that moment she looked back. Joe Budgen had paused to glare at her through his psychotic eyes. The man should have been laughable there in his faded denim jacket and black turtleneck with a gold Albert chain; his hair flashed blond. He looked more like a rent boy than local hard man. For a second their eyes locked. Nothing moved. A bird sang on the still summer air.

Then suddenly he began to run.

Turning, she ran too.

At that moment a crazy idea struck her. If she could only find the headstone with the crying boy statue everything would be OK. Magically she'd be safe like a child crying 'Den' during a game of catch. She ran hard. Her eyes scanned the thousands of headstones looking for that single distinctive statue.

All she need do was find that, and to drop the carrier bag onto the slab.

Then she'd be safe. Joe Budgen could do nothing to harm her.

Now she could hear his feet pounding through the gra.s.s as he chased her. And as she ran she found herself crying out over and over, "No, no, no, noa"