The Walking Dead (Sucking Pit Series)

by Guy N Smith

  The grab went down once more and it seemed an interminable length of time before the empty winch checked and gave off a metallic screech. The chain tautened, began to lift; you could tell it had caught up something by the way it strained, seemed reluctant to break from the water as though some unseen force was obstructing it. A splash and it was free, a mangled shape being revealed as the water gushed free. A motorcycle - at least it looked as though it might have been once.

  The wreckage was lowered on to the side, police moving in to inspect it. The chain and bucket snaked free, hit the water with a mighty splash as it was lowered hurriedly. An urgency, the crane driver unwilling to delay a second longer than was absolutely necessary. Everybody wanted to be away from this awful place. But first they had to find a missing body.

  A crack of thunder, followed seconds later by a vivid flash of sheet lightning that lit up the darkened sky. Latimer shuddered; the gods were protesting at this attempted exhumation from an ancient burial ground.

  Suddenly the crane seemed to tilt as though some gigantic underwater creature had seized the chain and was hauling on it, the cab angled at twenty-five degrees, the rear of its caterpillar clear of the ground. The door swung open and the driver leapt out, hit the surface at a run. He was shouting something but the noise of the engine drowned his words. Now the bulldozer drivers had deserted their machines in an inexplicable retreat.

  ‘What's happening?’ Pamela was holding on to Chris and he could feel her body begin to tremble. In a different situation it would have been erotic but here in full view of the Sucking Pit it was unnerving.

  ‘I don't know,’ he muttered, because he didn't. He could only guess, remembering only too well what had happened to Mick Treadman.

  ‘My God, look!’ It was Samantha who screamed, and at that second the entire scene was lit up by a blinding flash of lightning as though the forces of evil were determined that the human spectators should witness their terrible power. Cries of alarm came from the small crowd of villagers down below, several scattering, running in blind panic. Flee, before it's too late!

  The pool, hitherto a sheet of dead black water, suddenly seemed to move as though propelled by a current from the depths, an incoming tide hitting the shore in a cloud of filthy spray; falling back, gathering force. The crane tottered, an inanimate object suddenly fighting for its balance, losing out. It toppled, almost gracefully, so slowly as though it had found a means of defying the laws of gravity, a sideways lurch and then it was lying on its side. And as it hit the ground a crevice opened up, a zigzagging abyss of indeterminable depth, the machine slipping, lodging in it.

  The watchers heard the water before they saw it, a roar like a bursting dam, then a huge wave of dark foaming spray powering up from the depths below, bursting its newly-opened banks and flooding the area of flattened rubble, battering the two bulldozers. The heavy machines held their own, their bright yellow paintwork a film of filthy scum.

  The water swirled, settled; frothing and hissing, bubbles bursting and giving off foul vapours. A rumble of thunder directly overhead as though a triumphant trumpet call from the gods of war who had conquered once again, reclaimed territory which had been stolen from them.

  ‘My God!’ Carl Wickers was white and shaking. ‘Did you see that?’

  ‘I saw it,’ Latimer whispered. ‘You wouldn't believe it if you hadn't.’

  The water below them was still again, just a few ripples that faded and died. The crane was gone, finally slipping into that fissure, the bulldozers half-submerged, but everybody watching knew that they would sink into the mud before long.

  ‘The Sucking Pit has reclaimed its old boundaries,’ Latimer said. ‘Almost to a yard, the same area … the same shape!’

  ‘We can't do anything just standing here,’ Carl held out his hand, felt the heavy drops of thunder rain. ‘It's going to pour down any second.’

  ‘I guess we might as well go.’ Chris turned, began to pull Pamela up the sandy slope, resisted the urge to break into a run.

  And even as they retraced their steps he experienced that unnerving feeling of being watched, as though the deep black pool below them was a huge living eye following his every move, hating him because he had come back. Seeking to possess him.

  Ralph Grafton stared in horror and disbelief. Within less than a minute an area of hard dry land had been turned into a dark black lake, a crane swallowed up and two bulldozers sinking fast.

  Everybody just stood and watched; nobody asked why, because there was no answer. Subsidence would be offered as an excuse, a half-hearted explanation, but nobody would believe it.

  The tall police inspector was shaking his head in bewilderment; later he would experience frustration. The mangled remains of that motorbike were gone, caught by that mighty burst of water, washed back into its grave. They hadn't found that youth's body, they certainly wouldn't now!

  ‘The ground just seemed to … open up,’ the sergeant said, and felt silly the moment the words were out; everybody had seen it, nobody could explain it. Except perhaps the locals with their superstitions which were fast becoming reality. But you didn't want to start listening to them or else you found yourself looking over your shoulder …

  Grafton moved away from the throng, felt physically and mentally sick. The major part of the site for his proposed executive-style houses was under water, a firm landscape reduced to water and bog. Deep down, beyond the reach of the surveyors' instruments, there had to be some kind of faulty rock formation, maybe weakened by the daily vibrations of heavy quarrying, and in the end the pressure had been too great for it. Impossible to drain, unsuitable for building on. Permission revoked. He grimaced: land that was no good for anything, unmarketable.

  There was still the remainder of the quarries, so far sound. But once levelling began …

  He was oblivious of the rain, not even quickening his pace as his shirt and slacks became saturated. So dark, it might have been night instead of four o'clock on a late May afternoon. He reached the big house, fumbled for his key in a pocket that squelched and oozed water down the inside of his leg. He'd grab a change of clothes, maybe see if he could get hold of Minworth. The Planning Officer might still be at the office, otherwise he'd ring him at home. Something had to be done before this situation got out of hand, if it had not already done so.

  The lock was stiff, he had to exert pressure, almost bent the key. Damn it, a new front door was overdue and there wasn't a sign of those builders yet. He'd chase them tomorrow, but right now there were more important matters pressing. Like …

  The telephone cut into his thoughts, he could almost see it vibrating on the small table as though emphasising the urgency of the call. Lynette, maybe, angry because he hadn't rung. But he had. His wet fingers secured a grip on the receiver.

  ‘Grafton.’

  He waited, anticipating the voice at the other end but it didn't come. Silence except for a faint crackling on the line.

  ‘Who's there?’

  No answer, but he had an unnerving feeling that the line wasn't dead; not so much the sound of somebody breathing, rather a … presence. He shivered, realised for the first time just how cold he was.

  ‘What's going on?’ Almost a shout, his grip threatening to snap the headset. ‘Who's there?’

  And then the line went dead, just a vibrating dialling tone that had him slamming the receiver back, pausing, taking it off again and laying it on the table. Some cranky local, he tried to laugh aloud but the sound was harsh, loaded with his own fears. Well, if they tried to ring back they would be wasting their own time, not his.

  He walked towards the stairs, his footsteps echoing across the unfurnished hall. Stopping, listening again, subconsciously anticipating the noise he dreaded most.

  A scratching sound … like rats! Except that there weren't any rats.

  He didn't know where the noise was coming from, didn't care because there would be nothing there when he looked. He broke into a run, took the stairs three at a
time, burst into the bathroom and turned the taps on full, hoped he would be in time to drown that … tapping on the window!

  Oh Christ, running gushing water, he'd never get it out of his memory, the roar of that huge deluge coming up from the bowels of the earth, filling up the old Sucking Pit again!

  He slammed the bathroom door, forced the rusted lock to work. Only then did he feel comparatively safe.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘You've taken money from him, haven't you, Claude?’ May Minworth fixed her husband with an accusing, dominating glare. ‘Don't lie to me, you've accepted a bribe and that's corruption. And you could go to prison if you're found out!’

  Claude Minworth licked his lips nervously, turned his head so that his wife could not see his expression. At forty-two he was overweight, with a pinkish complexion which years ago his parents had referred to as a ‘healthy rosy red’. Sleek black hair brushed straight back and plastered down with Silvikrin; a mass-market tailored suit which fitted him just too snugly, and failed to hide the roll of fat overflowing his waistband. Dapper, his confidence was a façade which he and May had built up over the years on the long climb up the ladder to the position of Planning Officer. More often than not he worked at home and thus May Minworth had unofficially become Planning Officer.

  ‘Well?’ She stepped sideways so that she now had a view of his face, saw that his complexion was paling. ‘What have you got to say for yourself, Claude?’

  I didn't break the window, Mummy, honest I didn't. My ball just bounced up, hit it. ‘It wasn't a bribe.’ His face was suffused with blood again suddenly, his lower lip trembling.

  ‘What was it then?’

  ‘A gift. Just Mr Grafton's way of showing his gratitude.’

  She caught her breath, let it out slowly, her left foot beginning to tap on the floor the way it always did when she was really angry, temporarily at a loss for words. At forty-eight she was fighting a battle to preserve her looks: a blonde tint to disguise the grey hairs which were creeping in, the lines on her features smoothed and hidden by a variety of creams. Slim because she dieted drastically and her figure had not been spoiled by motherhood. She didn't need children, she told herself, because she had Claude and he took enough looking after. Without her he wouldn't be where he was now, although she often thought that it might have been preferable to have spurned marriage and concentrated on a career for herself. She could have made it to the top, and the likes of Grafton would not have corrupted her!

  ‘It was a bribe.’ She let the words out slowly. ‘That's why we've got a Maestro in the garage, that stupid video, new fitted carpets all over the house. You lied to me, Claude. You didn't have a rise, you had a backhander from Grafton and now he's getting nasty because his proposed building site has flooded and the planning permission is likely to be revoked. He wants you, us, to stick our necks out to try and save him. And aren't we unpopular enough in this village as it is, since the original outline planning was passed?’

  ‘The Committee passed it,’ he said weakly, entwining his fleshy fingers until the knuckles showed white. ‘It isn't up to me.’

  ‘No, but you influenced them, put pressure on every one of them, persuaded them against their better judgment. Every single member of that committee has been wined and dined at this house, all of it paid for by Ralph Grafton. Where did you put the money he gave you? How much was it?’

  ‘Six grand.’ He was overwhelmed by a sudden desire to blurt out his confession, to cleanse his conscience so maybe he would be able to sleep at nights now. ‘Another four once they start building. All in cash. I spent it, they can't trace it.’

  ‘Don't you be so sure.’ Her eyes narrowed and she hated him more than ever now for the way he squirmed and was still trying to justify his own actions. ‘You would never stand up to a police interrogation. Still, we must hope that it doesn't come to that. But just look what you've done to me in this village. I've had to resign from the WI and we can't attend any local function without receiving hostile looks from everybody. We're ostracised, we're traitors. We've sold these villagers down the river - not that I've much time for them anyway,’ she added acidly.

  An awkward silence ensued; the ticking of the electric clock sounded deafening.

  ‘I could give Grafton his money back.’ Minworth's tone was shaky, as though he was on the verge of tears,

  ‘You've already spent it.’

  ‘We could sell the car and the video.’

  ‘It's too late,’ she snapped. ‘What's done is done.’

  ‘He's coming here.’ He swallowed. ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘He rang, wants to see me.’

  ‘I'll bet he does, but he's not coming to this house, Claude, you can take it from me. And you can tell him that!’

  Another silence except for the tapping of May's foot, faster now, and the fleshy sound of Claude's hands as he rubbed them with an invisible lather, the clock like a metronome trying to set the beat.

  ‘I don't know what I'm going to do,’ she said at length. ‘You've involved me in all this deceit.’

  ‘It's nothing to do with you.’ Almost defiant.

  ‘It is. The car, the carpets, the video, I've accepted them as much as you have. I entertained him, without even guessing. You will go to prison, Claude, but I shall have to share the stigma. I can already hear what these villagers will be saying: “That's Minworth's wife, he's in prison, you know. Corruption.” Haven't you blackened our name enough? Oh my God, if I'd only guessed what you were up to.’

  She turned, stalked out of the room, slammed the door behind her. He heard her footsteps on the stairs, the banging of the bedroom door. Wearily, trembling, he sank down on to the sofa. Suddenly his hopes, everything, had turned into a ghastly nightmare, and Grafton wasn't going to let up. The bastard was in a corner: if he couldn't build on those quarries then his whole empire faced ruin, their only assets a tract of flooded wasteland that nobody would want to buy except maybe some conservation society who would want to beg to turn it into a waterfowl sanctuary; it wouldn't be any good for anything else.

  Minworth hadn't told May that he was going down there this afternoon to inspect it; that would only have added more fuel to the already blazing inferno. He had to see it, so far he had only Grafton's word for it and what he had read in the papers. Maybe it wasn't as bad as they said, and it could be drained, filled in. Surely modern technology wasn't going to surrender to a bit of subsidence coupled with a ridiculous local legend.

  Think positively. It wasn't easy; he crossed to the sideboard, poured himself a shot of malt whisky. Another of Grafton's presents. It tasted hot and bitter, scorched his throat so that he coughed. May was making too much of all this, looking on the blackest side. Grafton had simply shown his appreciation in various material ways; there was no question of bribery. The Planning Officer had only been doing his job, put the picture in perspective to the Committee. There had been no pressure, just persuasiveness. Surely that couldn't be termed corruption!

  It could. He poured himself another whisky; this time it didn't burn so much. Anyway, it was no good thinking about what might happen, he needed to see the ground, come up with some alternative plan, keep Grafton quiet. Stall.

  Claude Minworth found himself tiptoeing into the hall, a schoolboy sneaking from the house when he was supposed to be doing his homework. Creeping into the shiny Maestro outside in the drive, rolling it back down on to the road before he fired the engine, his shirt damp with sweat. He had promised to check into the office later to sign some documents but that could wait.

  He parked in the lay-by opposite the entrance to the wood, had to await his chance to cross the busy main road. Once on the Lady Walk he found himself glancing around guiltily, suddenly a trespasser. Suppose he met Grafton down here? It wasn't likely. Or the police, still carrying out investigations into Peter Hasden's death? It didn't matter; he was the Planning Officer come to take a look at what the subsidence had done. There was nothing wrong
in that. Except in his own conscience.

  The Sucking Pit. He stood there looking, saw the expanse of black water which failed to reflect the bright sunlight, a sheet of murkiness, a stagnant stench which you could smell from a hundred yards away. Starkly sinister, powerful, an invisible force of which you were instantly aware.

  Deserted, not a soul in sight. That was a relief, anyway. Then Minworth saw the barbed wire fence, a hurriedly constructed surround, posts driven in at unequal distances, two strands of wire stapled to them. A notice, red lettering on a white board, probably one borrowed from the sand quarries; a single word - DANGER.

  There was danger all right; you saw it, sensed it, wanted to turn and run, but something held you here spellbound. Minworth reached the fence, snagged his trousers climbing over. To hell with that, he had to have a closer look, see if there was any chance of … what? You could not build on this site a thousand years hence.

  You're wasting your time, Claude Minworth, go back and tell Grafton there's no chance. But he stayed, just standing there looking down at the water, his thoughts returning to May. Christ, she was a bitch, she had made his life hell in a surreptitious kind of way ever since they had been married, dominated him so that he accepted her word without querying it. Indoctrination. And now she was angry with him, the mask had slipped from her features revealing her true self. She would never forgive him for coming down here, trying to find an escape route for Grafton. And himself. And May, if it came to that.

  ‘Hello.’

  He started, almost lost his balance as he whirled round, gaped in amazement at the girl standing only a couple of yards from him. He couldn't understand how she had been able to approach so close to him without him hearing her. She was no more than twenty at the most, a strip of a girl with wide dark eyes that mirrored a sadness even when she smiled. A long dress of some kind of hessian material swirled around her ankles when she moved, her arms hidden in voluminous sleeves. A bit old-fashioned, Minworth thought, or maybe she's some kind of hippy. The younger generation had a lot of strange ideas on what was fashionable. He could almost visualise her in some protest march or other, the kind who campaigned for other people; the kind you felt like telling all your troubles to because you knew she had a sympathetic ear. All this came over in a matter of seconds, made him feel like he had known her all his life. Not particularly sexy, just nice.