"Mr. Price. I'm not here to go fishing. There was-"
"Of course, of course." The old man suddenly became thoughtful. "Harry. There was something else I had to tell you. It was important. Very important." He rubbed his forehead with the bent arthritic hand, the liver spots covering the skin like oil stains. "So important. Now what was it?" He noticed his own ancient hands and stared at them in surprise. "I don't know what's happening to me, Harry." He shot John a searching look. "I keep forgetting things. Silly little things and ffftt!" He tapped his head. "They go just like that. And I get stupid ideas… yes… I could have sworn someone told me you were dead, Harry. Who'd tell me a ridiculous thing like that? Especially when there are so many televisions in the world today. Televisions? Now why did I say that?"
The excitement that had briefly energized the old man passed. John saw confusion cloud the old man's eyes. Suddenly he seemed physically smaller as if some evil spell was shrinking him, causing his face to shrivel into a sad landscape of deeply etched valleys and gullies that reached toward his eyes, which had become a faded blue.
"Harry. You're not dead. Why did they say that?"
Now it seemed cruel to John to deny that he was Harry-whoever he was. "Why don't you sit down?" John suggested and nodded to a garden bench.
"But I've a consignment of television sets due at any minute. New ones from Japan… color… they make them to show programs in color these days, Harry. Can you believe that?" His blue eyes fixed on John's face.
John nodded. "Color televisions will be in big demand, Stan. Now, sit down, please. It's too hot to stand in the sun."
"The summer's are in color these days, too. Just look at all that green." He nodded in the direction of the cemetery where trees ran riot across the hillside.
"They certainly are," John agreed. He shot a glance up at the yellow house. Surely Mr. and Mrs. Gregory would have noticed the old man wasn't alone now?
"You haven't brought any cake, have you, Harry? Or an apple?"
"No, sorry, Stan."
"I'm so hungry these days. I don't seem to get enough to eat. But I know why you're here, you know?"
"You do?"
"Yes. You're here about the letter."
"The letter?" Despite the heat, a cold trickling sensation ran down John's spine. "Did you receive a letter, too, Stan?"
"Oh, yes."
John leaned forward. "What did the letter say, Stan?"
"Oh, the usual."
"The usual?"
The old man looked round as if suddenly agitated. "That's why I was shouting for you night and day. For some reason I can't go up there anymore. I don't know why… so you've got to go."
"Go where, Stan?"
"To the Water Mill, Harry. You must warn Mr. Kelly that it's starting all over again."
Gently John asked, "What's starting again?"
"All that trouble… all that horrible trouble that happened before. You remember, Harry? It was a proper nightmare. All those people got hurt, and Ben and old Mrs. Stokes died." His forehead wrinkled as he shook his head. "She got took that night when…" He sighed as if the memories were suddenly too powerful to allow him to speak.
"Stan. This letter that came. What did it say?"
"Oh… Harry. I'm frightened. It's just like last time… just like it… I thought you'd been frightened away. That's why you wouldn't come."
"Stan…" For a moment John was going to ask about the letter. Then something prompted him to ask a different question. "Stan. Who's Baby Bones?"
The old man drew breath like he'd been plunged in ice water. His frightened eyes locked on John's.
"Harry? Why did you ask that? For pity's sake… you know all about Baby Bones. It was you who saw his face!"
"Eh, excuse me… excuse me?"
John looked up to see Mrs. Gregory walking down the path toward them. She ducked her head as timid as a frightened bird. "Can I help you at all?"
"Cynthia," the old man said, excited. "Look, it's Harry. He's come back!"
"Dad." She gave an embarrassed smile in John's direction. "This gentleman isn't Harry. Harry's-" She shrugged. "This is Mr. Newton. He's an author."
So my fame precedes me, John thought. Quickly he climbed to his feet and held out his hand. Cynthia Gregory shook it, but it was such a faint, ghost-like shake of the hand he hardly felt her touch at all. "Call me, John. Pleased to meet you."
"It's Harry…" The old man said, looking from one to the other as if he were a lost child.
"Now, Dad, you sit there. I'll bring you a glass of orange juice in a minute." Then turning to John she whispered, "I'm sorry about that. I hope he didn't trouble you. He gets a bit confused."
"No, not at all. In fact we were having quite a conversation."
Stan Price looked up. "Mother. Is it all right if Harry and I go fishing?"
"I'm not your mother, Dad. I'm Cynthia."
Inwardly John winced. He hated seeing the poor woman squirm with embarrassment like this. When it wasn't her fault, or the old man's. John gave a friendly smile. "Stan was telling some of the history of the village."
"Oh?"
"I've only lived here a few months, so it's quite something to hear about what happened in the past."
"Oh." Her cheeks pinked. "Nothing ever exciting happened here. It's all a bit of a backwater."
"The letter," the old man said.
"Don't you start about that silly letter again, Dad, please. I've had enough of it."
"I got a letter."
Cynthia smiled apologetically at John. "You'll have to excuse him, sorry."
John maintained his smile. "A letter?"
"Oh, it's nothing. Some kids have been playing a practical joke on Dad. Which is criminal really considering, he's… well, you know."
John gave a sympathetic nod.
The old man stood up. "Harry's going to take the letter up to the Water Mill. Mr. Kelly will know what to do."
Cynthia spoke more loudly at her father. "Dad. John Newton here lives up at the Water Mill now. He's a famous writer."
John turned to the woman. "This Mr. Kelly. Did he live at the Water Mill once?"
"Yes. He was the local schoolteacher, but it's going back sometime now. Let's see, Dad's eighty-two next, so it must have been more than seventy years ago when Mr. Kelly lived up there. But I expect your home's changed a lot since then."
"I imagine so. I think there are some photographs of the place from around then. I'll have to dig them out."
"Color televisions," the old man was saying. "That's the future. People won't go to the cinema anymore. Not when they can sit in the comfort of their homes and-"
"Oh Dad, here's Robert. He's brought you your paper."
John looked up to see Robert Gregory walk quickly across the lawn. He didn't look one happy bunny. He was pocketing the gate key while stabbing John with suspicious glances. Nevertheless, he boomed out a hearty greeting. "Hello there. John Newton. How are you?
"Fine thanks. And you?"
"Can't complain." The handshake was as hearty as the voice. "Do anything for you?"
Here comes reason-for-being-here time. John smiled. "As you know, I saw Mr. Price yesterday. I found myself walking by here this morning and thought I'd drop in and see how he was… just for my own peace of mind if anything."
John was surprised (but didn't show it) by Robert Gregory's reaction. An expression of pure suspicion flitted across the man's face. But he recovered quickly. "Well, thank you. That's most decent of you, John. Most decent."
"Color televisions," Stan Price told them. "Color televisions in every home."
"There's your paper, Dad," Robert boomed.
"Is it time for supper? I'm hungry."
"Hungry?" Robert awarded John a glassy smile. "You've only just had breakfast, Dad. Now, John. Can we get you a drink of something?"
"No thanks. I just called by to see if Mr. Price was all right."
"Any reason why he shouldn't be?" Suddenly Robert Gregory's voice a
dopted a prickly edge.
"No, not at all. But I felt guilty after rushing off like that yesterday when you were looking for him."
"Oh, of course," Cynthia said remembering. "How's your daughter? You were taking her to the hospital, weren't you?"
"She'd taken a tumble off her bike. She's fine now." He smiled. "In fact, she's so proud of the bandage round her head I don't think she'll ever take it off."
Robert Gregory had returned to his best-of-buddies voice. "I'll walk you to the gate. We have to keep it locked these days." He glanced at Stan. "Better safe than sorry."
"Of course. Goodbye, Mrs. Gregory."
"Tea for two," the old man was saying. He looked so tired it was a struggle to support his head on that pencil thin neck of his. "Tea for two and chocolate cake. Harry's hungry, too, mother."
"I'll get Dad a cold drink," Cynthia said, relieved she could return to the house. Clearly, she was acutely embarrassed by her father's senility.
John made a point of saying goodbye to the old man. Although he must have been a ghost of his former self, John didn't see why he should be ignored.
"Nice weather we've been having," Robert Gregory said conversationally as he accompanied John to the main gate a moment later.
"Let's hope it stays like this. We're having a barbecue this weekend." John noticed how the man shot glances at the main gate then at the door in the wall, no doubt wondering how John had entered the garden if they were locked. That would be Mr. Gregory's very own mystery for today. Figuring out how John Newton walked through walls.
John found himself not liking Gregory very much. He was too hearty, too familiar. And there was something shifty and secretive about him.
Let's hope the mystery of my arrival keeps you awake in the small hours, you little creep.
"Here we go," boomed the man, pulling a key from his pocket like a jailer.
John squinted against the sunlight, then reached into his pocket "Uh… trust me, I'd forget my own head if it wasn't screwed on tight."
"What's that, John?"
"I left my sunglasses on the bench. I'll just get them."
Before Robert Gregory could respond John jogged across the lawn to where old Stan Price sat on the bench beneath the shady branches. John was conscious of Robert-the-creep-Gregory's searching stare in his back. There were no sunglasses, of course; even so, he mimed picking them from the bench then slipping them into his pocket.
John had intended to talk to Stan Price one last time (he doubted he would get another chance to speak directly to him). He planned to simply ask what was in the letter, so getting confirmation that the letter was similar to the one he, John Newton, had received-and Keith Haslem, too.
Stan looked up into John's face. "You're not Harry, are you?" he said softly.
"No, I'm not, Stan."
"And I'm not young any more, am I?"
How could John answer that one?
Stan continued, "I live here with my daughter and son-in-law."
John tilted his head in surprise. Before, when he'd talked to the man, it had been like talking to a ghost. As if only a splinter of the man's personality still survived in his softening brain. Now he sounded rational.
"I'm sorry," The blue eyes fixed steadily on John's. "I didn't catch your name?"
"John Newton."
"Pleased to meet you, John Newton… call me Stan. I apologize if I got you confused with someone else. I get so forgetful these days. My God… I hate what I've become, you know. I really wish I could kill myself."
"Stan, I'm sure your family wouldn't be happy to hear you saying that."
"Oh, wouldn't they, John?"
"Stan," John said gently, "I received a letter a few days ago. I think it's similar to one you received."
"You found it under a stone in the garden?"
"Yes."
"Oh, John." Stan spoke with an aching sincerity. "I'm so sorry for you, son. Really, I am. You've done nothing to deserve it…"
The blue eyes clouded a little, but he kept on shaking his head as if he'd heard bad news.
"Stan. Who was the letter from? Why do the letters frighten people so much?"
Stan looked up into John's face. A breeze disturbed the branches, sending a dappling of sunlight streaming across the old face. It looked as if spirit hands ran across the man's head, trying to steal away what was left of his mind.
"Stan? Why do the letters scare people?"
"John, I'm…" The breeze gave a ghostly whisper to the trees. Stan's voice became a croak. "I'm hungry. Harry, I haven't eaten for days. Harry, ask them to bring me my supper… please… please…"
As John stepped back, Robert Gregory's voice echoed from the garden walls. "Did you find them, John?"
John looked across to the man, nodded, and patted his pocket. Then under his breath he said to Stan Price, "Take care of yourself, Pop."
With that he crossed the lawn. Robert Gregory told him to have a good day, then he shut the gate behind John. The key turned loudly in the lock.
John walked along the street. The sun shone. Open spaces were flooded with light. But, as if noticing for the first time, John saw that shadows were darkest on a summer's day. They seemed to hide beneath bushes, in corners, below cars. They seemed to watch him walk by. They seemed… he tilted his head, looking… they seemed different. Altered somehow.
***
That night John Newton got another letter.
CHAPTER 11
1
"Is it deep?"
"Fairly deep."
"Deep enough to drown?"
"Easily. That's why you must treat the lake with respect."
"Does that mean we shouldn't call it rude names?"
"You know what 'respect' means, Elizabeth. Don't go messing around at the water's edge. Don't go out on the boat unless I or your mother are with you."
"Or Paul?"
"Possibly."
"Dad? Have people drowned in our lake?"
"Not that I know of. Elizabeth! Be careful when you move about the boat."
"I won't tip it up, Dad."
They were out on the lake in the row boat. The evening sun drenched the Water Mill with amber lights, turning the walls into a mottling of warm flesh tints. Elizabeth had been keen to row the boat herself. In fact, she'd been keen to play in the boat alone, but that was tempting fate too much, so John had agreed to be the passenger. Now he sat in the stern, trailing his fingers in the water.
There wasn't any real destination to head for in the boat. The lake, roughly circular in shape, covered an area of maybe four tennis courts and that was it. Long ago its purpose was to serve as a reservoir for the Mill, providing a permanent and controllable flow of water to the turbine that drove the millstones. It also served as a fishing pond and swimming pool. No doubt fish still lurked beneath the reeds, but as John had never found the idea of fishing at all appealing, the denizens of the lake would be safe from him.
"Try and pull the oars together at the same time," he told Elizabeth. "We're going round in circles."
"Like this?"
"That's better… pull harder on the left one… no, that's your right… pull harder with this one." He tapped her left hand with his finger. "That's it. We're going in a straight line now."
"What time will Mum be home?"
"Soon, I hope."
"She's not usually this late."
"Perhaps she got held up in the traffic or had to work… whoa, watch out for the island."
The boat's underside scraped over a submerged stone.
"We've hit an iceberg!" Elizabeth grinned, her eyes bright. "Send an SOS to the Carpathia."
He laughed. "Women and children first."
Elizabeth effortlessly slipped into a game. John saw that in her imagination the boat was holed below the water line, that they were sinking fast. He trailed his hand in the water, watching his daughter row frantically for shore, her hair flying out, laughter bubbling from her lips. "She's going down by the head. SOS!" she call
ed. "Women and children first."
"And writers… don't forget the poor old writers."
He looked down in the direction of the house. Val appeared on the path. In one hand she carried her briefcase, in the other her jacket. She looked frazzled and more than ready to unwind after what he guessed must have been a trying day at the office.
He waved, she returned the wave with her briefcase, and although deadbeat she flashed a warm smile at him.
"Mum's home," he said. "No… Elizabeth, don't stand up in the boat."
"I'm only waving."
"You're best sitting down to wave." He smiled. "We don't want to find ourselves swimming home, do we?"
Elizabeth continued circling the island. Her energy seemed inexhaustible. She'd bounded in from school, the bandages trailing to her knees. They were grubby enough to be nearer to black than white. John had removed them, leaving only the sticking plaster on her chin like some funny little goatee. As always, Elizabeth had been full of news. She'd told him over juice and chocolate chip cookies that a child had been murdered in the village. He'd already caught that on the lunch-time news when he'd returned from calling on old Stan Price. That probably accounted for the wail of sirens the previous evening. He gathered it was one of those sordid domestic incidents. A guy had murdered the child of his ex-lover in revenge for being dumped. Thank God the bastard hadn't got far before the cops caught up him. With luck, the guy would rot in jail.
Typical with news that had flashed mouth-to-mouth around school the murder had been embellished with all kinds of unlikely details. It had taken John some time to divert Elizabeth's attention off the subject.
At least now she was thrashing away with the oars happily enough. She hadn't mentioned the murder in the last hour or so.
After indulging her fantasies that she was on board the sinking Titanic she allowed the boat to drift while she gazed down into the water. John found himself relaxing. Here, the peace and quiet was something else. Dragonflies skimmed the water in flashes of brilliant turquoise. A kingfisher dove into the lake in search of minnows. Water dripped from the oars, sounding like notes played on some exotic musical instrument. Elizabeth hummed lightly to herself.