Darkness Demands

  He gave a dry laugh. There was precious little humor in it. "You know, there's been a hell of a run on Guinness and stout at the store. Not a bottle left… I wonder what anyone makes of that?"

  Now he saw two or three people give tiny shakes of their heads. He knew they weren't so much responding to his questions as shaking their heads in disbelief.

  Why was the idiot saying those words? Why doesn't he shut up? Why doesn't he keep quiet about it? We always have, so why should he make a song and dance of it?

  John was no mind reader. But those were the questions going through their minds right there and then. He knew it.

  He gave it one last try. "Has anyone been to the graveyard today?"

  "Mr. Newton." It was the landlord's voice. It sounded strained. "John… You might not have heard, but a little boy died in the village recently… I don't think anyone's in the mood for games tonight."

  John looked back at the words chalked on the blackboard, then nodded. It was nothing to do with the death. These people were going to keep schtumn. And they were going to keep schtumn because they were frightened.

  He picked up the carrier bag containing the champagne. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you."

  With that he left the pub. Thunder sounded like a massive door slamming behind him.

  These people knew all right. They knew plenty.

  3

  The clock struck two in the hallway downstairs. Stan Price opened his eyes. The ceiling flickered blue-white. Lightning's noisy twin sounded off just seconds later. If it rained his mother wouldn't let him go fishing tomorrow. Harry had a new rod, and it would be great to try to get the carp down by the…

  No. Stan shook his ancient, wrinkled head. He raised his hand in front of his eyes. In the flicker of lighting he saw brown liver-spots, the fingers that were so thin as to be nearer to bird's talons, not the muscular fingers with good square nails he'd known in the past. No. His mother had been dead seventy years. It was after the third letter had arrived. She'd been travelling back from Leeds by train. For some reason she'd leaned against the carriage door. No one saw it happen, but she fell out onto the embankment. The train was going very slow. She should have survived the fall. But she'd rolled back down the slope and under the wheels of the train… the poor woman. Not yet forty.

  Yes, he remembered it all clearly now as he lay there watching reflected lightning flashes play like ghosts across the ceiling. They darted toward the bathroom door then back again, to swirl around the light fitting in a whirling vortex of electric-blue.

  Harry was dead, too. There'd be no more fishing trips. Then, as happened so infrequently these days, his mind swung into focus. He remembered the letter arriving during the night last week. He'd read it where Cynthia had left it on the kitchen table. She knew nothing about what it meant… ignorance is blissful indeed, he told himself, as he pulled himself out of bed onto shaky legs. His stomach burned with hunger. He was getting weaker by the day.

  For a moment he saw himself going to the refrigerator to help himself to sausage, bacon, mushrooms, eggs. Beautiful big white eggs. He'd eat them raw if he had to. But no. Prioritize. Prioritize1. He'd used this word often enough in business long ago. Decide what's really important, then do that first.

  He shuffled to the door, then clinging to the banister rail, took one step at a time… if he fell now everything would be ruined. There was only one person who knew what to do. Stan would have been the one to act once, but his days of being fit and able were long gone. Why, at any moment his mind could go again, clouds of unreason would roll in and he'd be a babbling shell of a man once more, crying out for his best friend that had lain dead in the ground these last five years…

  No, he was an old man that was regularly slapped by his son-in-law. One Robert Gregory, who waited impatiently for his inheritance.

  Stan Price wiped his face with a trembling hand. The exertion soaked his skin with perspiration. Now across the hall… Ahead, stood the table with the telephone. He made a point of switching on no lights. Don't wake Robert… you'll not get another chance to make this call. The next time you slip into dementia you might never emerge again. Time is running out… Lightning flickered. Shadows leapt from the walls. He flinched, afraid the darkness would seize him.

  Then, steeling himself, he walked on.

  He found the telephone number in his address book. Talon fingers prodded the keys. Thunder rumbled. It might wake Robert. Robert might find him. Stan could almost hear the sneering voice: Telephoning people in the middle of the night, Dad? Why do you have to embarrass us so much, you filthy old man? Then a full-blooded slap to the back of his head, sending him staggering, with pains shooting down his neck so ferociously he'd wonder if the vertebrae had shattered. But that's what Robert Gregory wanted. He'd tell everyone that poor old Stan Price (with fog for brains and withered legs) had slipped on the staircase, or fallen into the bath, or tripped over a rug and broken his skull like an egg.

  Thunder hit the door with the sound of a savage kick. Something out there wanted in! It wanted to stop Stan Price from making the telephone call… he could feel it in his brittle old bones. Air currents rattled the door handle. Through the window bulging eyes stared in…

  Harry… Ha-reeeee… No. He was loosing his grip on reality again. It was all starting to slip from him… why was he here in the hallway in the middle of the night?

  "Hello… Hello?"

  The female voice in his ear brought his mind back into focus as it continued with an irritable: "Hello. Who in damnation is phoning me at this time of the night?" Static crackled on the line. "Hello… who's there? Oh! Suit yourself… only I don't appreciate been woken by your silly games. I'm going to hang up now. Goodbye."

  Frantic, he forced his wits together with an effort that made him shudder from head to toe. "Dianne Kelly."

  "Yes, speaking. Who-"

  "Dianne. Listen." With a sense that time was running out he spoke quickly, his voice little more than a whisper. "This is Stan."

  "Stan Price?"

  "Yes."

  "Stan? They told me that you'd gone soft in the head." It was the old Dianne Kelly, sharp-witted, straight to the point. "You sound OK to me, but you do realize what time it is?"

  "Yes, Dianne, please listen. I'll have to be quick-"

  "Why what's wrong, Stan? You sound rattled."

  A light came on upstairs. Robert's voice sounded muffled but annoyed. "Stay in bed, Cynthia. I'll go see to him."

  Stan held the phone close to his mouth. "Dianne. It's started again. A letter came last week."

  "Sorry, Stan. There's a lot of interference on the line. The angels must be frying bacon tonight. What was that you just said?"

  "Dianne-"

  "Now, now, Dad." Robert's tread sounded heavy on the stair. "Put that phone down. It's not a toy, you know?"

  Closing his eyes, Stan concentrated on speaking clearly. "Dianne. Listen. It's starting again. A letter appeared last week."

  "Stan, speak up… the static's awful."

  "Dianne. Cynthia found the letter under a stone in the yard. She doesn't know what it is. But there's a man living up at the Water Mill; he-"

  "All right, Dad. Give me the telephone."

  "Newton, they call him. John Newton. I don't know how much he knows, but he must-"

  Lightning and thunder mated-blue light burst through the hallway. The sound of cathedrals collapsing crashed through the house.

  Stan saw the trail of sparks through the door glass. They spurted down the outside of the house, following the telephone line like a fuse to dynamite. Then a fist of fire struck the ear that touched the telephone. The floor rose up to strike him a second blow.

  For a full second he stared at the rug, so close he could see individual fibers, then his eyes closed. If it thundered again he never heard it.

  CHAPTER 18

  1

  Dead of night. John Newton lay on his back gazing at the ceiling. Lightning flashes were few and far between n
ow. Thunder sounded muted, damped down by rain that drummed like a thousand skeleton fingers on the roof tiles. Val lay on her side, her back to him. He felt the rounded form of her naked bottom against his hip. She slept soundly after more than an hour's lovemaking.

  For John the champagne had only worked its magic for a couple of hours at most. Then the warm, contented envelope that surrounded him had evaporated. And now the time was coming up to three. He'd been brought awake by the terrific crash of thunder a little after two. Now sleep seemed as far away as the dark side of the moon. He listened to the rain along with the sound of his own thoughts.

  Did he really walk into the bar and chalk those words on the board? Then stand there challenging people to tell him more? Yes, he had and in the coming days he knew he'd attract some reproachful looks from his neighbors. But they were scared. They were scared to answer him tonight when they saw that blackboard bearing what looked like an incantation.

  Porter.

  Jess Bowen.

  Baby Bones.

  He understood the first two on the list. The third, Baby Bones, was still a mystery. He'd heard Elizabeth use the name when she and Emma were frightening themselves in that chase game. Later, Elizabeth claimed that if you saw the face of Baby Bones in the lake then you'd die. It all sounded like some local spook story that kids scared one another with.

  Val murmured in her sleep. He rested his hand on her hip. The skin ran smooth and deliciously warm over the curves of her body. Turning over, he moved in close to her back so the contours of her body followed the front of his. He had everything to feel good about. The book sale to Thailand. The champagne. The pleasant evening in front of the TV with his family. Then coming upstairs at bedtime and realizing that Val was in one of her sexy moods, her eyes giving him the come on; the way her hands caressed him as they slid together across the bed. The way she'd teased him with her tongue to the point of explosion. Life doesn't get better than that.

  And several thousand dollars will soon be slipping into your bank account. Now that is sweet. Twenty thousand dollars…

  Dirty money. The words weren't rational. He'd earned the money through writing a best-selling book. But the e-mail was despatched the very same moment he poured beer onto the Jess Bowen grave. The money made him feel as if he'd gone a-whoring for it. As if he'd rented his body for perverted sex acts. Dirty money, for a dirty boy.

  That didn't make a hat full of sense, did it now? There could be no connection.

  But there is, Johnny boy. There is a connection. You know there is.

  You know that because you ignored the demand for chocolate: that's why Elizabeth fell from her bike and tore open her chin, and…

  He blocked the thoughts.

  The thunder died to nothing. Rain tapped at the roof and windows; it was the sound of fleshless fingers rapping maddeningly. Not just wanting to enter the house but to get into his head, too.

  Christ.

  Suddenly he felt hot. There was no air in the room. He slipped out of bed, crossed to the door by touch alone in the darkness, then went down to the lounge.

  A little cooler downstairs, he felt the air caress his naked body. After switching on a table lamp he went to the window. Peering through his reflected face as if it belonged to a ghost, he looked outside. There was nothing but absolute darkness. All he could see beyond the glass were rolling beads of rainwater.

  Hell, he felt so wide-awake he could have been shot full of cocaine. Restless, he prowled the big room, looking at the blocks of stone that formed the wall. Not one was the same size or shape. Some looked like the heads of statues from which the faces had been slashed. Lowering his gaze from the stone wall, he looked down into the millrace.

  The glass lay there, just a step away from his bare feet. Now he felt the vibration of those subterranean waters running up through the stone. He sensed the tremendous power there. A surging, gushing elemental force. The glass screened out the sound. Nor could he see anything. The observation chamber existed only as a black, fathomless pit.

  After all this rain the stream was in spate. It rushed down from the lake, then under the house. He'd never felt the vibration as strong as this before.

  As much to distract himself from his own troubled thoughts he switched on the spotlights under the millrace glass. At first the light dazzled him. All he could see was a block of white light beneath the glass set there in the floor. Soon, however, his eyes adjusted to the brilliant glare.

  It was quite a sight. Certainly enough to take his mind away from the mystery letters.

  Water swirled in a boiling vortex, surging, whirling, exploding upwards, spattering the glass. The sense of power there was breathtaking. How many thousands of gallons a minute were coursing through the channel? He couldn't even begin to guess a figure. But the volume must be tremendous. The sight of it was nothing less than awe inspiring.

  To the house the millrace must be like a main artery in the body. A conduit for liquid under pressure. He felt its beat through the soles of his feet. He pictured Elizabeth sitting here cross-legged to watch TV. Dear God… if the glass should break when the millrace was in flood? He tried to stop his imagination forming pictures, but the force of his thoughts was too great.

  Screaming, hair streaming out, eyes terrified. "Dad!" Then vanishing down into the pit of swirling water. She becomes the piston in a cylinder driven by brutal force… rammed through the tunnel beneath; grating against stone walls; stripping skin from muscle, then muscle from bone before being spat out the other side in a froth of blood…

  No. The glass would not break. Strong enough for an elephant the vendor had said. Even so, the images lingered.

  John stood there, watching water cascade along its course. Every so often it erupted in a blaze of white froth as if creatures writhed beneath its surface. He knew that long ago men and women would stare for hours on end into fast flowing streams. It was a way of inducing hypnotic trances. Then they might commune with dead ancestors or hear the commands of their gods. The stream thrashing its way across the bottom of the pit held his attention in the same way. He felt his self detach from his body.

  And at that moment he found himself in the Necropolis again, walking through the maze of crypts that formed the Vale Of Tears. It was night. The darkness near absolute. The doors of the vaults were closed tight on their sleeping occupants. He walked up the ramp to the top of the cliff. A few yards away lay the grief stowne (grief-stowne? Yeah, why not.)… the grief stowne of Jess Bowen.

  There a man did something by the grave. Tears ran down his face. He was working at an object with a knife.

  In his dream, John stood at the man's side. He looked down. Blood ran down the face of the little sobbing statue, just as the beer had yesterday. John turned to the man. It was the landlord of The Swan. He was cutting the throat of a rabbit that belonged to his young son, and he was crying as he did so, sick with fright and self-disgust, and he let the dying rabbit kick and scream and bleed over the tomb.

  "You've got what you want," the landlord cried. "You've got what you want! You're not having anymore…"

  John threw out his elbow… it struck the cushions that formed the back of the sofa. Light came in a gray wash through the curtains. He hauled himself into a sitting position. How long had he been sleeping there naked on the sofa?

  Shivering, he stood up. He couldn't believe how cold he'd become. He felt as if he'd been swimming in the ocean in winter.

  Cold to the roots of his bone, he made his way upstairs before slipping into the warm envelope of sheets beside his wife.

  2

  Keith Haslem, holed up in a motel three hundred miles from Skelbrooke, couldn't sleep either.

  His muscles ached with tension. When he looked at his bare back in the bathroom mirror ridges appeared to twitch, then squirm beneath the skin. Fuck. The muscles in his goddamn back were alive-yeah, but not alive in a human biology sense, but alive like a nest of snakes-twisting, writhing, coiling, uncoiling like crazy. They were goi
ng into spasm every couple of hours. Just yesterday his leg had gotten the cramp. He'd watched agonized, yet with a terrible kind of fascination, as calf muscle rose against skin. Almost the size of a baby's fist, knots strained against the underside of his skin. It looked like a face straining through from the other side. And trying its darndest to burst out. God Almighty, it hurt! A sickening hurt that made him want to pound the wall of the motel, yelling at the top of his voice.

  Now his wife and daughters were sleeping in the bedroom. And Keith Haslem felt like a caged animal. Maybe he should have stayed home? He could have confronted the demands in the letter head-on rather than running away like that. Shit, his back hurt. He looked again at the skin with its covering of black hairs. Then he looked back at his eyes-they were tired, yet they had a burning look to them. Tired, frightened eyes. Hell, he wanted to go home.

  But he knew that he daren't. Not yet. There might be another letter waiting for him. Just like the last one. Lying under a shard of tombstone outside the back door.

  Rubbing his sore back, he looked at the shower. It might ease the ache. And in the absence of acupuncturists, or masseurs or even fucking morphine he might as well give it a go. He turned the shower full on hot. There was a trick to these motel showers. You had to twist the lever as deep into the hot mark as it would go. Once it came through boiling hot you gradually nudged the shower control over toward cold until it was just right.

  He stood watching the shower. Soon steam billowed as the water temperature soared.

  Groaning, tired to the bone, he rolled his shoulders. His neck muscles had stiffened, and he felt the makings of a headache in the back of his head. He rested his face against the glass shower door, watching the water as, not far from boiling, it blasted down into the ceramic trough. Jesus. This stress was really getting him down. He ached; dizzy spells turned his brain ass over tip. Maybe this was the makings of flu.