by Simon Clark
She smiled. "I know why Paul's so eager to wash the car."
"Well?" He made a point of smiling casually.
"He wants me to teach him to drive."
"Oh." His muscles unclenched. "I see." Now his smile was one of relief. "He did seem suddenly eager to start washing the cars. At least we can be guaranteed the shiniest paintwork in the village for the next few months anyway."
They sat for a while in the sun. John watched Paul at work (and detecting one or two reproachful glances from his son). I admit it, OK. I snapped when I shouldn't have done. I sounded like an irritable old whiner. It's the letters. They made me lose my sense of proportion. Look, John Newton, the sun is shining, life goes on… so don't dwell on stupid letters written by some looser with nothing better to do… Now, you go across there and make up with your son.
He strolled across to the car.
Paul'd certainly lavished some care and energy on Val's car, something that was guaranteed to get into her good books. The Golf was her pride and joy. She'd saved hard for it from her own salary for over two years. When she first bought it he'd hardly seen her for days on end. She found endless reasons to buy a newspaper, or carton of mushrooms, or get a sudden urge to visit a friend-any excuse to simply get into the car, turn the ignition key, then surge away down the road. He suspected she'd followed some weirdly Byzantine routes for those mushrooms or newspapers. But why not? She'd earned the right to savor the pleasures of driving what was one sexy set of wheels.
"You've done a good job, Paul."
John noticed the way his son's eyes flicked up suspiciously into his, probably wondering if this was a subtle build up to another ear-bashing.
"Got any plans for today, Paul?"
"Why?"
Again, suspicion.
"I wondered if you fancied lighting the barbecue for me later?"
"I'm going with Mum to the library first. Some books need to go back."
"There's no rush. Don't worry."
Paul twisted the water from the wash leather like he was ringing an enemy's neck.
"Paul. I apologize for snapping at you like that a few minutes ago. I didn't mean it."
"Then why do it?"
"Call it first chapter blues. I've just started on a new book… it gets me all tense and on edge, which I know is a rotten excuse… so if you want to tip that bucket of water over my head be my guest."
It broke the ice. Paul smiled. "All right, Dad. No worries."
"See, even we saints get bad tempered sometimes."
"Some saint. Oh, Dad?"
"Yep?"
"OK, if I have my allowance before I go into town?"
John felt a grin steal onto his own face. "You'll go far, Paul, won't you, son?"
"Just a chip off the old block, Dad. Now what was that about a bucket of water and your head?"
"I'll get my wallet." John made for the house.
4
Stan Price knew what he must do. As he stood looking out of the window he experienced one of those all too rare moments of lucidity. There, in the sunlight, the mass of trees that crowned the old Necropolis on the hill moved in the breeze. For a while it looked as if the whole cemetery was breathing-some colossal beast that inhaled, exhaled, then shook itself as a stronger breeze ran through the branches.
"Telephone Dianne Kelly. She's the only one left who knows what to do… she's the only one left." Murmuring the same words over to himself, he crossed the bedroom to the door. As he did so he happened to glance into the mirror. "Oh, dear Lord, that's you, Stan. You're old… you're old." Stan couldn't take his eyes from the reflection. The neck appeared too thin to support the head. The fingers looked like bird's claws, mere talons of hands with precious little flesh. "Oh dear, Stan. What happened to you?" He looked to the window. "Harry." His voice croaked. "Harry. Where are you?"
Harry's dead, he told himself. He died years ago. Only you're too far gone to remember.
But he did remember now. He remembered Ezy View, his chain of TV stores. He remembered Cynthia and Robert's move into his house- they weren't invited, he remembered that. But then he'd become so forgetful… he'd cook breakfast at midnight… he'd walk miles to one of his stores… but it wasn't an Ezy View TV rental store any more. He remembered his confusion standing there at the dead of night, key in his hand, looking at the Chinese Restaurant and wondering why the new color TVs weren't displayed in the window. More flashes of memory came to him. Walking through the village in his pajamas. Wetting the bed. Always hungry. Yes, always hungry these days… Robert Gregory… color TVs by the score…
He clenched his fists. There was an oily quality to his mind now. All too easily it slipped away into a dream world. Then he believed he was ten years old again. A ten-year-old who didn't know why his best friend didn't call for him anymore. Oh… the times they'd caught fish in the Ebeck. Roach. Perch. Once a massive pike that had been the size of a whale. They'd fought the monster until…
His mind began to slide again. No, he couldn't let go yet. "Dianne Kelly. Phone her. She's the only one left."
He went downstairs to the telephone in the hall. There was his telephone book. Nine tenths of the people listed there were dead now. But not Dianne Kelly. No, sir. He was sure she was still alive. Made of tough stuff…
Willing his fingers to move, he flicked through he pages.
From the living room came the sound of the television. Robert Gregory and Cynthia were watching comedy. He heard bursts of canned laughter, then a deep voice made some comment about the show. Robert Gregory was master of the house now.
Didn't Robert once slap Stan? Images flickered in his mind. Slaps across the side of the head where the marks wouldn't show. When he asked Robert for food. Many, many slaps.
Kelly, Dianne. There… the telephone number. With an effort he held onto a splinter of rationality. He knew what he had to do. He must telephone Dianne Kelly then tell her the letters had started again. She was there the first time. Only fourteen years old, though. But her mind was clear as glass. She'd know what to do. She was their only hope…
Yes, yes… his heart beat faster. The telephone was ringing. Suddenly he felt younger, his veins tingled. He hadn't spoken to Dianne in years.
"Hello," came the familiar voice in his ear. She sounded so bright. You wouldn't have guessed she was in her eighties.
"Hello?" she said again.
"Dianne. This is Stan Price. Dianne, listen, the-" Suddenly he realized he was hearing the dialing tone. Puzzled he went to re-dial. Then he saw a finger resting on the cradle. His eyes went from the finger to the face beside his.
"Now, Dad. What are you playing with the telephone for?"
Robert's face loomed forward. The eyes bulged into his. Stan saw his own face reflected in the man's pupils.
"I was calling a friend."
"You don't have friends any more. They're all dead."
"I need to speak to Dianne."
"Don't you realize, you stupid old man? Everyone you knew died fucking years ago."
Robert's hand closed around Stan's elbow in a crushing grip. "Now, Dad. Get up those stairs before I lose my temper with you."
"Dad? Did you want anything?"
Robert released his cruel grip when Cynthia appeared. "I caught him messing around with the telephone."
"Dad, you know you're not allowed to touch it," she scolded affectionately. "Now come through into the kitchen. I'll pour you a glass of milk."
"Don't give him anything else to eat," Robert said quickly. "He ate a huge breakfast. He'll make himself ill if he keeps stuffing himself."
"I need to telephone Dianne Kelly."
"Yes, Dad, plenty of time for that later. Come on, we'll get you a nice drink."
Stan allowed himself to be led away. With Robert standing by the telephone he knew there would be no chance to make the call yet-that all-important call that burned in his veins so much it hurt. No… he'd have to wait… be patient… but how long could he hold onto his sanity before dem
entia rose up like a tsunami to engulf him in confusion once more?
Behind him he heard the telephone ring. Robert answered in that hearty voice of his. "Hello? Oh, Stan Price? No, sorry, he can't come to the telephone. No… Dr. Dianne Kelly? Oh, I'm sorry he bothered you, Dr. Kelly… To be honest with you he's become very confused these days… yes. Dementia, I'm afraid. Yes, it is very sad. He's not suffering at all. You know how it is with these things, it's the carers who have the tough time of it. His daughter's at her wit's end… Yes, I'll pass on your regards to Stan. Sorry that he disturbed you. Goodbye."
Stan Price sat at the kitchen table as Cynthia poured the milk. He tried to remember something he should do… it was important. He tried so hard to remember that his shoulders started shaking uncontrollably. They were still shaking when his son-in-law came into the room.
CHAPTER 14
1
Two letters lay on the table in front of him. The paper? Creamy. The ink? More of a brown than black. It looked watery, too. Clearly the letter writer had used a fountain pen. Or, mused John Newton, a goose feather cut into a quill. Now he could not look at the letters without a smoldering anger. He had even begun to envisage who the sender might be. At first he'd pictured a couple of giggling kids concocting the hoax letter over glasses of orange soda and potato chips one boring Sunday afternoon. Now he had a different image. In his mind's eye he saw a middle-aged man obsessively laboring over the letters with, yes, maybe even a quill, which he'd dip into watery ink.
But God knows what the ink was made of. Urine and blood? Toad blood? Bile from a stolen cat?
The more John Newton thought about it, the more bizarre the letters seemed.
He read the first letter in full again.
Dear Messr. John Newt'n,
I should wish yew put me a pound of chock latt on the grief stowne of Jess Bowen by the Sabbath night. Yew will be sorry if yew do not.
Once more he'd slipped into the detective role. Quickly he reprised the facts: the letters arrived by an unknown hand at the dead of night. They were undated, unsigned. They were addressed to John Newton in person (although they did favor the quaint spelling of Newt'n). The letters demanded payment in the form of goods-the first was chocolate, the second porter, a redundant term for a dark beer. They stipulated a deadline when payment had to be made. Then came a threat if he did not comply. Although, so far the threats were undefined, merely an ambiguous. 'Yew will be very sorry if yew do not.' And yes, note the cute olde worlde spelling of 'you'.
But why me? Why had he been selected for this lunatic's attention? Maybe there was no reason. Most victims of crime asked the same question. Why had they been singled out to be mugged or burgled? The truth of the matter is, as police confirm, there is nothing personal about crime in ninety-nine out of a hundred cases. Thieves tend to be opportunists. They don't know their victims. They see a chance to steal a car and take it. It's as impersonal as that. Even so, he harbored the lingering doubt that the letter writer was engaged in some personal vendetta; after all, the letters were addressed to him personally.
John pulled aside the blind. Val and Paul had gone to the library about an hour ago, with Val promising to be only twenty minutes, because they planned an early barbecue. He glanced at his watch. Dead on twelve. Maybe he should make a start. He wanted the charcoal good and hot before cooking the chops.
Maybe it would be a good idea to light the barbecue with these two letters? Already he felt annoyed with himself for brooding over them. But the way they were addressed to him personally with a demand for the chocolate and the beer… hell, it made him seethe. Yes, the demands were trivial. But there was something goading about them. In short, some stranger had set out to invade his life. They were deliberately attempting to take control of him to a certain degree by demanding that he perform certain actions by a certain time. Damn it. They weren't going to do that.
And Keith Haslem? Had he really bundled his family into the car and driven them away from letters like these? Once more he glared at the spiky handwriting.
"No way, you creep. You are not getting anything from me. Nothing!" His fury surprised him by its intensity. For a moment he wanted nothing more than to throw open the window, wave the letters in the air and yell: "Did you hear that, whoever you are? I've got your letters! I've read them! But you won't get even the time of day from me! You're getting nothing. So, go ahead. Do your worst! I dare you!"
A breeze swung back the window with a bang. The blind fluttered. Instantly the letters scuttled like eager vermin across the table.
So, go ahead. Do your worst! I dare you! His imagined challenge reverberated back at him. Would he really do anything as foolhardy as inviting the letter writer to execute the threat? He thought of Elizabeth playing out in the meadow alone. If there really was some creep watching the property. Then they might…
"Dad… Dad!" Elizabeth's voice brought him to his feet. There was something shocking about the tone of it. "Dad! Come here! Quickly!"
"Coming." He ran across the landing, then took the stairs two at a time.
"Dad, quick! It's our car!"
2
He walked into the lounge to find Elizabeth staring at the television.
"Dad," she said pointing. "That's Mum's car."
This didn't make sense. At least for a moment it didn't. He found himself looking at a car on the TV screen. It lay on its side spanning a road. The commentary stated, "Rose Way is backed up by at least two miles. So if you want to get into town by way of Junction 18 forget it."
That was the moment he felt as if his internal organs had detached themselves from their anchor points and slipped down through his body. He wasn't breathing. And he knew it. But somehow breathing no longer seemed important. Terror, pure terror, rolled through him in a cold, blue fog.
"Dad, it's Mum's car. It's all smashed up… the firemen can't get her out."
The commentary came in again. "This's Mac Nugent, your eye in the sky. If you've just joined us you're seeing one of the worst RTA's I've ever seen in this job. A white car… what looks like a white VW Golf has been top-sliced when it ran under a jack-knifed trailer before turning on its side. Rescue services are on the scene. But it's an awful, awful mess. Traffic into town from Junction 18 is completely static. Nothing's going to move down there for hours."
"Oh, my God," John breathed. His eyes locked onto the screen with an intensity that shut him off from the rest of Creation. Fluids leaked from the car as if it was some slaughtered beast. But the liquids weren't purely oil or water or brake fluid.
The camera in the hovering helicopter zoomed into a brutal close-up that winded him.
"Yes," the commentator was saying. "I am afraid what you are seeing is blood. You can see surgical dressings down there, too. Paramedics have crawled into that wreck. They are fighting to save those poor unfortunate people in there. I've been told we're going to stay with this until we get word on the condition of the passengers. This is truly awful…"
Elizabeth sat like she'd been set as tight as glue. Her eyes glistened as she stared. "Mum and Paul have been hurt, haven't they?" She looked at him. Her eyes were round enough to be shocking. "Will they be all right?"
His eyes roved over the scene filmed from the helicopter. In the corner of the screen were the words EYE IN THE SKY-LIVE!
"Paul's dead," Elizabeth said.
If sound could be dark then those words were as dark as grave soil.
On screen, there lay the torn body of the car. Ambulance lights flashed. Police, paramedics, firefighters ran around the car in a dance of life and death.
This isn't happening to me…
"Dad… Dad? What are you doing?"
"I'm phoning your mother's mobile number."
"You can't."
"Elizabeth, shh, please."
"Dad?" Emotion distorted her voice.
"Hon, I want to be able to hear her voice. I thought…" Abruptly, he put the phone down. What was he doing? Trying to phone what might be a
corpse locked in that tangle of scrap metal? He shook his head. But the thought echoed inside his skull: what if he telephoned Val? If she could answer the mobile he might get a chance to say goodbye.
Christ… he was shaking. He felt as if his body was going to tear itself apart.
"There is a passenger… one passenger free of the car. One free of the car." The TV commentary cut through the room.
John knelt in front of the TV as paramedics eased a woman through a windshield now devoid of glass: it looked like an eye torn from a living face. Within moments the woman lay on a gurney, her neck in a brace. Paramedics fastened belts around her blood-drenched body.
"Is she still alive?" Elizabeth asked in a small voice.
John crouched almost on top of the screen, now so close he could see the lines that formed the picture. Get a close up of her face; come on, get a close up of her face.
The rotors of the helicopter were close enough to blow dust across the road along with the bloodstained dressings discarded by the medics. There was the car again. Filling the screen. A mess of bent metal, shredded tires. A motor exposed and naked now that the hood had been torn clear. That was the moment he saw it.
A red line painted down the side of the car. No, in fact, two narrow lines running in parallel along the body of the car. They were so fine that he didn't notice them before.
"Hon," John whispered. "Hon. That isn't your mother's car."
"It is… look."
"No. It's the same make, the same color. But her car doesn't have red lines painted down the side."
"Then it's not Mum and Paul in there?"
"No. It's someone else." He was trembling, and his throat burned so hotly he found it hard to speak. "Haven't we been a pair of idiots scaring each other like that?"
"But it looks the same."
"I know, hon. It's a coincidence, that's all."
He dialed Val's mobile.
"Hello."
"Val?"
"Hi, John. I'm in the supermarket. I've got the mayonnaise. Do you want any more of that tomato ketchup they do here?"
