by Simon Clark
Then everything would be fine again. When she saw little Liam she'd bury her face into his sweet hair. She'd kiss his fingers, his toes… Hell!
Her feet shot from under her as she took a right-angled bend. She went down hard sliding on her rear end, skinning her bare elbows. Gritting her teeth, she blinked away the pain, then scrambled up onto her feet. She glanced back. No sign of Joe… no visible sign that is, but she could hear his feet echoing along the labyrinth.
She must be nearly at the grave now. She knew this place. There was a broad pathway that led up a slope. The grave with the crying boy was right at the top of that.
Then she looked at her hands. She stared without understanding for a moment.
Then it hit her. Where's the damned carrier bag? You must have dropped it, you stupid, empty headed…
For a second she planned to run on without it. She was near the crying boy grave. It couldn't be more than a moment away-not if she ran hard.
But what's the fucking point? she asked herself. The reason she was here at all was to leave the contents of that bag on the stone slab. Her eyes scanned the passageway. Yes, there was the bag. She must have dropped it when she fell. But if she ran to retrieve it there was every chance she'd run straight into Joe as he barreled round the corner.
She listened. The running footsteps grew louder, louder… then they stopped. She creased her forehead, puzzled. Why had he stopped running?
Maybe she was being given a chance? She took it. Five seconds later the carrier bag was in her hands, the clunky weight in the bottom as welcome as it was reassuring.
Nearly there. She turned back to run the last two hundred yards.
"I said you couldn't run away from me, didn't I, Mary?"
She found herself looking into his blazing eyes. He'd run along one of the parallel channels then turned to cut her off. Her breath coming in frightened sobs, she backed away from him, the carrier bag held like a shield in front of her chest.
"I told you I'd catch you. And that when I did, I'd make sure you were fucked."
She walked backward until her body hit one of the tomb's iron doors. The clang sounded like the single peal of a bell. Cold air oozed through ventilation holes in the door and into the back of her neck. Tomb air, that had enveloped a dozen coffins for a hundred years. It stank of death and eternity.
He closed in on her, his hands clenched down by his side. Despite the fact he'd been running, his face was a bloodless white.
"Please…" she panted. "Don't hurt me, Joe, please."
"What is it, Mary?" His face was stiff, unsmiling. "Have you been wondering what I was going to do to you? Maybe have a go at pulling that loose tongue of yours out again? Hmm? Or maybe kick your teeth so far down your throat you can bite toilet paper?"
"Joe-"
"So… what do you think it's to be, then?"
"Joe, don't hurt me. It was a long time ago; you don't want-"
"Don't want what, hmm? You were going to wait for me, Mary, but you just got naked for the first guy who came along. You dumped me like I was a piece of shit."
She breathed deeply, controlling her voice. "Joe. Don't do this, please. I've got a little boy now. I'm all he's got. He'll be put into care if I-"
"If you what? Join those guys in there!" He head-butted the iron door. It rang like a bell. The echoes took forever to die. "Joe. My little boy needs me."
"What about Stevo?"
"He's no good as a father. He won't look after him."
"How very, very sad." Joe pushed out his bottom lip in mock concern. "Mary, my love, you don't have to worry about a thing."
He raised his clenched fists. She flinched expecting them to come crashing into her face.
"No, Mary, I'm not going to lay a finger on you. In fact, I came all the way up here to tell you not to worry about little Liam." He opened his fists at eye level showing her his palms. "I've taken care of him for you."
She saw the palms of his hands. They were covered with dried blood. Then, as she understood, she began to scream. She screamed long and hard. And the iron doors of the tombs hummed in harmony with her.
4
"Mmm…" Miranda's sigh was as exciting as anything she said, then giving a regretful shrug she whispered. "Sorry, Paul."
"Sorry for what?" Paul wondered if he'd tried to cover too much ground too quickly.
"I'm babysitting for my sister at four."
She pulled down her T-shirt, hiding her wonderful breasts from his eyes. He felt a pang of loss, wondering if he'd ever see them again; they were such firm handfuls of flesh with a dusting of freckles around the beautifully dark nipples.
For the first time he began to take notice of his surrounding again. That they were sitting on a tombstone surrounded by bushes. As he watched her push her hair back from her face she paused. "I can hear it now."
"Hear what?" He was still all eyes for Miranda; the outside world and the rest of the cosmos in general seemed a far less interesting place than this slender hipped girl with hair as glossy as fresh chestnut.
"Screaming," she said, frowning slightly while looking down the hill.
"Maybe we should check?"
She shrugged. "Why bother? It's probably kids. This is a mad place." She shot him a grin. "It gets madder after dark. A couple of months ago we built a huge fire and Shaun Richards, oh, you've not met him, have you? Well Shaun brought in half a dozen cases of beer. Everyone got out of their faces… Christ, the hangover…"
"Sounds fun." Paul smiled but felt a stab of jealousy. Just who the hell's Shaun Richards?
"Do you fancy walking me home?"
"I'll be heading that way anyway," he said, deliberately nonchalant (but his heart still thudded outrageously after spending twenty minutes in that tight clinch… and, good God, his groin ached; he felt as if he was going to explode).
"Anyway, old screamer's stopped." She spoke lightly. "It'll be kids. Like I say this is nothing but a big playground these days."
"Little kids by day, big kids by night?"
"Absolutely. You should see what goes on in the crypts."
"Sounds spooky."
"It's damn spooky." She grinned mischievously. "Especially when you're there alone at the dead of night."
"We should try it sometime."
"Yeah, why not," she said surprisingly. "It'll be a thrill."
"I'll bring the stakes. You bring the crucifix."
The mischievous smile came again. "Oh, I'd definitely recommend you bring some protection."
Does she mean what I think she means? His pulse fluttered like butterfly wings beneath his skin.
They headed up a narrow track through the trees. Here, as everywhere, the place was a riot of wild flowers, bushes, nettles. Many a headstone had been toppled; while most were either splashed white with bird crap or dark green and woolly looking with growths of ivy.
As they crested the hill Paul noticed a peculiar looking tomb with a statue of a crying boy.
"Miranda, what on earth goes on here?"
"Oh, that's a famous one."
He waited to hear more but she didn't offer any elaboration. As they walked by the tomb she grabbed his hand and gave it a squeeze. "See." She nodded at the tomb. "I told you we get all kinds of crazy people in here after dark."
He frowned at what had been set out in a semi-circle at the feet of the statue.
"Bars of chocolate? Why on earth would anyone leave bars of chocolate on a grave?"
She giggled. "Paul! You're so naive! Haven't you noticed all these soggy bits of spliff around here?"
He looked blank.
She laughed with genuine amusement. "You've never smoked dope, have you?"
He shook his head, feeling awkward and childlike.
Explaining, she squeezed his hand in hers. "Dope makes you ravenous… see? Someone's left their munchies behind?"
"But all that chocolate?"
She pecked his cheek. "Sweet, innocent Paul… I'm going to have to show you the ways of the
world, aren't I?"
He was shooting a puzzled glance again at the table-like tomb on which was engraved the name Jess Bowen, when Miranda added airily, "Paul Newton, you'll be telling me you're a virgin next."
He laughed as if it was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. Even so, he felt his ears burn as he blushed from head to toe. Despite that, the bizarre image of chocolate bars set out around the feet of the statue glued itself tight in his mind's eye as, hand in hand, they walked down toward Skelbrooke village.
CHAPTER 6
1
"Dad, can I go on the boat?" Elizabeth looked up at him, her face framed by the bandages.
"Not this afternoon, hon. Your mum and I are busy cutting down nettles."
"I can row it myself now."
Dear God. The idea of Elizabeth taking the boat out onto the lake alone was enough to send floods of ice through John Newton's stomach. Smiling, he diplomatically said, "You can take me out on the boat this evening if it stays fine."
Elizabeth wasn't deflected so easily. "I wanted to show Emma how I used the oars." She looked back at a girl of the same age who stared expectantly at John.
John adopted his calm but firm parental voice. "Why don't you play on the new swing Paul rigged up for you in the orchard?"
To his relief her face brightened. "I'd forgotten about that. Come on, Emm!"
Both girls dashed toward the orchard. Elizabeth's bandage now trailed a loose end like an Arab's turban.
"No falling off the swing, mind." It was only a half joke. He didn't relish a return trip to the hospital the same day.
Val hacked the nettles. She gave him one of her twinkling post-lovemaking smiles. "I didn't think you'd have the energy for this."
He smiled back. "I'll manage. Besides, it might give me an appetite for more later."
"You'll be lucky, you monkey, you've had your quota for this week."
"We'll see about that, my dear," he said in a mock Hear Thy Lord And Master kind of voice. "Now get those nettles felled by sundown or I'll put you over my knee."
"You do and I'll bust your ghoulies."
Smiling happily she swiped the nettles with the scythe. He raked for a while, then asked her if she wanted him to take over.
"Whatever for?" She rubbed the small of her back. "I'm loving every minute of it."
"I thought you might be tired?"
"No, I'm imagining these…" She nodded at the nettles, "…are the board of directors and I'm cutting off their stupid heads." Swinging the scythe she hacked through a dozen nettles.
"In that case I'll leave you to burn off some energy."
"You do that, John Newton, you just do that."
John headed for the tool shed. It was just past four in the afternoon; the sun shone brilliantly. The lake, which sat a good hundred yards up hill from the house, blazed like liquid silver, while another broad thread of silver that was the mill stream ran down to disappear under the end wall of the house, before tumbling out the other side.
Despite the morning being pretty much a disaster zone the afternoon was turning out to be pleasantly relaxing. He still tingled from an hour's lovemaking with Val. Her perfume had insinuated itself into his head, while a delicious sensation persisted that he floated a few inches above the ground. Another bonus was Elizabeth's friend coming round to play (so that now Elizabeth was happily entertained). He walked down the sloping lawn in the direction of the toolshed. In front of him was the house, beyond that the tree-line that marked the position of the old Roman road; away to his right were the roofs of Skelbrooke like little tents of red tile. While there, across on the hill a good mile or so away, was the old cemetery which looked more like virgin forest rather than the last resting place for a good chunk of Victorian Yorkshire.
He now felt easier thinking of the Water Mill as home. What made him particularly proud was the fact that a single book (that took a mere seven months to write) had made this possible. If the follow-up was as successful, they'd be secure here for years to come.
After rooting through the nether regions of the shed he pulled a tin of grease from behind a jumble of out-grown bikes, then he followed the millrace stream up to the lake.
The stream was still high Respite there being little rain for weeks now. But seeing as the lake itself was fed by a dozen or more springs that bled from the hillside further up he figured that it would take a long drought to dent the waterflow. After all, the people who built the Water Mill hundreds of years ago weren't stupid. They'd have chosen a site that enjoyed a constant supply of water, in order to keep the water wheel turning and the millstones grinding wheat. Livelihoods depended on it.
A refinement to the Water Mill's lake was a brickbuilt dam that allowed the miller to control the water flow by virtue of a hefty sluice gate. The mechanism had rusted pretty badly and John was sure that the thing hadn't been used in decades; nevertheless, he'd taken it upon himself to try and bring the thing back into working order. Every few days he liberally greased the cogs that were as big as bicycle wheels.
Maybe one day the grease would soak through the rust, then the handle would turn, allowing him to raise and lower the sluice gate. Of course Val had inquired why it was important to be able do so.
"So we can control the rate the water flows down to the house."
"Why?"
He'd grinned and replied that it was a boy-thing. In truth there was no real reason. Naturally he had no intention of putting the Water Mill back in working order. The expense would be astronomical. And yet there was something strangely satisfying tinkering with the century old mechanism. Maybe it was some unconscious tribute to the ghosts of the craftsmen who'd labored to build the sluice gate. A way of saying 'Look, you're work wasn't in vain. See, after a hundred years someone still cares about what you did.'
Smiling to himself he dipped his fingers deep into the grease. Maybe he was getting sentimental. As he rubbed the grease onto the teeth of the iron cogs the dog trotted up to investigate, his nose twitching as he caught scent of the rich goo on John's fingers, and perhaps there was a trace of Val's pheromones mingled with it, too.
"Don't get too close, Sam," he told the dog. "You don't want this stuff up your nostrils…" He massaged more lubricant onto the turning rods. "Sticks like poop to a blanket."
The dog wagged his tail.
"And no you can't eat it."
The dog pricked up his ears, his eyes fixed on John's.
"Go chase mice, boy. There's some under the tool shed."
The dog rolled onto his back for his stomach to be tickled, his pink tongue hanging from the side of his mouth as he panted in the heat.
"No, Sam." He showed the dog his greased fingers. "See, I'm all gunked up?"
The dog squirmed on his back, showing his teeth in what had to be a canine grin.
"No way, pooch. Not until I've washed my hands. Go play with Elizabeth."
Even mentioning his daughter's name was enough for him to take a moment to check that she was OK. Val was still decapitating nettles. No doubt in her imagination her bosses heads were tumbling before the blade. Elizabeth and her friend Emma had walked up to the lake. Now they were on their hands and knees at the water's edge looking, he guessed, at their reflections; then again it may have been for fish.
Watch out, kids, there's a monster pike in there. Make sure he doesn't steal your noses…
He shook his head. You're getting an anxiety complex about your child, John, he told himself. The kids are safe here. Lighten up… nothing bad can happen to them… Now, come on, you grease monkey. Back to work.
With a pleasure that verged on sheer eroticism, he worked his well-lubricated fingers into a series of grooves in the sluice gate itself. Hell, maybe he was getting kinky in his old age. To be so satisfyingly pleasured from greasing a heap of old iron cogs and coupling rods couldn't be legal, or moral or Godly. He smiled to himself. Why, he was probably carving himself a niche in hell right now. Stoke up them furnaces, Satan, another one coming through
!
As he greased he found himself tuning into Elizabeth and Emm's conversation.
"Keep looking, Elizabeth."
"For how long?"
"Until I say so."
"My bandage is getting wet."
"Here. I'll tuck it under."
They still gazed into the lake. Studying their reflections or watching for fish or whatever.
Careful of that pike girls… got shark's teeth…
See, you can't stop yourself, can you John? They're safe… safe as a whole hill of houses.
Elizabeth was saying, "I'm starting to get frightened, Emm."
"I was frightened when I looked the first time."
"Maybe we should go do something else?"
"No, Elizabeth. You've got to do it. Got to."
"But I'm scared, Emm."
"I'll tell you what to do. You hold my hand. That's what Jenny told me to do when I first did it."
"OK."
"Got it?"
"Yes."
"Now, Elizabeth. You hold onto my hand. It stops you from being frightened. And you keep holding my hand as tight as you can, squeeze it so tight I get rug burns. I don't care."
"OK, Emm."
John heard the conversation, but all he did was glance in their direction. It was just some game they were playing. One look at Elizabeth's face told him she wasn't genuinely frightened. Her eyes held that devil-may-care gleam of old. He noticed both girls still stared into the lake, their faces only six inches or so from its surface. So close in fact, that Emm's pigtail's dipped into the water every now and again. He returned to his greasing, humming to himself now.
"See anything, yet?" asked Emm.
"Nothing."
"Maybe he won't appear?"
"He will, Elizabeth, you've just got to look hard enough."
"What's he look like?"
"Oh… really, really awful."
"Yuk."
"His face is the worst thing you'll ever see in your life."
"Maybe we should go do something else? If we go back down to the swing I'll push you."
"No, Elizabeth. You've got to do this. Now look into the water. Look as hard as you can."
