by Simon Clark
"The book," he said. "I still haven't written the first chapter. Tom's due to take it to Goldhall on Thursday."
"Don't worry. You'll do it. You've never had any problems before."
He smiled. "It's just me. Maybe I find it hard to switch off."
"Well, there's a bottle of wine in the fridge, a pizza in the oven and a new movie on TV, so take it easy. Relax."
"I will."
He stretched out his legs. Elizabeth sat watching home video clips on TV. The kind where children tumbled from swings, adults fell into streams and athletes tripped over hurdles. Now she laughed out loud as a mountain biker slithered down a muddy hill into a ditch. As usual she sat cross-legged on the observation window, with the millrace running beneath her bottom.
Through the living room window he caught sight of Paul coming across the lawn after taking the dog for a walk. With the evening air warm and sticky the dog plodded, his tongue almost trailing in the grass.
"It's going to thunder," Elizabeth announced without taking her eyes from the screen where a tipsy best man fell into the wedding cake.
"And probably rain," Val added. "I best get those canvas chairs inside from the patio."
"I'll see to that," John said. Val smiled her thanks and patted his rear as he stood up. "Good man."
In truth he felt too restless to sit and watch TV. What he'd done that afternoon left him oozing with guilt. He'd done something unpleasant, dirty, unwholesome, disgusting… but what had he done? He'd simply poured two bottles of beer over a gravestone.
Again the feeling came to him that it was like having sex with a stranger. Some sordid little act in the bushes. Where afterwards he and the stranger emerged, red faced, perspiring, grubby, then gone their separate ways without making eye contact. He knew he shouldn't feel guilty or sordid about simply tipping beer onto the gravestone, but there it was-the feeling just wouldn't leave him. The emotion still raw, undigested.
Don't worry, he told himself. In a day or two he would have all but forgotten about it. Certainly this feeling of degradation would have left him.
He waved to Paul as he walked toward the house. Sam ran forward, heroically wagging his tail, despite the poor dog being knackered by the heat.
"Pizza's nearly ready," John called. Paul gave a thumb's up sign then mimed drinking from a bottle.
"Ok, get me a can as well… and ask your mother if she wants one."
Again Paul gave the thumbs up.
John stacked the chairs inside the garage. The rain hadn't come yet, but clouds slid over the sky like a colossal gray roof. He felt the heat rise. After leaving the garage he returned to the house, going straight upstairs to wash the salt from his face left by a sheen of perspiration. Even the cold water faucet was lukewarm. He splashed his face, then rubbed it dry on the towel. As he did so he realized he hadn't checked his e-mail since yesterday. He walked into his study, switched on the computer, logged on and hit the send and receive icon.
There were two items of mail. One was headed:
You've been warned!
Hell. The mystery letter writer had his e-mail address. He hit Read Mail. The message filled the box on screen. It wasn't what he expected. A message warned of a new computer virus marauding across the worldwide web. He deleted it, then checked the next message. This one was headed Champagne Time. It was from his agent, and sent coincidentally enough the same time he poured beer onto the Bowen gravestone. Tom must be catching up on some overtime at the office, but then the guy was a workaholic.
Hi John,
You're not going to believe this. Just in from Thailand is an offer for the Mandarin translation rights of Blast His Eyes. They will pay $20,000 on signature of contract. Well, my old buddy in crime, do we accept?
Best wishes,
Tom
That was good news. Tremendous news. But why did he feel so emotionally flat about it? The e-mail could have been nothing more than a circular about health insurance. Not an offer to put thousands of bucks into his bank account. He checked the time of the e-mail. 3:57. Yep. Posted just as he shook the last few drips of beer from the bottle onto the head of the weeping statue.
Again he felt a surge of superstitious dread. Christ, all that stuff- omens, superstitions, hexes, good luck charms, the whole stinking pile should be dead and buried. But why did he feel as if a toxic chunk of rotting flesh had just crawled over his grave?
Before he could even suppress the thoughts they spat into his head, like pus erupting from some boil buried deep inside his head.
This is a two way street, John. The letter demands chocolate and beer-with menaces-but the little old letter writer tucked away in his tomb up there in the Necropolis gives you a reward in return. Fair exchange is no robbery. The little sobbing statue got the nice cold beer, while you, John Newton, are going to get a nice fat check. Why John… you've got the best deal, haven't you? You've got yourself an idiot demon who dishes out more than he takes… you want to go up there and give that old grave stone a big, sloppy kiss…
"Stop it." He clenched his fists, surprised he'd spoken out loud. "You're going crazy… it's just coincidence."
Yeah, like the Titanic ploughed through the same chunk of ocean coincidentally occupied by a dirty great iceberg… like JFK's head just happened to occupy the same airspace that rifle bullet would rocket through at six hundred miles an hour… like Christ by mere chance strolled through a garden where the bad guys lay in wait. And what was it He said when arrested? "But this is your hour, and the power of darkness."
Somehow the words seemed apt. John shut down the computer and went downstairs. Through the windows the clouds had turned black. Across at the Necropolis the swollen mass of trees reached upward to mate with the darkened sky. Even from here he could see those trees in the cemetery roll and shake as trunks shifted, flexing before the force of a sudden breeze. In John Newton's dark and haunted mood he didn't doubt for a moment that the roots writhed like tentacles in the earth, and where they broke through the rotting walls of the coffins they curled, twisted, uncoiled like fingers stirring the bones of the dead into new and hellish configurations that no human mind could fathom.
2
Paul had finished the pizza when the telephone rang. "I'll get it," he said. He left the living room where they'd been sitting round the coffee table, sharing a pair of vast pizzas. In bowls were the remains of coleslaw, potato salad, cherry tomatoes, and hunks of cucumber made shiny by a splash of virgin olive oil.
"No, me!" Elizabeth shouted.
"Let Paul get it, Liz," John said. "It'll be for him."
Val grinned. "Mr. Popularity seems to get all the telephone calls anyway."
"Thank heaven for e-mail." He made himself smile. Funny how you can have a problem that eats away inside like tuberculosis of the bone, but as far as everyone else is concerned you're still the happy-go-lucky guy or gal. But then, by the time you're ten years old society expects you to be able to mask your emotions.
Val asked, "Any e-mail messages? I heard you logging on earlier."
"Just a couple."
"Oh?"
"Yep. One warning about a new computer virus."
"Oh those-they're regular as the mailman. And?"
"One from Tom. A Thai publisher has made an offer on the Mandarin language rights to Blast His Eyes."
"Can you say how much, or is it one of these times where we have to tickle your feet until you crack?"
"I'll crack… twenty thousand dollars." Now a pleased grin did reach his face. Twenty thousand dollars. Those were three good words.
"Twenty thousand!"
"Are we rich, Dad?" Elizabeth piped up from the millrace glass. "Can we buy a pony?"
"John… I'm shocked… no, that isn't the right word. Stunned? Gobsmacked. My God, congratulations." Val's eyes glittered. "We must celebrate this one, John!"
"You're right." His grin broadened. "I'll go buy a bottle of champagne."
"Don't get wet."
"Get the glasses out
. I'll be back in ten minutes."
Val's sheer joy at the rights sale genuinely pleased him. Now, as he slipped out the front door for the five minute walk down to Rhythm & Booze in the village, his emotions were mixed. The letters troubled him. What he did at the grave troubled him, too. But this hefty injection of cash into his bank account was good news indeed.
He walked into the growing gloom. His luck was holding out. It hadn't started raining yet. Even so, in the distance, thunder announced its appearance with its first grumble. The second grumble was louder. The third sounded like approaching hooves.
3
"Paul?" The voice was familiar.
"Miranda? I thought you'd be at the theatre?"
"I am. I'm on my mobile in the ladies' room. Hear the echo?"
"Are you having a good time?"
"Not bad. But I wish I was with you."
"I wish you were here, too."
"I've missed you…"
There was a breathy pause. Paul could hear voices echoing dimly through the earpiece from a theatre in faraway London. He pictured Miranda's Spanish eyes. The chestnut hair.
"I've missed you, too," he whispered, feeling a tingle. "When are you back home? Monday?"
"No, that's why I'm phoning. Dad's going for a birthday drink with his brothers tomorrow night. I could meet you tomorrow evening."
Paul's father waved as he left the house. Paul paused, not wanting to speak until he was out of the way.
"Paul? You still there?"
"Where shall we meet?"
"Same place, of course. Cemetery gates."
"It might be raining. It's just started to thunder here."
"No problems. I know somewhere that's dry and private."
"I'll be there."
"Oh, I've got to go, Paul. I wish I hadn't. Bye."
"Whoa, what time tomorrow?"
"Eight. And this time don't forget to bring you know what."
With electric thrills running through him, he replaced the telephone receiver and looked at the hallway clock. Five minutes past eight. That meant less than twenty-four hours until he saw Miranda. He thought about the cellophane wrapped packet upstairs. God, he wished he could made those hours fly.
4
The girl looked at John defensively from behind the counter as he walked in.
"There isn't any Guinness left." She sounded as if she was trying to answer him before he asked the question. "There isn't any stout left at all."
Why aren't I surprised about that?
He smiled. "No. I'm looking for a bottle of champagne."
"Oh. We've got plenty of that."
"Any already chilled?" He smiled again at the girl. She looked frazzled. She'd clearly had a swine of a day.
"There's some in the refrigerator… next to the white wine."
"Got it." He chose two bottles. "Have you had a run on Guinness today?"
"You can say that again. The shelves had been stripped by the time I started my shift." She relaxed now, sounding chattier, as she realized he wasn't demanding that particular brand of beer.
He said, "It must be the heat. People have worked up a thirst."
"But we haven't sold more of the other beers than usual. If you ask me the whole village has gone stupid or something. Do you know, when I told people all the Guinness was gone they started getting really nasty? One woman threatened to report me because we'd run out of all the stouts. As if it's my flipping fault." The girl was really getting it off her chest. "I told them that there'd be plenty of Guinness in the supermarkets over Leeds way. But no, they wanted it there and then… that'll be forty-five, please. Thank you." She punched the till keys.
"I expect everyone'll be back to normal in a day or two."
"That's if the aliens haven't sucked out what's left of their brains," she said obliquely, perhaps referring to some movie she'd seen recently. At last the scowl left her face; suddenly she looked warm and even quite pretty. "Or it might have been the weather making them cranky. Listen to that thunder."
He picked up the carrier bag-the same lilac color that he'd carried through the Necropolis earlier in the day.
"Enjoy your celebration." She smiled at the bag containing the champagne.
"Thank you. I hope you don't get anyone else hounding you for Guinness."
She shrugged. "The night's still young unfortunately."
He left the store as thunder crashed against the village. Still there was no rain. But it couldn't be far away now. Walking quickly, he headed through the village in the direction of the Back Lane. The old Roman road would have weathered many a fierce storm in its two thousand year history. Plenty of storm water must have run off its stone blocks, to swirl along the grooves worn by chariot wheels. It would have witnessed storms of an altogether different nature, too. It had seen guerrilla wars fought by rebellious Britons against occupying Roman legions. Then there were countless invasions, civil wars, feudal strife, assorted banditry and even Nazi bombing raids. He didn't doubt that those grooves had, from time to time, run with more than water.
Now they were weathering yet an altogether stranger storm. What he'd taken at first to be an isolated incident with just two or three people receiving the mystery letters had become something of an epidemic.
Many villagers had received letters with identical demands. Today a steady stream of men and women, clutching their lilac carrier bags, had climbed the hill to the cemetery. They'd found the Jess Bowen grave. Then they'd made their payment in beer, pouring it over the stone figure of the weeping boy. The whole area around the tomb squelched underfoot in a sticky, tarry mess of stout.
Now it was dark enough for the pub's lights to blaze out across the green, sending shimmering ghost lights across the waters of the pond.
For a moment he thought the pub was deserted, but as he passed he looked in through the windows. There were plenty of people in there. A surprising number in fact. They sat with their drinks on the tables in front of them. But the usual animated conversations, bursts of laughter, and lighthearted banter over the pool table were absent.
Who's died?
The thought was flippant. And he regretted it. Just the day before a child had been murdered in the village. The child's mother had hanged herself. Exactly where he didn't know, but he'd heard about the deaths on the radio.
Then he did something so out of character it caught him by complete surprise. Without any hesitation he walked into the largest of the Swan's bars. Tobacco smoke and beer odors hung densely in the air. There was something else, too, in the atmosphere. Something pungent that he couldn't readily identify.
Instead of heading to the bar he walked to the far wall where there was a dartboard. Beside that hung a blackboard to record the scores. He set down the bag containing the champagne. Then he wiped a set of old scores from the board.
By this time he sensed all heads turning to watch what he was doing. The tension in the air rose. Voices stopped.
Selecting a piece of chalk from the shelf beneath the blackboard, he wrote in large letters:
Porter
Jess Bowen
At the point of returning the chalk to the shelf he changed his mind. Of course there was another important name here. One that didn't appear on the anonymous letters.
In huge, stark letters he spelt out the second name:
Baby Bones
Then he turned to see the reaction of the crowded bar.
CHAPTER 17
1
Thunder crashed over the house. Stan Price opened his eyes. "Harry," he whispered. "Harry, we've got to do something." Lightning sent splashes of white against the wall, creating the pattern of a shifting face. A face with bulging eyes. And a leering mouth that looked as raw as an axe wound.
"Harry, it's back."
So weak was he with hunger that he fell instantly asleep once more. He dreamed he was lost in a forest. But instead of trees televisions had been piled one on top of another; weird totems with dozens of staring glass eyes. Power cabl
es hung like creepers; aerial wires were strangling vines. In the dream thunder sounded, too. A titanic groaning sound, like a trapped man trying to break out through a nailed down coffin. Instead of lightning. TV screens flashed white, each one showed a face with eyes that bulged out… staring at him with wormy veins that ran thick and dark from fierce black irises to pouched sockets. Thunder became a monstrous heartbeat. The earth shook… a million faces leered.
He ran faster through swaying cables. The totems of TV set upon TV set creaked, swayed, threatening to topple and crush him. With thunder battering his ears Stan Price ran faster. But he was lost. The faces, all identical, in a million TV screens, watched him go by.
Thunder roared.
Stan scrambled through the swaying forest. "You're lost, you foolish old man. Lost."
No way out… no way… no way…
2
In the bar of the Swan Inn John Newton turned to face the thirty or so faces that looked back at him. Still there was no sound. Come to that, no reaction either. John cleared his throat. He could have been a teacher facing his first ever class.
"I'm sorry to interrupt your evening." He looked round at the unsmiling, watchful faces. Behind the bar the landlord and his wife watched, too, without moving so much as a muscle.
He indicated the words chalked on the blackboard… Porter. Jess Bowen. Baby Bones.
His voice sounded calm in his ears. Inside he trembled.
"Do these words mean anything to anyone?"
He scanned the faces. There wasn't a flicker. People had locked up tight; the shutters were down-no one home. Silence.
"Or," he continued, "has anyone seen these words recently?"
No reaction.
He nodded back at the blackboard, then read off what he'd written there. "Porter. Jess Bowen. Baby Bones."
Nothing.
