Darkness Demands

  No, there wouldn't be much left that Kelly held dear. He'd not damage the briefcase.

  John was making a sandwich when Paul walked through the door. John noticed the time stood a little before two, then he shot a questioning look at his son whose expression was stone-like.

  "You're home early, Paul."

  "I don't feel well."

  "What's wrong?"

  Paul hung his bag on the back of a kitchen chair, then kicked off his shoes. One struck the dog's bowl splashing water against a cupboard.

  "OK, I'll wipe it up," Paul snapped before John could open his mouth. Angrily he dragged a bundle of kitchen tissue from the roll.

  As casually as he could John asked, "Can I get you anything?"

  "How do you mean?"

  "Aspirin or a drink."

  "No, I just feel sick that's all."

  "Oh."

  John sensed he walked on eggshells now. Paul looked tense. Something had happened at school. But just what was anyone's guess.

  John finished making the sandwich, then said, "Is anything bothering you?"

  "What do you mean?" Again that defensive rise in his voice. "Nothing's bothering me."

  "Paul, if there's a problem you can always-"

  "There isn't a problem. Why do you always have to ask that? Like I'm a mental case or something!"

  "Paul, if you give me a chance to-"

  "OK! I smoke dope and fuck the Pope, what more do you want to know?"

  "Paul. There's no need to kick off like that. I only asked-"

  "You only ask this, you only ask that. What's wrong? Can't you write the fucking book!" His face flushed red. "Jeez… I hate this!"

  John had never seen his son like this before.

  Paul looked a step away from totally freaking out. He glared round the kitchen, his fists clenched. He seemed to be looking for something to hit.

  Then he snatched the bag, sending the chair skittering across the tiles with a teeth-jagging screech. Without saying another word he marched out of the room. A moment later John heard Paul's bedroom door bang.

  After that, John sat with the uneaten sandwich in front of him. He felt like an idiot, knowing he should say something to his son. But what? And what had brought on that near epileptic outburst?

  Is that you, Baby Bones?

  Did you make this happen?

  I've given you what you want. So why are you screwing around with my family? I've yielded to your demands… I don't ignore your letters anymore. Baby Bones? Do you hear? Give us a break. I don't ignore your letters…

  I'm missing a letter.

  The thought hit him hard enough to make him sit up straight. No- that wasn't possible. He'd found each letter out there on the patio. With the exception of the first one, he'd quickly complied with whatever was demanded-the beer, the red ball. So, the demands were trivial but he'd played by the rules of the letter writer's game.

  He went out onto the patio, his eyes scanning the stone slabs. They were clear. No chunks of gravestone. No letters waiting there as insidious as drops of poison.

  He shielded his eyes against the burning sun. No. This was ridiculous; he was turning frigging paranoid. He'd gotten like those poor saps who daren't get out of bed on Friday 13th, or slept with a row of onions on their window to stop the boogie man from climbing in. He wouldn't let superstition eat into him like some mental cancer. That was nothing less than fucking schizophrenia.

  The heat bore down on him, his shirt burned against his skin, making him itch uncomfortably. The dog paced nervously some way off, eyeing him as if he'd turned rabid.

  Yeah, man bites dog. That's a headline.

  Shit… think straight, Newton.

  Paul's been stung with some shit that teenagers get stung with every now and again. Now he's come home to piss pure liquid anger over everyone. That's all! You can't blame this on the big bad spook that lives under the hill.

  But no. He felt it in his guts.

  Once more he searched the patio. This time, right under the patio table he saw that one of the shadows had acquired a lump. Skin crawling, he dived down at it. He grabbed the black lump as if he was grabbing a live rat and pulled it out.

  There in his hand, a little larger than a paperback book, sat a shard of tombstone shaped like a heart. On it was one word: taken.

  His mouth dried. He'd not seen this stone before. He'd swear.

  A moment later he confirmed the fact when he counted the pieces of tombstone that had arrived with the letters. He'd received three letters. But now he had four lumps of dead stone.

  How's your arithmetic, John? Four pieces of stone? Three letters?

  One of the letters is missing.

  CHAPTER 29

  1

  That afternoon John, by turns, looked for the missing letter or fumed over the recalcitrant lock. He sprayed more oil into the keyhole then left the bag on the workbench to allow the lubricant to seep into the mechanism.

  By now, he couldn't look at the brief case without his heart beating faster. There was crucial information in there, he knew it-a treasure chest of answers.

  Next he went through the trash. As he slipped a pair of polythene freezer bags onto his hands to serve as mittens to keep the festering goo off of him, he wondered if Val had gone onto the patio that morning, seen the letter, and simply dumped it. Alternatively, Paul or Elizabeth might have moved it.

  Flies attacked the trash as eagerly as he did. They clamored around junked food that had been sweated good and hard by the sun. He plunged his hands down through layers of cans, paper bags all soggy and brown, empty coleslaw cartons, garlic dip, salsa and cottage cheese. Hell, this was a witches' brew and a half.

  At first the dog came, his nose high, sniffing, as the fresher food smells rolled out of the trash can. But as John excavated deeper, turning up a full carton of cream that oozed green pus, the dog backed away, sneezing.

  No joy. Queasy from the stench, he peeled the plastic bags from his hands.

  John Newton was convinced a letter had arrived. He realized the repercussions if he failed to meet the demands. Bad things would happen. To his family. To him. Simple as that.

  Look at Keith Haslem. He believed he could escape the influence of the letters simply by leaving the village. He'd thought wrong. Now he lay in a hospital bed, paralyzed by a stroke; his face melted by a boiling shower.

  After scrubbing his hands he went upstairs.

  ***

  Paul lay on his bed, fingers knitted behind his head, staring up at the ceiling.

  "Paul?"

  "Yeah."

  "How're you feeling?"

  "Great," he grunted.

  "Can I get you anything?"

  "I'm trying to sleep, Dad."

  "Sorry… just one thing though?"

  "What?"

  "You didn't find anything on the patio this morning?"

  "Like what?"

  "A piece of paper."

  "Oh, Christ, Dad. What on Earth are you talking about?"

  "Never mind. Sorry to have disturbed you, Paul."

  John heard the sarcasm slip into his voice. He didn't intend it, but Paul's moodiness had started to irritate him.

  "Door, Dad."

  Biting his tongue, John banged the door shut behind him.

  2

  Paul glared at the ceiling. Why had Miranda left home? He couldn't believe she'd do a thing like that? She'd always lived harmoniously with her parents. And if she had left, why hadn't she told Paul she was going? He'd gone head over heels for Miranda; now she'd simply upped and left. And if Miranda were a runaway, as her mother had implied, would the police be involved? Miranda was almost seventeen. It wasn't as if she was a child. She'd be able to find a job and a place of her own to live.

  But, and he found the truth as hard to swallow as a rock, she'd abandoned him; dropped him like a shitty bit of rag. When it came down to it he didn't know what hurt most: Miranda vanishing or the rejection. Gritting his teeth, he rolled over and pushed his fa
ce against the pillow. He'd never experienced anything like this before. This was sheer fucking agony. He'd fallen in love for the first time and lost the girl all in the space of a week. Christ, this was torture. But the worst thing was he knew he couldn't do a damn thing about it.

  3

  The sun burned ferociously. Sam slunk off into the shade in the orchard. All John could see of him was a dog-shaped shadow glued to a pink tongue. The mill pond mirrored the sky. Butterflies streamed across the meadow; psychedelic splashes of color on the wing.

  John still drew a blank on the fourth letter. He was certain one had arrived. He was equally certain a member of his family had moved it. But where?

  By three thirty Elizabeth was home. She changed into a swimming costume. At first she wanted to paddle in the lake. John told her that was a definite No-No. The sides of the lake were steep; in no time at all she'd be in too deep. Elizabeth compromised, playing with the garden hose, watering the trees, then herself, then the dog.

  Paul stayed in his room. John found the silence ominous. Any moment he expected to hear the crash of furniture against the walls.

  The lock on the brief case wouldn't budge. Like its big brother mechanism up at the sluice gate, what should be moving parts stolidly refused to move. Whatever secrets the case contained weren't going to be revealed yet.

  A little after five Val turned the car into the driveway.

  He greeted her with a kiss. "Had a good day?"

  She unbuttoned the top of her blouse. "A hot one. I'm going to peel these clothes off and have a cold shower."

  "Want any company?"

  "A cold shower. Where I cool down and become calm and composed. Not all fired up and raunchy." She laughed. "And congratulations on the new book deal. You deserve it." For a while they talked about the book, and whether it would be tempting fate too much by booking an overseas trip on the strength of the advance. Then as they walked to the house John told her about Paul.

  "I haven't seen him lose it like that before," John said. "I thought he was going to kick the kitchen to pieces."

  "He's growing up, John. He's having to learn how to handle new experiences."

  "But he's seventeen. I'd have thought he'd be growing out of adolescence."

  "John, not everyone keeps such a tight grip on their emotions as you, you know?"

  John shot her a double take. "Are you saying I'm repressed or something?"

  "No, just controlled… goodness it's hot." Pulling a coke from the refrigerator, she rolled it against her forehead. Perspiration rolled down her throat, to moisten the neck of her blouse. "Maybe I should shave off all my hair," she breathed.

  "Maybe you should."

  "John?" She looked stung by his response. "What's wrong?"

  "Sorry. I didn't mean that." He smiled, shrugging. "Just one of those days, I suppose."

  "One of those days? You are joking?" Her eyes widened in surprise. "Your agent closes your biggest book deal so far, and you say you've had a lousy day?"

  "Well, maybe not lousy per se." He forced a smile. "But eventful… certainly eventful."

  "We're going to celebrate."

  "Of course we are."

  "How about a trip to London. Bright lights, big restaurants?"

  "Now you talk my language."

  "All right. When?

  "How about next weekend?"

  "A bad time of the month."

  "Oh."

  "And we do want to celebrate every way we can, don't we?"

  "Absolutely."

  She kissed him. He tasted salt on her skin from the perspiration. "And I'm glad the book deal worked out, John." She kissed him again. "You know something?"

  "What?"

  "I think all our good luck's come at once."

  "Touch wood." He reached out and squeezed the back of the kitchen chair as hard as he could.

  4

  An observer watching from a place of safety might have described it as the calm before the storm. That Thursday evening they ordered pizza in order to escape the heat of the kitchen. Paul ate his in the sanctuary of his bedroom. John, Val and Elizabeth ate outside in the shade of the house. At seven in the evening the sun was still pretty brutal.

  He and Val eased the pizza on its way with iced beers. Elizabeth sucked on a carton of blackcurrant juice. Sam sat under the table. His tongue dripped saliva onto the stone slabs. But the heat did nothing to dissuade him from munching any crust that came his way.

  "John, if we're going to be in for a heatwave we should have some decent air-conditioning."

  "And a swimming pool," Elizabeth added. "With a diving board."

  John smiled. "Whoa. I haven't even signed the contracts yet."

  "In the meantime we'll have melted into sticky puddles on the ground."

  His smile widened. "OK, I'll make some inquiries about air-conditioning. Right, I'll shift these. Otherwise we'll have ants all over us." He collected the pizza cartons with their cargo of dead crusts, then went to dump them in the trash. After that, he took another shot at unlocking the briefcase. Still no joy. He squirted more oil through the lock.

  "John. Where did you get that monstrosity?"

  He squinted back where Val stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the setting sun. "Somebody from the village gave it to me this morning."

  "What is it, an old Gladstone bag?"

  "Something like that. It's a bit too boxy for a briefcase. Little beauty, isn't she?"

  "If beauty's in the eye of the beholder."

  "It is old."

  "You're not thinking of using it, are you?"

  "No. The lock's rusted to buggery." He gave the keyhole another squirt. "I'm hoping it might contain some information for the next book."

  "Ah, the disappeared of Skelbrooke."

  He nodded at the briefcase. "It belonged to Herbert Kelly, who lived here when it all happened."

  "Do you think you've another Blast His Eyes on your hands?"

  "That's what I'm hoping, hon."

  "Do you suspect our Mr. Kelly of murdering the people who vanished?"

  "No. He wasn't the type."

  "Is there a murderous type? Remember, it's always supposed to be the person you least suspect."

  Grinning, he wiped his hands on a cloth, "Ah, you astound me, Holmes."

  "Sarcastic swine." She grinned back. "I've a good mind to chuck you in the pond."

  "You'll have to catch me first!"

  That was the last carefree evening.

  5

  Even the sunset didn't bring relief from the heat. As John splashed cold water on his face in the bathroom he heard Val scolding Elizabeth in his daughter's bedroom. The voices echoed across the landing.

  "Lizzie, how many times have I told you to put your videos away on the shelf when you've finished with them?"

  "I did. Paul must have-"

  "Paul's not touched them. Now where's The King & I tape?"

  "I don't know."

  "But the box is empty."

  "Uh, it's here under the pillow."

  "It'll wind up broken. Put it away properly."

  "Mum-"

  "And I had to tidy up after you on the patio this morning. I nearly broke my neck tripping over the things you'd left out there."

  "But I didn't-"

  "Now come on, time for bed."

  "I'm sleeping on top of the bed." This time Elizabeth sounded sulky.

  "All right. Now lay still; try and keep cool."

  "I won't be able to sleep. I'm too hot."

  "Just try. Give me a kiss goodnight."

  Their voices dropped into muffled sounds now. As he toweled his face he heard Val call, "John, Elizabeth's ready for her goodnight kiss"

  He walked into the bedroom. "Ugh, I have to kiss this monster?"

  "Dad!" She giggled.

  "Now, John, don't be getting Elizabeth giddy. I've had to scold her for being so untidy."

  "Then I'll bite the monster's head off." He bent down as she lay in

  bed a
nd pretended to gnaw at her neck. She squirmed, giggling louder.

  "Dad! I'm red hot as it is… Mum, he's making me hotter!"

  "John." Val suppressed a smile. "Leave her to cool down."

  "Aye, aye, skipper."

  Then he kissed his daughter. "Love you, Lizzie."

  "Love you, Dad. Don't forget the swimming pool."

  "I won't. I'll start digging this very minute."

  "Isn't he an idiot, Mum?"

  "He's a world class idiot, but we love him to bits, don't we?"

  "Another hug." Elizabeth held out her arms. He leaned over the bed again as she gave his neck a firm squeeze.

  "Sleep well," he said.

  "I will."

  "Don't let the bed bugs bite."

  "I won't."

  "Have sweet dreams."

  "I will."

  "OK you two," Val intervened. "Don't take all night about it."

  A moment later, the lights were out and he followed Val down to the lounge. There, the millrace sighed beneath the glass. Outside bats darted by the windows where insects were lured by the light.

  "Peace at last," Val whispered.

  "It'd be all happy families if it wasn't for Paul." He flicked a switch on the wall. Instantly light filled the observation chamber. Below the glass, water foamed a dazzling white. "I wish I knew what was eating him up. If there's some trouble at school we should-"

  "John. I know what it is."

  John blinked, surprised. "You do?"

  "Yes."

  "Since when?"

  "He told me about an hour ago."

  He shook his head, puzzled. "Why didn't he tell me?"

  "You know what teenagers are like."

  "But I'm easy-going. I always figured I was the kind of guy people could confide in when-"

  "John-"

  "Especially my son." He felt irked. No two ways about it. He'd been kept in the dark.

  "Well, it was one of those personal matters, John. He wanted to keep it private."