Every pane in the windows had been systematically broken, from top to bottom. All Miss Yaxley’s polished precious things lay under a blizzard of broken glass. From room to room she went. Every room was the same. It was more horrible than a death.
She swept back to Miss Yaxley, full of rage.
‘Who’s done this? We must ring the police!’
Miss Yaxley shook her head, her old eyes wide with terror.
‘Not police! Make it worse!’
‘It’s those bloody villagers, isn’t it?’
Miss Yaxley nodded. ‘Don’t ring the police,’ she whispered again.
‘Why ever not?’ Indignation and disbelief boiled up in Rose.
‘I have to live with them. In the village.’ The old voice was stronger now. The old hand reached for the mug of tea at her elbow, feebly. Rose picked it up and helped her drink, as if she were a child.
‘They’ll just say . . . it was motorbike vandals. I didn’t see who did it. I was dozing in the chair. They stick together . . .’
‘You can’t stay here now,’ said Rose, firmly but tenderly.
The old lady nodded her head in agreement.
‘You should be in hospital . . .’
‘No, not hospital.’ The fear of hospital was as vivid in the old eyes as the fear of the glass-breakers.
‘Where, then?’
‘Sister . . . Sheringham. Go there.’
‘Is she on the phone?’
Nod.
‘What’s her number?’
The phone, an old-fashioned black model, lay on a tiny table in the corner. Rose seized it, and was glad to hear the dialling tone. And to get Miss Yaxley’s sister, who sounded at least as old as Miss Yaxley, but had all her marbles.
‘No,’ said Rose reassuringly. ‘I don’t think she’s had a stroke or anything. She’s just had a bad shock with vandals. Can she come and stay with you for a bit?’
Miss Yaxley, a little recovered in spirit, raised her legs and waggled her toes in their carpet slippers, to reassure herself she hadn’t had a stroke.
Then Rose looked up and rang a taxi firm. In Sheringham. She was getting over her own shock now. Warmth and power seemed to flow into her, from the phone and the voices of the ordinary civilised world outside Wallney.
The taxi firm said someone would be with them in an hour. The man called her ‘madam’ respectfully. Rose gave Miss Yaxley her arm, and helped her upstairs to pack. Looked out of the broken windows at the garden to avoid seeing the old mottled hands packing the faded grey underwear, and never stopping shaking.
Bastards, thought Rose. They might have killed her. They are going to pay for this, no matter what Miss Yaxley says.
She got Miss Yaxley settled back in her chair, with another cup of tea, and her suitcase at her feet. The old lady’s colour was better now; the awful greyness was fading. She was beginning to look forward to staying with her sister.
‘You need the glazier,’ said Rose masterfully. ‘Get those windows done before it rains. Shall I get you one?’
‘Yes please!’ The old lady looked pathetically grateful.
The glazier was helpful; he would come this afternoon straight away, when Rose explained about ‘the vandals.’ But then he, too, was a Sheringham man.
Then Rose asked if she could do some phoning on her own account, and began ringing up hotels asking for accommodations for three people that evening. She had no wish to spend another night in this damned village . . .
But it was Friday; in the height of the holiday season in a big holiday area. Hotel after hotel had nothing. She began to think less bitterly about Philip and the super-efficient Ms. Sampson. It was only after a long search that she got a mere two-star place in Hunstanton that could take them at lunchtime on Saturday. That was it; it was either one more night in that damned village, or go home to Philip with her tail between her legs.
And she would not run home to Philip. Well, one more night would not kill them . . . she confirmed the booking at Hunstanton. She heard Miss Yaxley say sharply, ‘No.’ But by that time she’d made the booking and rung off.
Miss Yaxley kept on saying no. She must not spend another night in the village. But then the taxi came, and Miss Yaxley was handed into it carefully, tucked up and sent off, Rose reassuring her that she would stay till the glazier came.
The house was very silent, after that. The whole village seemed silent, dreaming under the afternoon sun. Not even a dog was stirring. It was hardly a picture postcard village, even in the sunshine, with its massive poles for phones and power-cables, and the vast blue silos of the farms. But it seemed peaceful enough. Quite a lot of people seemed to be coming and going at the post office, but Friday tended to be shopping day.
But the more peaceful it seemed, the more Rose wanted revenge on it. The telephone lay by her hand, and, in it, power. The power of all the outside world, that could come sweeping in at the touch of a dial, and drown Wallney. The world of decent society and standards, of civilised living, of the police and the RSPCA.
And Philip.
She would phone Philip. She looked up the dialling code, and dialled the old familiar number.
And got the old familiar voice of Ms. Sampson. Who enquired politely how the holiday was going, and hoped Rose and the children were enjoying themselves . . .
Rose asked curtly for Philip.
Philip was unfortunately in a meeting. Would she like to leave a message? Was there a number he could ring her back on?
Rose’s rage must have crept into her voice. Ms. Sampson asked if there was a problem.
Rose said damn right there was a problem; she should try asking the minister of Cley if there wasn’t a problem, and rang off abruptly.
And then thought it would be a good thing to ring the minister of Cley herself.
And got Mrs. minister. The minister was in a meeting. Would she like to leave a message? Was there a number he could ring her back on? Rose hung up more politely that time.
She considered ringing the local police. But a heavy thought told her that probably they’d be unavailable in a meeting too. Anyway, it would be going against poor Miss Yaxley’s wishes . . .
Then the glazier turned up, a huge burly man with a red moustache of such splendid length that it joined up with his red sideburns; a jolly man full of jokes and teasing, a very reassuring sort of man who had a mind to bring back flogging for vandals, but at the same time had a lively awareness that vandals meant prosperity for him personally. He measured up the windows for replacement glass, and then cut to size huge sheets of hardboard which he tacked over entire windows. It was a pleasure to make him cups of tea. It was only when he drove away with a cheery wave that Rose realised it was gone five o’clock, and that her half-hour trip to settle Miss Yaxley’s hash had turned into a four-hour mercy mission.
Locking the house, and putting the key in her pocket, she set off through the hated village. Curtain after curtain twitched, but she walked proudly with her nose in the air. If she was being talked about as a witch, at least she would be a witch with style . . .
There were no fewer than three aged men feebly hacking away at the field-hedge as she passed. They got out of her way obligingly enough; but they let her pass without a word.
She found the kids in the kitchen with the cat, looking rather fed up. They’d been untidily at the bread and jam, and left the evidence of their crime for all to see. Obviously they were ceasing to be house-proud. The charm of the house was wearing off for them too, she could tell. Well, at least they would leave tomorrow without a protest; might even be charmed by a wretched two-star dump at Hunstanton.
Except what could they do with the cat, at the two-star dump at Hunstanton? Oh, God, life was so difficult. Suddenly, treacherously. Rose was close to tears. She forced them back down with an effort, and said brightly, ‘Have you had a nice afternoon?’
‘Rotten,’ said Timothy. ‘We dug for buried treasure.’
Suddenly, even in the dimne
ss of the kitchen, she realised that their shoes were thick with clay, and it was starting to dry and drop off on the kitchen floor.
‘What do you mean, buried treasure?’ Her treacherous voice jerked suddenly upwards again.
‘Like we found in that cupboard this morning,’ said Jane sulkily.
‘Where did you dig?’
‘In the garden. Under that stupid rockery.’
‘What on earth for? What made you think there’d be buried treasure there?’ She must keep her patience; they had to amuse themselves somehow.
‘The cat was scrabbling there. Scrabbling away like mad. So we dug.’
‘And what did you find?’ she asked, all synthetic sweetness and light.
‘A rotten old boot.’
‘A great big boot. We couldn’t even get that out. It was caught on something. We could get it to waggle, but it wouldn’t come out. It must have been caught on something in the ground. But we couldn’t find out what. The rockery got in the way . . . so we just left it and covered it up again. It’s all right, we left everything tidy,’ said Timothy. ‘Don’t have a fit, Mum.’
It was then that Rose noticed the unpleasant smell in the kitchen. Well, she’d been noticing it for some time. A smell like something really rotting. Like something you’d left in the back of the fridge, when you came back from a month in the Caribbean.
‘What’s making that smell?’ she demanded. ‘What else have you brought home – a dead rat?’
‘Nothing, Mum, honest.’
She followed her sniffing nose round the kitchen, the scent going warmer and colder; like a child seeking out a hidden chocolate Easter egg. Warmer, warmer, colder, warmer, got it!
‘Timothy, it’s on you. It’s all over you. You stink! What have you been doing? And it’s all over you as well, Jane . . .’
‘Nothing. Just digging for buried treasure . . .’
‘It’s on your shoes. And your hands.’ She pushed him into a chair and hauled off one of his shoes, outraged that her offspring could smell so, for the first time in his life.
The stink of the shoe nearly made her throw up. She threw it into the sink and sluiced water from the pump over it. But the smell just grew worse and worse.
‘Sorry,’ said Tim. ‘The hole that we dug just got smellier and smellier. We thought it was something Mr. Gotobed had buried from the outhouse. We hardly noticed after a bit, you get used to it. Hey, Mum, where you going?’
She was running, running for her life, for all their lives. For the minister, the police, Philip, anything . . .
‘Bolt the door,’ she shrieked back over her shoulder. ‘Bolt both the doors. Fasten the windows. Don’t answer the door to anybody.’
Thank God the old men cutting the hedge had gone home for their tea.
She kept well hidden behind the hedge, running crouched up until she made her last burst to the car, keys in her hand. She slammed the car door behind her, pressed down the locking button, turned on the ignition, and the engine roared. Then she let in the clutch . . .
The engine roared again, then stalled. Damn, damn, damn. More haste, less speed. She started the engine again, let in the clutch more gently; the car lurched forward a foot, and the engine stalled again.
It was her panic; she was doing something wrong, and she didn’t know what. The car had always started first time, she no longer thought about what you did to start a car. She did it without thinking. Steeling herself with a tremendous effort of will, she slowly turned the ignition again, checked the handbrake was off, let in the clutch with superhuman gentleness, got the car slowly moving forward . . .
There was a rough bumping of the wheels; a rough unnatural uneven bumping, a screeching of rubber and metal, and a slight burning smell. There was something wrong, badly wrong, with the bloody car. The screaming engine stalled again. If she went on forcing it, something expensive was going to give.
She looked around the little square. She had been making enough noise to waken the dead. But nothing stirred; there was nothing in sight, not even a dog. Cautiously watching the house doors and street-corners, she opened the car door and peeped down.
All four tires were flat.
One might have been an accident, she thought.
But four was deliberate.
Her magic carpet to civilisation was gone. She bit her lip and whimpered to herself.
She was alone with Wallney.
No, no, the phone. Grabbing her purse and gathering the last remnants of her courage, she ran to the phone-box.
The dangled severed end of the handset mocked her. She did not even waste time going inside.
But she wasn’t quite beaten, even then. There was Miss Yaxley’s phone. She still had Miss Yaxley’s keys in the pocket of her jeans. Her good turn had come back to her aid. They wouldn’t have thought of that. She ran faster now than she ever remembered running in her life. Round the corner of the hardboard-blind house she ran, to the back door.
But the back door opened to her push. And hope died. But still she ran to the phone on its little table. Picked it up, hoping against hope.
No dialling tone.
And she sensed, rather than saw, the room darken.
Standing just outside the door were the three old men. Still with their billhooks in their hands. As if they had come to set Miss Yaxley’s hedge. In fact one of the old men idly swung at the nearest part of Miss Yaxley’s hedge as she watched; and stooped meditatively to pick up the twig that he had sliced off.
She knew that billhook must be razor-sharp; it had cut off a very thin whippy twig.
The old men looked at her. One of them wore spectacles.
‘Get you home, missus,’ he said gently. ‘Get you home to your children.’
Ten
She wondered afterwards why she went home so tamely. Why she didn’t take to her heels up the road to Cley, leaving the old men standing. She mightn’t be all that fit, but she was a lot fitter than they were, with their wheezing breath and doddering limbs.
But it was their very grandfatherliness that overthrew her. She still thought of the old as being harmless, even calm and wise. Like her own grandfathers had been.
And it was more than that; in their absolute grim surety, grim and righteous as chapel deacons, was the certainty that they had the whole village behind them; a whole society, a whole way of life. If she ran, they would summon younger men with a car, who might not be so gentle. If she was dragged back home panting and struggling and screaming, she would have lost her dignity and more. In their eyes, running away would prove her guilt.
So she went back with them walking behind her. They were so sure of themselves they did not lay a finger on her.
They all turned in at the garden gate. She looked up, and Timothy and Jane, pale-faced, silent were watching through the open window.
‘Wait,’ said the old man with spectacles. Five yards from her door, she stopped and turned reluctantly. She was so passive that she did not even flinch as the old man raised a fist. She noticed, with some small part of herself that stood coolly aside, that he wore a ring on the third finger of his hand; a ring in which a green stone glinted. She just thought it rather odd that such a grim, dully-dressed old man should wear such a gaudy piece of jewellery. What was he up to? It was all so strange . . .
The next second, he struck her on the forehead. Quite lightly, almost ritually. But there was a small sharp pain, and she knew his ring had cut her. She did not even stagger; just cried out and put her hand to the place and felt blood.
The old man did not put his fist back to his side; he held his hand aloft, again as if in a ritual gesture, to show the others what he had done.
There was a sharp spat from above; a hiss in the air. Then the old man cried out sharply, and they all stared at his upraised hand.
There was a hole in it; a jagged bloody hole through the palm, about half an inch across. Bemused, Rose even saw a glint of blue daylight through it, and a stream of blood running down the o
ld man’s wrist, inside the cuff of his thick flannel shirt.
Then the old man doubled up, clenching his hand inside his other hand, and both between his knees.
The other two old men looked up incredulous at the upstairs window, and Rose followed their gaze. Timothy was leaning out, his young face white and set.
‘That’s for hurting my mother, you old bastard,’ he said between gritted teeth. ‘The next time, it’ll be your face.’
From the way he held the long black air-pistol, Rose knew he’d already reloaded. His voice might be trembling, but his hand was rock-steady, and the barrel was pointing straight at the old man’s face.
‘I’m going to count to five,’ said Timothy. ‘One . . .’
But the old men did not run. They stared up at her son. And her son stared back at them, equally implacable.
‘Two,’ said Timothy. ‘Three. Four . . .’
Heavens, was everybody mad?
She saw his finger tighten on the trigger. Nothing was going to stop him.
The old man raised his hand. The wounded one; it was now red with blood to the fingertips. Rose felt sick.
Then he said, in a voice full of cold quavering hate. ‘We’re going. But we’ll be back.’
‘Then you’ll know what to expect,’ said Timothy, with equal quivering hate.
Then the three old men were shambling out of the gate.
Rose walked to the door. She heard the bolts drawn back, with great effort, and Jane pulled her in, her face as white as a sheet. ‘Mum, you all right?’ She shot the bolts again.
‘It’s only a scratch,’ said Rose. Then, bewildered, ‘Where’s Tim?’
‘Keeping watch,’ said Jane. ‘In case the old bastards come back. Sit down. Let me look at that cut.’
Rose felt her legs start to give way, and almost fell into a chair. She sat quite still and passive, while her daughter fetched warm water from the kettle, and TCP and Elastoplast from the first aid kit.
‘What’s happened?’ she asked feebly. Meaning what’s happened to turn my first-born into almost a murderer?
‘We worked it out, Mum,’ said Jane, with quite amazing calm, and only the slightest tremor in her voice. ‘That boot we found – it belongs to Sepp Yaxley, doesn’t it? He’s . . . buried in the garden. They murdered him. Seven years ago, they murdered him. And now they’re going to try to murder us.’
Spectral Shadows Page 30
