Which made things difficult for John. Another letter had arrived during the night of Tuesday/Wednesday. Now, on the evening of Wednesday, he was here to deliver what the letter demanded.
Just a red ball-a stupid red ball. No size or type of ball was stipulated, only that it should be a red one. Yes, it was so trivial as to border on the absurd, but once more he felt his veins flush with ice. Who had come silently as a ghost in the middle of the night to leave the letter?
Baby Bones? That local boogie man that had supposedly haunted the neighborhood for the last ten thousand years?
No, he promised himself not to think about that. He'd meet the demands in the letter then forget it. Clearly, his neighbors had done likewise. As Elizabeth had pointed out there were dozens of red balls clustered around the tomb of Jess Bowen. The weeping boy statue gazed down on them.
Counting trophies for your master? Suddenly he had a savage need to kick the head right off the shoulders of the idiot statue. This surrendering to the demands of the letters made him feel so weak and useless. It was like being at school again when a bully takes your candy away and you can't do squat about it, except feel hurt and humiliation.
"Elizabeth!" He spoke more sharply than he intended.
"What?" Her surprised face appeared over the long grass. From here, the scab on her chin had all the look of a big black spider clinging to her skin.
He smiled to show he wasn't angry with her. "I just wondered where you were, that's all."
"I found Sam. But I don't think he wants to stay here. He won't walk any further."
"Don't worry. We'll be going in a minute."
"What did we come up here for anyway, Dad?" Obviously the big old cemetery held no allure for her.
"I needed to do some research for my new book."
"About graves?"
"A little."
"Is it going to be a frightening book?"
"I hope not… more suspenseful."
She stroked the dog's head. He sat with his ears flat to his head, looking unhappy.
"How long will you be now, Dad?"
"Not long. I'm just going to make a few notes." As he slipped his holdall from his shoulder he turned his back on Elizabeth.
He'd intended to walk up here alone this evening, leave the red ball on the grave then go. Elizabeth's insistence that she tag along made it a little more difficult. But he'd agreed that Elizabeth could come along for the walk. Now with his daughter busy stroking the dog she wouldn't notice what he did next.
He opened the holdall, pulled out a red ball and wedged it between the shin of the statue and the slab of the Bowen tomb. There. Done. I've paid my dues…
He fastened the bag. "All done, Lizze. Ready for home?"
The dog responded first. In a dark blur he raced down the hill. If anything, the animal appeared to be displaying a real burning need to get out of the place.
They walked along the paths between swathes of shoulder high weeds that in turn were overhung by clumps of yew, alder and birch. John noticed Elizabeth's thoughtful expression as she looked at the headstones.
She slipped her hand into his.
"What's it like to be dead?"
"I don't know, Elizabeth."
"Do you think it's a nice feeling?"
"It's probably like being asleep."
She allowed her fingers to run over the smooth granite slab of a whole family who'd died of cholera a century ago.
"Do you think people know when they're dead?"
"I can't say, Lizzie."
"It won't hurt, though. Those people in there," she nodded at the graves, "won't feel cold, and it won't be uncomfortable to lie in a coffin?"
He always felt uneasy when she talked about death. "I hope Sam hasn't run too far," he said aiming to change the subject.
"At least people won't bug you when you're dead, will they?"
"I guess not." He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.
A little while later they reached the break in the cemetery fence. Sam was there, waiting for them. His tale wagged, swishing the grass as they walked up.
After her morbid meditation Elizabeth suddenly seemed brighter. "Can I hold the leash, Dad?"
"Why not. Careful at the main road, though."
John clicked the leash onto the collar and handed Elizabeth the loop to hold.
She walked a little ahead of him. The gravestones stared down at her like so many dark, fathomless eyes. And suddenly to John she seemed so fragile in a world crowded with so much danger.
CHAPTER 24
1
"Baby Bones…"
"Don't start all that again, Dad. It's not nice. Here, hold my hand as you get in." Under his breath Robert Gregory whispered, "We wouldn't want you to slip, would we now?"
His wife called from the bedroom, "Are you all right in there, Robert?"
"Fine, Cynthia."
"You don't need any help?"
"No, dear. We can manage perfectly well." He maintained the cheerful boom for her benefit. "We're doing all right, aren't we, Dad?"
"Baby Bones." The old man's voice was whispery. "Has Dianne Kelly told him about Baby Bones?"
"I'm sure she did, Dad."
Cynthia tapped on the door. It was so faint-hearted as to be barely audible over the slop of water in the bathtub. "Robert? Do you know where the towels are? "
"Got them right here, dear, they're warming nicely over the hot rail."
The towel lay on the floor where he'd kicked it under the toilet bowl. He sat the old man down hard into the bathtub, the bones in his ancient butt clicking loudly against the enamel as if there was no flesh covering them. But that was about the size of it anyway, Robert thought sourly; the old man's buttocks looked like a pair of Savoy cabbage leaves; you couldn't find anything more wrinkled if you tried.
"Harry, there's a briefcase in-"
"I'm not Harry, Dad. I'm Robert."
"Harry, there's a briefcase in the workshop. At the back of the cupboard. Mr. Kelly gave it to me the night he left. Make sure John Newton gets it up at the Water Mill. There are important papers in there. They'll help John Newton to-ah!"
Robert poured a jug full of cold water over Stan's head, making him gasp.
That shut you up, you old snatch.
Cynthia must have been hovering outside the bathroom door. Robert heard her voice again with that frightened trembling quality he hated so much. "Robert. Dad likes to have his hair dried straight after it's washed. Would you-"
"Cynthia." With an effort he softened his voice. "Cynthia, why don't you go downstairs and put your feet up. I can manage."
Yes, I can manage to bathe the old wretch. I've been doing it God knows how many months now. I've soaped that old cabbage leaf skin of his, washed his hair until it looked like a bunch of rats' tails; dried it, combed it, powdered the old man's ass. And I'm sick of it.
"All right, Robert," came Cynthia's watery voice. "I'll go down stairs, then."
"Yes, you do that. I'll make us all a coffee when I come down."
"B-b-berr… ber…"
Robert didn't know if the old man was trying to speak or just blowing water from his lips.
"Soon have you done and dusted," he boomed at Stan. Then he turned on both bath faucets. The water came out in fat glistening jets, swirling round the old man's legs, rising up along the tub sides, covering the old man's genitals. The penis was large and thick, not at all shriveled as he would have expected. But it was unusually white and looked more like a stick of celery lying there in the bath.
Robert gazed at the rising water. The shock of the cold dousing had shut Stan up nicely. No more babble about Baby Bones or Harry, or whatever else obsessed that senile brain.
The old man's ear must have been sore still from the lightning strike. A blister swelled from the skin like a black grape.
Robert shook his head. What had happened to his luck? Here he was living with his rich father-in-law, waiting for the bastard to die. The man gets an ear full of electrici
ty when lightning strikes the telephone lines but all he suffers is a single blister on his ear. God Almighty. The old bastard's indestructible.
A rage that was bitter and dark swept through Robert Gregory, searing him from head to toe. Where was the justice? What had happened to his-Robert Gregory's-luck? Had he broken a mirror, or shot a freaking albatross or something?
Eyes glazing, he watched water rush into the tub, climbing up the sides, swirling round Stan's chicken bone chest. A few minutes ago Robert had been running his eyes over the man's bankbooks. There was the money. Tens of thousands. Like rows of bloody telephone numbers. But Robert Gregory couldn't touch a penny of it. Then there were the great bundles of title deeds to Price's dozens of properties. The wily old beggar had not just run a chain of TV rental stores, he'd bought the land on which they stood, and the buildings that housed the stores might be as much as four or five stories high. The upper-floors he'd let as offices. Although the Ezy-View TV business had gone, the money river still flowed. Only Stan Price was too addled to spend it. And the accountant Stan had hired years ago merely allowed a niggardly amount through to cover the running of the house, food and taxes.
Dear God… again that dark wave of bitterness ran through Robert. The money was so close he could almost taste it…
Now all that Stan need do is something that thousands of men and women did the world over every day.
DIE.
It couldn't be simpler for the old man, could it? He didn't need what was left of his brains to figure out how to expire. All he need do was breathe his last breath. For his blood to curdle in his heart. Then all that lovely, lovely liquid money would come gushing Robert's way. Dear Lord. The things he could do…
Robert gazed down at the water bubbling over the old man's chest.
The money… that's what Robert wanted. He could do so much. So many wonderful things. Dear God… in Leeds he'd seen a beautiful little prostitute doing her rounds in black leather pants; they'd been so tight she…
"Bath's full. Bath's full."
The words were a slap in his face. In a white-hot fury he glared down at the man. "What's wrong with you?" he snapped. "I don't give you enough food to keep a rat alive and still you keep spouting your fucking gibberish." He mimicked a whiny voice. "Baby Bones, Harry, Mr. Kelly, letters, scary letters… shit, you can't be indestructible! You can't!"
With that he put both hands on Stan's shoulders and pushed him down hard. The man's rump skittered along the bath; his head went under with hardly a splash.
From underwater the man's blue eyes gazed up into Robert's. They were so shot full of surprise that Robert wanted to laugh viciously at them. Bubbles streamed from the ancient mouth.
Robert bore down on the man. The only sound, the water streaming from the faucets into the bath.
He pictured the smiling face of the pretty little prostitute. Oh, he knew she'd be so hot, so charged with sex-not like that ragdoll wife of his. The money would be-
"Robert. I've brought a clean pair of pajamas."
Robert's eyes snapped into focus. He saw the old man's face beneath the water. Blue eyes gazed limply up into his.
Robert snapped his head round. With her father naked Cynthia wouldn't come into the bathroom. Even so, she held her arm through the door, dangling the pajamas.
Dear God! This wasn't the way!
Robert thrust his hands down under the old man's shoulders and pulled him up clear of the water. The head rolled. Stan coughed out the water, then breathed deeply.
No, he couldn't drown the old man… the police would realize that he hadn't died of natural causes. No, there had to be another way. Subtle, think subtle, he told himself as he watched Stan wipe his face with those liver spotted claws of his.
Hell's teeth, the old man had the lungs and heart of a marine. It would need a bullet to finish him.
Outside the door Cynthia sounded agitated as if she guessed all wasn't well in the bathroom. "Robert. Is Dad all right? Why's he making that noise?"
Still she didn't come into the bathroom. Robert found himself talking to the hand that held the pajamas. "Dad's got some shampoo in his eye. We're taking care of it now." Robert sounded as hearty as ever. God, when it came to keeping up a pretence he was good. "We'll soon have you right as rain, won't we, Dad?"
Stan Price looked up. For a second there was just a hint of reproach in his eyes. But the man had the memory retention of a goldfish.
Confusion seeped back into his expression. He ran a hand through rat-tails of hair. "I'm hungry," he cried plaintively. "Is it suppertime?"
2
Heaven is an abandoned railway station in a cemetery. The thought ran through Paul Newton's head as he held Miranda. This was the third visit to the old building. A dozen candles burned, sending wisps of smoke to the ceiling; a hundred shadows danced on the walls.
How many times had he made love to her now? Seven? Eight?
Eight, it must be eight. Condom factories would be forced to work overtime at this rate. Smiling, he nuzzled her fragrant hair. They should really put on their clothes again. There was a chance someone might slip into the ticket hall through the window with the loose board, just as Paul and Miranda had. And just like them, it might be another teenage couple looking for a piece of private heaven.
But it was so good lying here beside her on the upholstered bench. Her naked body was a whole landscape of curves, crests, hill, valleys. A place for his stroking fingers to explore, leave for new territories, then return a few moments later.
"Mmm… that feels good," she breathed. "Are you sure you haven't done this before?" She kissed his chest.
"What makes you say that?" He smiled.
"Paul, don't kid me. You were a virgin until Sunday evening, weren't you?"
"Me? No way."
Her voice continued in a gentle sleepy purr. "Miranda knows… Miranda knows. But I think you're well up the learning curve now."
"Practice makes perfect."
"Is there one left in that packet?"
He smiled. "Well, I do believe there is."
"Good," she said firmly, then she held him tight. "Use it."
CHAPTER 25
Wednesday evening. At the same time as Paul lay with Miranda in the Necropolis station, and while old Stan Price coughed bath water from his throat, John Newton sat gazing down through the glass into the millrace. The floodwaters were falling but the bottom of the chamber still churned white as if beasts writhed beneath the surface. If he could have lifted the observation window like a trap door no doubt he'd have been struck by spray, along with an updraft of icy air and the roar of water.
Despite the fact he sat there without moving a muscle his thoughts mirrored the turbulent waters below. The result of searching the house was a great fat zero. This time he'd found no convenient tin trunk full of the letters Kelly received seventy years ago. Maybe he burned them. Maybe he dumped the whole lot over the ship's rail as it chugged across the great, wide Atlantic to Canada. John wouldn't have blamed the man.
Again he wrestled with his own dilemma.
So, he told himself, you can jump two ways with this. You could go with the scenario that there's some freak writing the letters, leaving them in the garden at night, then no doubt exulting in the perverse thrill of watching all those poor saps (including one John Newton) trekking shamefaced up to the Bowen grave with gifts of chocolate, beer and red balls.
But then he could jump in the other direction. The direction pointed out by old Miss Kelly. That all this was the product of some monstrosity that had haunted these hills and valleys long before the Romans had even driven their highway through the place two thousand years ago.
He strained to accept the first scenario: the control freak forging letters. Then said freak laughing himself into a sweat while he watched all those jerked-around fools rushing to pour beer over the grave. But John's instincts were pushing him to the second scenario. He wished to hell they weren't. It bordered on madness. Yet deep inside, a primev
al sliver of his brain insisted, 'Yes. What the old woman told you is true.' It was the same cluster of brain cells that prompted you to throw spilt salt over your left shoulder, or not to walk under a ladder, or that gave you that momentary twinge of unease when you realized you had to take a flight on Friday the 13th.
Yes, of course it's a heap of crappola; it's all solid sterling silver bollocks… or so you tell yourself. But doesn't a knot of unease appear in your stomach when that magazine horoscope catches your eye? The one that warns you a spell of bad luck is coming your way? He remembered as a child when he lived at number 11 Hadrian Close. He'd always been amused by the fact that the house numbers skipped from 11 to 15. Hey, these were rational people in Hadrian Close-schoolteachers, lawyers, hardheaded salespeople. But were any of them happy to move into a house with number 13 on the door?
Were they hell.
Superstition isn't a one-off peculiarity of Hadrian Close either. When he became a paperboy he never did find a house numbered thirteen on his round. The house after number eleven was either 11A or nimbly skipped ahead to 15.
He stared dreamily through the glass into tumbling waters now flecked green with pondslime carried down from the lake. All the time the gluttonous throat of the tunnel gorged on the water, sucking it down into the roaring darkness beneath the house. Driftwood raked stonework like fleshless fingers. It hammered against archways. The sound worked its way into his brain. He clenched his fists and shut his eyes because at that moment it seemed as if it would continue for an eternity.
CHAPTER 26
1
The June sun returned. That Thursday morning the heat hit the moist ground, raising a mist that buried Skelbrooke as deep as the rooftops.
Robert Gregory wiped the sweat from his forehead with a hunk of kitchen roll. His hands shook; his stomach twisted like a hundred little hands plaited the muscles.
Big day… it's a big day, Robert. A big day… He tried to stop the same thought shooting round and around his head. He couldn't. It was all he could do to stop saying it out loud. It's a big day, a big, big day. They don't come any bigger. It's a…