Beyond the Bone

by Reginald Hill

  Upas was out of the house and almost on her as she turned the key. She sent up a silent blessing to the manufacturers as the engine fired first time. Upas was at the door. She thrust it open with all her strength, hitting him full in the chest and sending him sprawling backwards. Then she found a noisy first gear and the Range Rover pulled away from Upas and danger and horror … and Crow.

  In the mirror against the light which fell out of the front door, she saw Upas pick himself up and peer after her. His motor-bike stood a few yards away against the side of the house. Would he pursue her or go back inside to finish what he had started with Crow? If he went back inside, Zeugma told herself heavily, she would have to return also. There was no time to go for help, and she could not leave Crow alone. No, it was better by far that Jonathan should pursue her. Amine would almost certainly be able to deal with Crow in his weakened state, but without Jonathan, he might have some kind of chance.

  She was now three hundred yards down the drive, almost out of sight of the house. Deliberately she slowed down and switched off the engine, then switched it on and off three times in succession, revving noisily each time. In the ensuing silence she heard the noise she had hoped for. The motor-bike engine bursting into vibrant life. She turned the ignition key once more. It was time to be going. But the engine had grown tired of silly games and merely coughed derisively. She swore angrily and with a fluency she did not know she possessed. This time the engine seemed to realize that the preliminaries were over and the serious business of the night was now beginning. The motor-bike headlights were closing fast and Zeugma was grateful for the degree of acceleration the powerful three-and-a-half-litre engine gave her. Her speed transformed the avenue of beeches into a curving tunnel whose corrugated sides seemed ready at any moment to cave in and crush her, and the drive seemed much longer than she remembered. But at last the two sentinel holly bushes appeared and she let out a sigh of relief as she saw that the gates had remained open.

  The Range Rover was good at road-holding in corners, but at speed rather heavy on steering, and Zeugma found her strength taxed to the utmost as she swung the wheel over after only minimal deceleration. Anything else on the road would have to take its chances. In fact anything else on the road would be greeted with joy – it was the road’s emptiness up here that bothered her.

  The front tyres squealed and she kept up her foot pressure on the accelerator to stop them sliding wide as she wrested the powerful vehicle round on to the narrow thoroughfare. Simultaneously her mind was working out tactics. On the straight she could touch a hundred, but on these roads there were fewer straights than in a game of five card stud. In any case the motor-bike could probably match her for speed and, in the hands of an expert, easily beat her for manoeuvrability. She recalled Jonathan’s performance against Twinkle. Of his expertise there could be no doubt.

  What was in her favour was that she could make it bloody difficult for him to get by her on these narrow roads, and even if he did the only way he would be able to make her stop was by putting himself and his machine beneath her wheels.

  She smiled grimly, quite convinced at that moment of her ability to send the Range Rover’s one and three-quarter tons clambering over the highest parts of Master Jonathan Upas.

  He was close behind now, weaving and swerving in his efforts to come alongside. Zeugma sent the Rover swaying from side to side, like a dancer responding instinctively to her partner’s movements. His headlights moved hypnotically from one side mirror to the other and she could almost sense the frustration of the man as she so easily kept him at bay on the narrow road.

  As long as he didn’t give up until she got within striking distance of help, she thought. Crow would need all the time she could give him. Though conversely, the longer Upas kept up the chase, the more distant help remained. Twice she had passed farmhouses set well back from the road and not dared risk approaching them in case they should prove empty. Even if she saw a lighted house, the brief moments of exposure as she stopped the car and headed for the door might be enough for Upas. The discovery of her body in a farmyard would still raise the alarm, true; but it might be hours before the trail to the Upases’ house would be discovered, by which time they would be long gone.

  In any case, Zeugma had a deep-rooted prejudice against ending her life as an anonymous corpse in a midden. A morbid obsession with the place and manner of her death had once troubled her teenage dreams; and she had decided that the sine qua nons of mortality were time for a few elegant last words and an appreciative audience. She doubted if Jonathan would provide either.

  So it looked as if her best bet was to keep going until she reached a hamlet large enough for a few loud blasts on the horn to bring people to their doors.

  Her decision made, she snapped wholly back to the present.

  And realized with a shock of mingled relief and dismay that Upas had disappeared. The pursuing headlights showed in none of her mirrors. Had he adandoned the chase so easily? she wondered. She glanced uneasily out of the side window. The road was tortuous here, following the windings of a small stream on her right. Through the dark columns of the trees on the further side, she saw a light moving, dipping, rising, swaying as it followed the rise and fall of the land. It took a few seconds for its significance to sink in.

  It was, of course, Upas.

  He must have turned off the road, forded the stream and was now racing across country to rejoin the road ahead of her.

  Her foot rammed down hard on the accelerator. She was not familiar enough with this road to know how soon its curves would take her in the other direction and deprive Upas of his advantage. But speed was now definitely in her favour. The rough terrain he was crossing must slow him down, negating in some degree the advantage of distance.

  And if he should manage to get ahead of her, well, that could be the worst piece of luck he had had all day.

  She felt in complete control of the Range Rover now, sending its bulk round the sharper twists and turns of the damp road in a series of well-controlled slides. For a while the motor-bike headlight disappeared and she felt sure she had outrun it; then it was there again, still on the other side of the stream, but slightly ahead now and on an intersection course with the road.

  It was going to be close. The next long right-hand curve would be the testing point. She laid the Range Rover into it with all the panache of a Grand Prix driver, had time and confidence enough to see the headlight-illuminated explosion of water as Upas drove his bike through the stream, straightened the wheel as the curve faded out, realized that Upas was, after all, going to make the road ahead of her, and clenched her teeth grimly as she prepared to run him down.

  She didn’t change her mind. Her mind had nothing to do with it. Something quite non-cerebral in the muscles and sinews of her hands and arms took over, wouldn’t let her do what her mind told her was quite essential, and wrenched the wheel round so that the Rover first went into a slide which almost did the job anyway; second, left the road to the left at a speed fatal had rock, tree or bog lain in the way; and third (a reward for virtue? her crystal-clear mind asked) found a rutted, pot-holed, but drivable track which wound uninvitingly uphill into the wilderness of moor and fell which lay on all sides of her.

  Zeugma felt no gratitude. To be picking bits of dead Jonathan from the road below was not a very appealing activity; but to be leaving behind her the metalled road which must lead ultimately to society and safety and to have a very live and lethal Jonathan once more in pursuit had even less to commend it. Particularly, she now realized, as the motor-bike and its experienced rider now had all the advantages.

  Her only hope now was to keep going. Any stoppage would be fatal. But the track must lead somewhere and as long as she stuck to it and pressed on, there was little Jonathan could do. Dressed in that absurd black robe, he must be feeling pretty cold, she told herself smugly. Eventually he must give up.

  But he showed no signs of doing so yet. He was keeping his distance, about twe
nty yards behind, clearly taking no chances on this uneven surface. She couldn’t understand why he seemed so happy to sit back there and wait. It made her uneasy, but there could be no reason …

  Then ahead she saw the reason.

  The track ran through a substantial dry-stone wall. And across the gap was a gate. Five bars it had, of solid construction, fastened to the monolithic wall-end by an iron hoop.

  The motor-bike closed up with all the certainty of a kite dropping to a perch by a dying cow. The terrain to the left and right looked uninviting. The only thing to do was what she should have done on the road ten minutes earlier – use the Rover as a battering ram.

  Bracing herself against the wheel she sent the vehicle hurtling forward. The bonnet smashed through the central bars; the front wheels rode over the bottom bar and she heard it scraping along the underbody; the windscreen took the full force of the collision with the top bar and Zeugma screamed as the glass crazed and the way ahead disappeared.

  Keep the wheel steady, brake gently, punch a hole through the glass: she knew the formula. But road-safety books had not been written with these conditions in mind. The wheel bucked and jerked as the Rover bounced violently over the uneven surface, and she needed both hands to preserve any semblance of control. And to brake meant death.

  But this blind driving probably meant death too. She feared that she had left the track. A glance out of the side-window revealed nothing, then the motor-bike headlight ran mockingly over the barren anonymous grassland, filling the rising mist with an eerie luminescence.

  It was no use. She slowed, took her right hand off the wheel and punched at the windscreen. All that happened was that she grazed her knuckles. But a second blow, reminiscent of that one which had disabled Amine, produced a hole about eight inches in diameter.

  Three things struck her simultaneously. She was indeed off the track, one of her headlights had been shattered by the collision, and the Range Rover was in trouble.

  She was on a steep upslope where the grass was short and very wet and the wheels were beginning to spin. She transferred quickly to the lower gear ratio and managed to keep the forward momentum going, but hovered frequently on the edge of standstill. She glanced desperately round, trying to spot the motor-bike, but its light seemed to have disappeared. Then a figure rose out of the darkness and leapt lightly on to the bonnet. For a second through the ragged hole in the screen she saw Jonathan’s face smiling at her, a smile the more hideous because it contained so much of the man’s charm. Then the face disappeared as his hand came through the hole and the fingers sought her throat.

  She screamed and ducked her head. The grasping fingers caught her hair. She threshed wildly from side to side, lacerating the bare arm against the jags of glass. Blood started up but still he held his grip. Fragments of bloodstained glass broke away and flew into the vehicle as the hole grew bigger.

  Zeugma felt the Range Rover coming to a final halt. Still shrieking with pain and terror, she grasped the gear lever and with much crashing and grinding sought and found reverse. The hole in the windscreen was large enough now for Upas to be able to see what he was doing. He forced her head backwards and they looked into each other’s eyes. Then he released her hair and his hand slid down to her neck. She revved the engine and let in the clutch. The heavy vehicle plunged blindly back down the slope, the pressure on her throat increased and the misty darkness of the moor began to seep into her head. With a last effort of will, she swung the wheel hard over left and stamped on the brake. For a second the grip on her throat tightened as Upas tried desperately to hang on. Then the hand slipped away, grabbed at the ragged edge of windscreen which fell to pieces instantly, and was gone.

  Zeugma was scarcely conscious of what she did now, nor did she know how long had elapsed before the blast of cold wet air through the gaping hole made her aware that she was driving forward once more at a quite insane speed in these conditions.

  She slowed. What she could see in the beam of the surviving headlight might have been anywhere within a hundred square miles. The sky was black with cloud preventing even the comfort of a rough direction check. The only thing to be pleased about was the absence of any sign of Upas’s motor-bike. Perhaps she had killed him. Or more likely, stunned him and left him to die of exposure. She felt no qualms, would feel nothing except black basic terror until she got off this wilderness.

  Ahead something moved in the beam. Her stomach turned at the fear that it might be Upas. But then she sobbed with relief as she saw that it was only a hare. It stood in the light, ears at the alert position and watched her approach with no sign of panic. Only when she got quite close did it turn and lope away. She followed taking some comfort from the sight of a living and non-hostile creature. The hare remained in the beam of light and after a while Zeugma would have been hard put to say whether it was following the twists and turns of the Range Rover or whether she was following it. It didn’t seem to matter. Mentally she found she had left the real world, whatever that was, and was drifting along in a state which she recognized as semi-delirium but which she felt no desire to resist. Music began to run through her head. She recognized it as the rapid onward-going theme with which the strings began the last movement of Sibelius’ Fifth. It fitted very nicely with her present journey.

  Then quite suddenly she knew where she was. The hare had taken a thirty-degree turn to the left and though the terrain seemed outwardly no different from that which she had been covering for the past – how long? ten minutes? hours? days? – she knew beyond doubt that she was on the line of the old Roman Road which ran from the fort at Bewcastle down to Camboglanna. The music now swelled into the majestic final theme. She had a sense of other activity on the road, as though if the mist and darkness would just lift for a moment she would see lines of marching men, and horses straining to haul loaded provision carts up these uncompromising slopes, and hear voices commanding and complaining and cursing their luck, and see behind the faces and the voices to hearts desperate with longing for the heat of a Roman summer or the soft breeze which scarcely moves the spring foliage in the foothills of the Appenines.

  Then the hare turned sharply left once more. She followed it up the slope of a ridge, but when the Range Rover reached the crest, the animal had disappeared. But it didn’t matter. Below her, black and solid through the mist, was the centre.

  The buildings were wrapped in darkness and there was no sign of activity anywhere. But Zeugma had developed a new and uncharacteristic sense of caution in the past hour and now she switched off the Range Rover’s engine and freewheeled down to the road. Then, switching off the one surviving headlight, she got out and walked to the gates.

  They would be locked, she recalled, and the arrangement made with Lakenheath was that she should blow the car horn. Well, he would just have to respond to her shouts instead.

  But when she leaned against the gates, they swung easily open. And now she recalled something else – that Malcolm Upas had declared his intention of coming here that night.

  She hesitated a moment. She had had enough alarms and excitements this evening to last her for two or three lifetimes. The road from the centre to the nearest village was a long one. But it was a real, man-made road and she still had strength enough to walk it. Indeed, she thought, looking back along it and unknowingly echoing Lakenheath’s feelings of a couple of hours earlier, it looked a very attractive road, clearly and invitingly signposted to warmth and safety.

  But I have promises to keep, she groaned to herself. And besides, surely she had nothing to fear from Malcolm? God knows what he was up to, but at least he didn’t seem to share the psychopathic tastes of the rest of the family.

  Carefully she slipped through the gates and began a cautious approach to the hospital.

  It was as well she did, she realized a few minutes later. The main door of the building was open also and when she stepped inside she heard voices. They seemed to be coming from below and a few moment’s search took her to another ope
n door down from which ran a flight of stairs. From the cellar or whatever it was that lay at the bottom came the fitful glow of a naked flame. Someone was talking, a voice she did not recognize. Another responded and this one sounded incredibly, heart-stirringly familiar. Slowly she descended. At the bottom of the stairs was another door, partly ajar. She peered in through the crack.

  The first thing she saw in the light of the candle which burnt on top of what looked like a central-heating boiler was Lakenheath. He was sitting on the floor leaning against the boiler and holding a handkerchief to his head. When he took it away, Zeugma saw why. A stream of blood ran down over his ear from a gash in his scalp. He looked pale and drawn and Zeugma found herself biting her tongue to stop crying out at the sight of him. But the next figure she saw put Lakenheath right out of her mind.

  Also pale and drawn but with no visible sign of injury on him, there by the boiler stood Leo Pasquino.

  Thank God ! thank God ! said Zeugma inwardly. But the third figure visible to her prevented her from rushing in to the room to express her joy at this longed-for reunion. He had his back to her but she had no difficulty in recognizing him.

  It was Diss. And in his hands he carried a shotgun.

  There was no point in waiting. The present circumstances were the best she could reasonably hope for. He had his back to her at the moment. If she delayed, he might turn round, even come out and discover her. Or someone else might turn up. Or, most probable of all, sheer terror and the physical aftermath of her recent exertions might paralyse her if she waited and considered.

  She pushed the door open. Pasquino and Lakenheath looked up at her. She pressed a finger to her lips but with male stupidity they let their surprise show. Indeed, they went further and spoke.

  ‘My dear,’ said Pasquino.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Lakenheath.

  Diss turned.

  Filled with a vast and unsortable variety of angers, she launched herself at him, seizing the barrel of the shotgun and sinking her teeth into the ball of his thumb. He yelled in pain and surprise and the gun fell to the floor. Then, recovering quickly, he tried to shake her off. But she clung tight, wrestling him across the room, shrieking, ‘Get the gun ! Get the gun ! ’