Darkness Demands

  "Robert, have you seen Dad?" Cynthia walked into the kitchen with an armful of washing.

  "Upstairs in his room as far as I know, dear." Robert sweated hard. He leaned forward resting his hands on the worktop making a show of staring out the window, so she wouldn't notice the way balls of perspiration stood out on his forehead. "Will you take a look at that mist? I haven't seen anything as bad as that in years."

  She looked. "Good heavens. You can't even see as far as the gate." With a sigh she began to push laundry into the washing machine. "I hope it clears soon. I want to get this onto the line." Pausing, she frowned. "Are you sure Dad's still in his room? I thought I heard him coming downstairs about half an hour ago."

  "Positive, dear. He was listening to his radio."

  "I can't hear anything. I best check."

  "No, dear. I'll do that." The muscle knots had reached into his throat. "I'll check in a minute. I was going to make some coffee first."

  "Thank you, love. I'll make a start on the ironing."

  Robert Gregory stood with his hands bunched into fists on the worktop. He stared out into the mist that swirled like a lake of milk round the house, hiding the gates in the garden wall.

  A gleeful horror blazed inside of him. Cynthia could have stood beside him, stared into the mist-stared until her eyes bulged-but she wouldn't have seen that the gate was open.

  Just a few minutes ago Stan Price had shuffled downstairs wearing a business suit over his pajamas. Robert opened the kitchen door, then he went down through the mist to the gate and unlocked it. When he'd returned to the house the old man was walking out of the outhouse with that dotty old straw hat on his head. For some reason he also clutched a briefcase to his chest like it was a sickly child. The briefcase had seen better days. The leather sides were cracked and wormy looking. Cobwebs clung to it in dusty white clots.

  "I'm going to the office," he'd told Robert. "There's a consignment of color televisions due today… you know, this time next year there will be a color television in every house." He adjusted the straw hat. "I'll be back around five."

  Robert had shot a sweaty look at the house. Cynthia wasn't in sight.

  "OK, Dad," he whispered. "I'd look sharp if I were you. You're running late."

  "Oh, mustn't be late. It would set a bad example. Cheerio."

  With that the man had hobbled away; the business suit pants not quite meeting the jacket, exposing a backside of striped pajama.

  Robert had stood, not daring to breathe in case Cynthia appeared. If she saw her father it would ruin everything. But no. Stan moved off down the garden to be swallowed whole by the mist.

  Now, twenty minutes after Stan's departure, Robert still looked out the window. His eyes burned into the mist. Even though he couldn't see more than thirty paces his mind's eye flew like a missile through the fog.

  He pictured the man, shuffling in that rapid little step of his, straw hat on his head, filthy briefcase clutched in both hands. Stan Price was making for the Ezy View office in Leeds. An office that hadn't existed for the last ten years.

  But that didn't matter to Robert Gregory. His heart hammered. He was frightened, elated, excited and sickened all at the same time. Because it took no effort on his part to imagine the old man walking through the misty streets. He'd be heading for the long disused railway station up by the Necropolis.

  It was dangerous enough for a feeble old man up there. Even more dangerous was the main road he must cross. Through the thick mist trucks, buses, cars, motorbikes and vans would come ripping through the countryside. Of course they always drove too fast. Visibility was poor. A doddering oldster would be putting his life in his hands crossing a road like that.

  Especially one as confused as Stan Price.

  Robert Gregory's luck was changing. He could feel it. The blood roared through his head. It's a big day… it's a very big day…

  2

  Tom phoned early. John Newton heard sheer triumph in the voice. "John… John? I haven't woken you, have I?"

  "Writers have to get up early, too, Tom. To get kids off to school and partners to their day jobs."

  "And here I was, thinking all you authors lay around in bed all day, downing absinthe and sucking on cigarette holders."

  His agent's laughter rattled the earpiece so powerfully John had to jerk the phone from his head.

  "Now listen, John." Tom spoke as if it had been John laughing like a loon. Not the other way round. "I had lunch with the Goldhall editor. I presented him with Without Trace. Of course he told me that the market is flooded with real-life crime stories. That he'd have trouble convincing the reps, that bookstores would say it's all old hat, dee-dee-dah-dee-dah…" Tom's idiosyncratic way of saying etc. "But I knew he was simply trying to talk down the advance. So I said to him, 'Jim, we've both been in this game long enough to know that you're simply serving up bullshit. Now, here's a napkin. You write down the advance you're prepared to pay. I'll laugh in your face. Then I'll cross it out and write something a little more realistic. I told him: John Newton is big now. I'm closing overseas deals on Blast His Eyes every other day."

  This was a typical Tom telephone conversation. The man loved to re-enact business deals down to every detail. John could even picture Tom walking around his office, the phone scrunched between his shoulder and the side of his neck so he could gesture with both hands. But then Tom was good. He didn't merely pitch book offers at publishers, he gave them a performance. Once, so the legend went, he pulled a tablecloth from a table in a restaurant, wrapped it round himself toga-style, then acted out a scene from a movie script he was selling. The producer had sat there in awe, then simply pulled out a checkbook and bought the script there and then.

  Tom now replayed the meeting with Goldhall's editor. "Of course he wrote down a piffling amount on the napkin, John. I crossed it out. I wrote in another figure. He laughed and crossed it out. Then I said, 'Look, Jim, it's ten to three. I've another appointment in ten minutes with the biggest publisher in London. They're going to make an offer on Without Trace. So it's over to you, Jim. Either you write a sensible figure on that napkin and make me cancel the appointment, or I'll pay for the meal now and we won't waste any more of our time."

  At last John broke in. "Tom, you're making me sweat now. This suspense is getting a little intense."

  Tom's laugh rattled the earpiece again. "Well, he did write a figure down on the napkin."

  "And?"

  "And then I picked up my mobile and cancelled my next appointment."

  After closing the conversation with Tom, John went out onto the lawn for a breath of fresh air. He still carried the cordless phone, holding it tight in one hand like it was a lucky charm.

  He breathed in the morning air. Here the ground was clear of mist, but down in the village it lingered to form a milky lake. House roofs poked through like strange looking boats in a fairy tale. Up on the hill, mist rolled amongst the trees in the Necropolis. It looked like a land outside time.

  He rubbed his face. What Tom had told him continued to roll around his head. He even wondered if he should put the back of his hand between his teeth, then give a good hard bite to make sure he wasn't dreaming. With a deep breath he thumbed the cordless phone's keypad.

  He stood listening to the ringing tone as he gazed over Skelbrooke. "Hello, Val. Tom's just telephoned. Goldhall have made an offer on the new book. Wait a minute, Val, you're not driving are you? No? Good." He found a smile reach his face. "They're offering an advance of one hundred thousand." He grinned at Val's scream of disbelief. "At this rate you're going to be sick of champagne."

  It's all too good to be true… The thought sneaked into his head. As quickly he shut it out again. No, this was good news. Maybe even that old Baby Bones had something to do with it? You made your sacrificial offering, then you got something good in return. His grin widened. Maybe he should tip a whole barrel full of beer over the Bowen grave, then, who knows? A million-dollar movie deal?

  He was grinning
like an idiot now. So what if he did look smug as hell. He felt pleased with himself. No, scratch that-he felt nothing less than euphoric. That little village down there had just handed him one wonderful peach of a story. And now he'd write a best-selling book. So bite me!

  He was on the point of returning to the house to begin work on the book when he saw a figure coming through the mist. It wore a funny hat, moved in a funny way, and, oh my, it wore funny clothes.

  "Good God," John told himself, half amused, half surprised. "It's old Mr. Price."

  3

  The first time John Newton had seen Stan Price walk up the lane, the old man hurried on by like he'd had the hounds of hell on his trail. This time, however, the old man turned into the driveway of the Water Mill. In his arms, held tightly as if it were a baby, was a leather case. John went to meet him.

  The old man looked in distress. Sweat ran down his neck staining the pajama jacket beneath the business suit. On one foot he wore a bathroom slipper, the other was bare. Probably one of the slippers had fallen off in his hurry to get here. John noticed the end of the old man's bare big toe was bloodied where he must have stubbed it. The straw hat sat on his head at what would have been a laughable angle if the old man hadn't made such a pitiful sight.

  John Newton's euphoria vanished.

  He quickly walked toward Stan Price, taking his elbow as the man moved unsteadily toward the house, his eyes burning on the front door like it was the finishing line at the end of a grueling marathon.

  "Mr. Kelly…" The voice came as a dry whisper. "Mr. Kelly. I've brought your bag… I kept it safe all these years…"

  "Mr. Price," John said, steadying the man as his balance gave out. "Mr. Price… Stan. Careful, you'll fall if you don't slow down."

  The man at last noticed John. He looked up at him from beneath the brim of the cockeyed hat. "Mr. Kelly. I'm sorry it took so long to get here."

  "Stan," John said gently. "I'm not Herbert Kelly."

  "I need to see Mr. Kelly. It's important." Stan's blue eyes fixed on John's. They were the very picture of fright. "Will you fetch Mr. Kelly please?" Then he called out toward the house, "Mr. Kelly? Mr. Kelly! It's Stan Price. I've brought the bag!"

  The effort of shouting toppled the old man. John caught him as he fell forward, then helped him toward a bench on the lawn. "Sit down, Mr. Price… here, that's it. I'll hold onto the bag for you."

  "No." The man sat but wouldn't relinquish the bag.

  John watched the old boy sit there for a moment. His head hanging down until his chin touched his chest. The walk up here to the Water Mill had squeezed out every drop of stamina.

  "I'll get you a glass of water, Mr. Price… no, please, sit here and get your breath back."

  John returned a moment later with iced water. Stan drank deeply, so deeply it overflowed the rim of the glass at the sides to run down his chin.

  "It's okay, Stan. Take your time." John crouched down on the lawn beside him. "Don't rush. You're OK. Rest here a minute then I'll run you back home in the car."

  "No! He's trying to kill me!"

  "Sorry? I thought you said-"

  "Yes, you heard right, John."

  John smiled. "You remember my name?"

  Stan Price turned his head to look directly at John. "Yes… I do, don't I? " For a moment he looked pleased with himself and smiled. Then confusion darkened his face again. "But I won't find Mr. Kelly here, will I?"

  John shook his head. "Sorry. Mr. Kelly hasn't lived here for seventy years."

  "Seventy?"

  John watched a war taking place behind the man's eyes. Confusion allied with senile dementia battled with lucidity. It didn't take a medical genius to know which force must ultimately win. The man's eyes cleared, briefly sharpening to how they must have appeared when he was a younger man, then moments later they'd become misted, unfocused, flicking round at his surroundings. What he saw of the world either baffled or frightened him.

  Stan Price stared at the front door. "It's white now. It was brown. Harry would always run ahead of me so he could pull the handle. He loved to ring the doorbell. He used to…" Confusion flooded the eyes again. He looked down at the brief case. "Mr. Kelly gave Harry one of these as well. 'Look after them, boys,' he told us that day he went. 'Look after them, boys. And don't tell a soul you've got them. They might be needed one day.' Then he walked through that door. He started to wave at the two of us then he turned away and he was touching his eyes like this." Stan rubbed his thumb against his eye. "John," he said hushed. "Mr. Kelly was crying. Can you imagine that? Mr. Kelly was crying."

  John knew he should get Stan into the car, then back home as quickly as possible. But the man seemed to be in one of his all too rare phases of mental clarity.

  John said, "Stan. You told me that someone was trying to kill you."

  The man's eyes widened. "Did I?"

  John nodded.

  "Who's trying to kill me?"

  "I don't know, Stan, you didn't say."

  Stan shook his head. "Oh… I get so forgetful… these days I can't tell if I'm dreaming or awake, Mr. Kelly."

  John gave a sympathetic smile. This wasn't going to be easy. "Do you remember who I am, Stan?"

  "Oh, yes… you're-you're…"

  "John."

  "Yes, yes. John Newton. Writer. Uhm, letters… you asked me about letters. Yes, I remember now. I remember!" The smile lit up his entire face. "You came to my house, Mr. Newton. You sat beside me in the garden. You met my daughter, Cynthia. Yes, yes."

  "Stan." He smiled warmly. "Call me John."

  "John. Yes. Yes. Will do, John." Words bubbled from the man's mouth as he became suddenly animated. "Ah, the old Water Mill. Harry and me swam in the lake. Of course the door was brown then, not white. You pulled a chord to ring the bell inside. It wasn't electric of course, you…"

  "Stan. Did you come up here to see me?" John touched his chest. "John Newton?"

  "Yes, of course. But I had to tell my son-in-law I was going to the office; otherwise he wouldn't have let me come. He's Adolf Hitler that one. A right Adolf Hitler… he takes the plates away… he takes the plates and the tray…" Confusion caught him again. His voice faltered as he lost the conversational thread. "Cynthia puts the plate in front of me. Wheesh. Robert takes it away."

  "The empty plate? You must be happy to have your family living with you."

  "Cynthia, yes. Not Adolf Hitler… they should have killed him years ago when we won the war. I can't imagine why they let the swine out."

  "Stan." God, John's own head spun as he tried to understand the man. "No, Adolf Hitler doesn't live with you, it's Robert, your son-in-law. "

  "Ahm, Robert. Yes. Yes. I tricked him this morning." Suddenly bright again Stan tapped his head with his finger, pleased. "I fooled him. I pulled these clothes over my pajamas and pretended I'd gone all cloth headed again. I got this briefcase from the workshop in the garden, then I told him I was going to my old office."

  "So you intended to bring the brief case up to me all along?"

  "Of course. Dianne Kelly said that you might find it useful. After all, we know what you're going through. The letters… the threats… it must be a difficult time."

  "Tell me, Stan. Other people are getting similar letters in the village?"

  "They are that."

  "Did you get one?"

  "I think so. I can't remember properly now, and I'm pretty sure I tried to run away but he, Adolf Hitler, brought me back."

  "You don't like your son-in-law much, do you?"

  "Him? Not in a thousand years."

  "But you said that you told him you were going to the office?"

  "Yes, I fooled him, didn't I?"

  "But why did he allow you to leave the house?"

  "I-I'm not sure."

  "Didn't he try and stop you?"

  "No. Told me I was late, as a matter of fact." Stan fixed a sharp eye on John. "Here. Take this."

  He handed John the briefcase. Even though it was cracked
and covered with dust and cobwebs John could read a name stenciled in white along its side: KELLY.

  "I've never seen inside of it," Stan told him. "Mr. Kelly told me I should hide it until it was needed again."

  "And Dianne Kelly asked you to pass it on to me?"

  "Yes."

  John looked at the briefcase. The leather had hardened to the texture of wood. Its weight alone told him it wasn't empty. Maybe this is what he'd been searching the house for? Across the fields the mist was thinning now. Houses materialized as if a ghost village was appearing down in the valley. Only the Necropolis managed to hold onto the mist. It lurked among the trees. Ghost forms, forced back into shade by the sun.

  "Thank you, Stan," he said sincerely. "My God, I'm shaking all over… I'm actually frightened to look inside here."

  "Afraid of what you might find?"

  "I guess so." Even though his teeth chattered, a smile reached his face. "Is this an eerie experience or what?"

  Stan Price reached forward and squeezed John's arm. "I wish I could make this all right for you, John. Trouble is, I've lost just about all the brains I ever had. I know in an hour, or even five minutes from now, I'm going to be a senile old fool again." He sighed. "Just one of nature's tricks, I'm afraid."

  At that moment a car tore up the Back Lane. It swung directly through the gates and powered along the driveway toward them.

  "Don't let him take the bag," Stan said, panicked. "Don't let him take it. It's yours. You need it. Hide it, hide it!"

  John slipped the ancient brief case beneath a bush.

  Robert Gregory kicked open the car door. His face burned a blood red.

  "We've been going mad with worry," Robert Gregory barked at John. "Couldn't you have had the common decency to telephone and let us know where he was?"

  "I'm sorry," John said. "Your father-in-law wasn't in a fit state to be left alone. I was going to bring him down in-"