by Shaun Hutson
The wind had blown them aside probably, he thought as he stooped to gather the blooms. One by one he retrieved the roses and knelt down to replace them in their position just below the small metal marker which was the only sign that the grave was even there. Its freshly dug earth was already covered here and there with tufts of grass. In a week or so it would be covered completely.
Ridley gently laid the blooms on top of the plot.
A hand shot from beneath the dark earth and fastened iron fingers around his wrist.
The Reverend screamed in disbelieving terror.
His eyes bulged and he felt red hot knives of pain stab at his heart. Shaking his head from side to side, he fastened his horrified stare on the earth-covered hand which protruded from the grave, gripping tightly his wrist.
He could not move.
He tried to rise but his legs wouldn't support him, and all the time the grip on his wrist tightened until he was sure it would snap the bone.
The hand thrust forward, followed by more arm.
The grip loosened and Ridley pulled free, his breath coming in gasps, his head spinning, the pain still stabbing through his heart. He backed off, his eyes threatening to pop from the sockets as he watched the movement from beneath the earth of the grave.
The arm seemed to sway in the air for a second, then, the earth slowly rose and, from below, Ridley saw a face.
The face of Ray Mackenzie.
He was grinning, the blazing red eyes fixing the priest in their unholy stare.
Ridley slipped in a patch of mud and staggered back against a stone cross, hanging onto it for support as he watched Mackenzie drag himself from the grave to his full height. He stood there, the dirt and mud caking his clothing, his eyes (if those two virulent blood blisters could be called that) turned on the cowering cleric.
Ridley was panting, the pain in his chest spreading inexorably to his left arm and up into his jaw. White stars danced before his eyes but he held on to consciousness just a little bit longer.
He might have wished he hadn't, for in his last agonized minutes, he saw the ground which covered the grave of Peter Brooks erupt and, a moment later, the intern stood next to Mackenzie.
Through eyes blurred with pain, Ridley saw that Brooks too had no eyes, just the hellish red orbs.
A final wrenching spasm of agony racked his body and he crumpled, the sound of his own breathing rattling in his ears.
They were advancing towards him, and, as he lost consciousness, he was grateful for one thing.
He would be dead before they reached him.
* * *
Lambert stared down at the fried egg on his plate and groaned.
There was a loud crack as the pan spat fat at Debbie who jumped back, brandishing the fish slice at it defiantly. She peered across at her husband who was still considering the egg. He cut into the yolk, watching as it gently spilled its colour onto the plate.
'I don't think I can face this,' he muttered, pushing the plate away from him.
'After three bottles of Beaujolais, three scotches and a brandy, I'm not surprised,' said Debbie, trying to sound stern but fighting to suppress a grin. Her stomach too felt as if it were on a trapeze. As she looked down into the bubbling pan she shook her head and switched off the gas flame beneath it. She had drunk more than usual the night before and she smiled as she remembered how they had tried to undress one another, giggling when they accidentally tore buttons off in their clumsy attempts. They had managed it eventually and slumped into bed, both of them dropping off to sleep before they could even embrace each other.
She crossed the kitchen and sat on Lambert's knee. He put his arm around her waist, drew her to him and kissed her gently on the cheek.
'Did you have a good time last night?' he asked.
She nodded smiling. 'Fantastic.'
He groaned and put a hand to his forehead. 'I wish my brain would stop trying to climb out of my head; it's using a pickaxe to make its escape.' Debbie laughed and hugged him and they sat in silence for a moment. Then Lambert looked up at her. 'You know, last night I managed to forget what's happened over the last month or two. It was as if it never…' He struggled for the words, '… as if it were all unreal.'
She kissed him. 'That's good.'
'Even about Mike,' he elaborated. 'The memory is there, it'll always be there, but not so strong now. I don't want to forget though, Debbie. I won't torture myself with it, but maybe I need that memory.'
She looked at him for a second, puzzled, then said: 'Do you want to drive up there this morning?'
He nodded.
'Mind if I come?'
He pulled her close. 'I think the fresh air will do us more good than this bloody stuff.' He pushed the plate away and imitated the noise of vomiting.
They both laughed.
* * *
The watery sun had settled in a cloud streaked sky as Lambert guided the Capri along the roads and twisting lanes which led out of Medworth and up towards the cemetery. Sitting alongside him, Debbie clutched a bunch of roses which she sniffed occasionally, enjoying the sweet odour.
'Who'd live in a city?' said Lambert, looking out over the rolling green hills.
'Someone's got to,' Debbie said.
They drove a little way in silence, windows open, enjoying the sight of the countryside around them. The near naked trees added a contrast to the richness of the grass. Here and there a blaze of colour would erupt in the hedgerows where a clutch of wild flowers grew. Above them, where the hillside sloped up gradually into woodland, birds hovered above the trees and Debbie actually caught sight of a kestrel as it glided about looking for prey. The magnificent bird seemed to be suspended on invisible wire as it swung back and forth before finally disappearing from view.
'Are you going into the station today?' she asked, looking at him.
Lambert shook his head. 'Nothing to go in for. The Mackenzie case is closed. Gordon Reece seems to have cleared out. It's back to the normal routine from now on.' He smiled.
'What about the medallion?'
'I haven't heard anything from Trefoile yet, but I doubt if it'll be important. Mackenzie probably just found it somewhere. Maybe he dug it up in his back garden.' Lambert grinned.
'You know better than that,' she rebuked him, letting one hand stray across his thigh.
He swerved slightly and she jumped.
'See what you do to me,' he said, leering exaggeratedly.
They both laughed as he pulled up across the road from the cemetery gates. Debbie squeezed his hand as they sat for a moment, then they both climbed out.
High up on the hill top, where Two Meadows was situated, the wind seemed to blow stronger, and Debbie brushed her hair from her face as the breeze whipped silken strands across it. She shivered slightly but relaxed as Lambert put his arm around her, and locked together they walked in.
'Father Ridley's usually around at this time,' said Lambert, peering over his shoulder towards the vicarage.
'Perhaps he's in the church,' she offered.
'Maybe he's having a lie-in.'
She punched him playfully on the arm. 'Priests don't lie-in on Sundays, you heathen.'
She reached for his hand and found it, their fingers intertwining. As they walked, Debbie found herself prey to that mixed emotion which comes so frequently in a cemetery. The uneasiness mixed with the feeling of almost idyllic peacefulness.
'It makes you aware of your own mortality,' said Lambert, looking at the rows of graves: the ornate, the unkempt, the well-tended.
Mike's grave.
They stood beside it for a second before Debbie knelt and gently laid the roses on top of the marble slab. Lambert smiled as he watched her do it, drawing her close to him as she stepped back. They stood for long moments beside Mike's grave, gazing down at it, aware only of one another and of the wind rustling in the tree which hung above them. Finally, Lambert, squeezed her gently and said, softly: 'Come on.'
They turned and headed back towards
the gravel drive.
As they reached the small kerb which edged the drive, Debbie stopped and pointed to something lying no more than ten feet away from them. It was glinting in the sunlight and that was what had attracted her attention.
She pulled away from Lambert and picked the object up.
It was a crucifix.
'Tom,' she called, 'look at this.'
He joined her and peered at the small silver cross which lay on her palm.
'Somebody must have dropped it,' he said, taking the object from her and holding it between his thumb and forefinger.
He dropped the crucifix into his jacket pocket and looked around, searching the ground for something else.
He found it.
A few yards up the path which ran between two rows of graves lay a pile of clods. Lambert hurried to them and kicked at them with his shoe. Then he noticed the flowers scattered around like shredded confetti and trodden into the mud.
'What the hell is this?' he said under his breath.
He took a step closer to one of the graves, noticing that a marble angel had been smashed from its position at a corner of the plot. There was a dark stain splashed across it which Lambert recognized immediately. He knelt and ran his finger through the stain, sniffing the red liquid on his finger tip.
It was blood.
He noticed more of it splashed up the headstone next to the other grave. He read the name on the headstone.
Peter Brooks.
The earth was piled up around the grave and a hollow had been formed in the centre, as if someone had begun digging and then given up half way.
Lambert stood up, his breath coming in gasps.
'Tom, what is it?' called Debbie, advancing towards him along the path.
He ignored the question, looking instead at the small metal marker on the grave next to that of Brooks. Barely readable was the name: Ray Mackenzie. The earth was strewn for many feet around it. Dark, wet earth. Lambert turned and waved Debbie back.
'We've got to find Father Ridley,' he said, tersely.
'What's wrong?' she asked, puzzled.
'I think some sick bastard has been mucking about with Mackenzie's grave.'
He walked past her, then suddenly hesitated.
'You'd better come with me,' he told her, and the two of them hurried across the road to the vicarage.
The curtains were open, and as he headed towards the front door, Lambert hoped that Ridley was in. He rapped hard, three times on the front door, and when he got no answer, went round the back.
'Damn,' he growled. 'He must be in the church.'
Debbie found that she almost had to run to keep up with him.
'Tom, what's going on around here?' she demanded.
'I wish I knew,' he said.
They reached the broken path which led up to the church door and hurried towards it, Debbie's high heels clicking noisily in the silence.
The church towered above them and Lambert pushed the door, noticing, as he did, that there was more blood on the great brass handle of the door. He swallowed hard and popped his head around the door.
'Tom.'
Her single word hung in the air as the policeman stepped cautiously into the great building. His footsteps echoed on the cold stone floor and he shivered at the coldness of the place. Debbie stepped in behind him, pushing the door closed.
The church ran a good fifty yards from door to altar. Pews arranged with soldierly precision On either side formed a narrow aisle down the centre which led straight to the altar. Dust particles danced in the light shining through the stained glass windows on both sides of the building. It smelt musty in there, a smell which reminded Debbie of Madame Tussaud's Chamber of Horrors. She quickly dismissed the thought, making sure she kept close to Lambert as he advanced down the central aisle. To the left stood the pulpit with a huge Bible open on it.
There was no sign of Ridley. Lambert called him, his voice echoing off the walls and ceiling, turning the huge room into a vast stone echo chamber.
'Father Ridley,' he called again.
Silence.
It was then that he noticed the pieces of earth scattered around the base of the altar. The Inspector crossed quickly to them and prodded a large lump with his index finger. He exhaled deeply. Where the hell was Ridley? There was one place left in the church he hadn't looked. The bell tower. A flight of stone steps ran up to the belfry from just behind the altar. Lambert looked up. A wooden floor hid the belfry itself from view below. He would have been able to see from where he stood whether or not the priest was up there, but the wooden slats obscured his view. He would have to go up and take a look for himself. He was suddenly filled with a feeling which he took to be fear, but why such a feeling should take hold of him, he didn't know.
'Wait here,' he told Debbie, and set off up the stone steps which would take him into the belfry.
Debbie nodded and watched him go, edging back so that she leant against the altar, looking out into the church. Hundreds of invisible eyes seemed to be fixed on her and she shuddered involuntarily.
Lambert, meantime, found that the staircase spiralled as it rose. The walls on either side hemmed him in so that he could not even extend his arms without touching them.
He slipped and nearly fell, but regained his footing cursing, and looked to see what had made him stumble.
There was a slippery streak of blood on the step on which he stood. And the one above it. Lambert gritted his teeth. The cold seemed to have intensified and he was also beginning to notice a strange smell which grew stronger as he neared the top of the stairs. Mixed with the cloying odour of damp wood was something more pungent. A coppery, choking smell which stung his nostrils and made him cough.
He reached the top of the stairs and peered round into the belfry.
It was small. No more than ten feet square and Lambert felt as if the walls were closing in around him. The bell, a large brass object, lay discarded in one corner, torn from the thick hemp which secured it.
Lambert gasped and backed against the wall, his heart thumping.
Dangling from the bell rope, the hemp knotted tightly around his neck, was Father Ridley.
His face was bloated, the blackened tongue protruding from his mouth. Blood had splashed down his chest, turning his coat red and the rope which supported him had cut deeply into the thick flesh of his neck, drawing blood in places. He hung like some obscene puppet, his own blood puddled beneath him, soaking into the ancient timbers of the belfry floor.
But, the thing which finally made Lambert turn away in horrified disgust was the face. Splattered with gore, it seemed to glare mockingly at the policeman who noticed with mounting terror that there was something horribly familiar about it.
Both the eyes had been torn out.
Lambert turned and raced down the stairs, almost running past Debbie who caught his arm. Her eyes searched his, looking for an answer which she already suspected.
'He's dead,' said Lambert flatly. 'Come on.' They ran from the church, chased by a fear beyond their understanding.
They ran to the car and climbed in. Lambert burned rubber as he spun the Capri round. The needle on the speedometer touched sixty as he drove for Medworth, his face set in an expression of fearful resignation. Debbie studied his profile. 'Tom.'
'What?' His voice was tense, sharp.
'What's happening?' There was a note of something near to pleading in her voice.
'The graves,' he snapped, 'the graves of Mackenzie and Brooks were disturbed. It looked as if somone dug them up.' The words trailed off. 'Oh Jesus,' he said, his voice catching.
She reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder.
'What are you going to do, Tom?'
'Open the graves.'
'What?' She swallowed hard, not quite believing what she had heard. 'But you can't. I mean, why?'
'Someone tampered with those graves, Debbie. There must be a reason for that. I want to know what it is.'
'But don't you need an
exhumation order?'
'Why?'
'It's the law.'
He looked at her. 'I am the law.'
* * *
Lambert stood beside Sergeant Hayes, watching as Davies and Briggs threw shovelfuls of earth into the air in an effort to reach the coffin of Ray Mackenzie.
Lambert was smoking. His third that morning. He'd been trying to give up just lately, but the events of the day so far had suddenly persuaded him that he needed something to calm him down. He sucked hard on the cigarette, holding the smoke in his mouth for a second before expelling it in a long grey stream which mingled with his own frosted breath in the crispness of the morning air.
He had driven home after finding Ridley's body, left Debbie there and told her he would be in touch. At first he had been reluctant to leave her alone, a fear which he couldn't understand nagging at the back of his mind. She had assured him that she would be all right and he had driven to the station. Taking a Panda, he, Hayes and the two constables had driven back to the cemetery armed with shovels. As Davies drove, Lambert recounted what he and Debbie had found that morning and when he got to the part about the eyeless corpse of Ridley, Briggs had found himself struggling to keep his poached eggs down. Hayes had said nothing, only looked questioningly at the inspector as if the description of the injuries inflicted had stirred some horrific memory within himself.
The ambulance which removed the vicar's body had been pulling out as the Panda swung into the driveway. Kirby was to do an immediate autopsy on it and ring Lambert with the results as quickly as possible.
Now the Inspector leant on a stone cross and dropped his third butt to the ground, crushing it into the earth with the toe of his shoe.
There was a scraping sound as the shovel Davies was using ran along a wooden surface.
They had reached the coffin.
Lambert stepped forward and watched as the two men scraped away the remaining earth with their fingers. As the last sticky clods were removed, all four policeman noticed the large hole about two feet from the head of the coffin. Splinters of wood were bent outward from it, some mingled with the dark earth.
