Darkness Demands

  "A stone," she said, now more angry than shocked. "There was a stone that did it."

  He looked. There was no stone. More likely she'd just been going too fast, then simply lost control of the bike. His priority now was to get her to the hospital. He didn't like the way her blood trickled so freely from her chin. If anything those ruby red drips were coming faster than ever.

  "Come on, Elizabeth" he told her gently. "Let's go and get you sorted out."

  Instead of waiting to be helped to her feet she grabbed the bike, stood up and began pushing it back up the lane in the direction of home.

  "Wait… it's all right, hon. I'll do that," he told her quickly, surprised at her resilience. If anything she seemed angry rather than hurt. But then she'd always had a high pain threshold; visiting the dentist never fazed her; she hadn't even cried as a baby when she received her infant inoculations. Mingling with the shock of seeing her as bloody as this, he also felt a good shot of pride. Elizabeth was made of tough stuff. If she could take life's knocks with such aplomb she'd go far.

  He'd taken the bike from her by now and he wheeled it along the lane. Elizabeth walked with her head held high, seemingly defying the injury to ruin her self-composure. She walked with her hand cupped a few inches below her face, catching the dripping blood, until a pool of glistening red formed in her palm.

  God, she was a tough cookie. He shook his head in wonder and followed his daughter along the grooves worn by the long gone Roman chariots.

  2

  In the front of the car, Elizabeth sat calmly on the bath towel he'd spread out for her. Another towel covered her lap, while she held a fistful of kitchen tissue to her still bleeding chin. She looked like a midget Santa Clause figure complete with bushy beard.

  Patiently she gazed in front of her as he rushed round the garden, urging the dog into the kitchen where he'd have to stay penned until their return. He tried telephoning Val to let her know what was happening. Her mobile was switched off. No doubt she'd be embroiled in a meeting. He thought about leaving a note for Paul but took the gamble he wouldn't be back for a long time yet.

  By this time John allowed himself the luxury of trembling a little, which must have been partly relief at finding Elizabeth more or less in one piece. Even so, he was just about holding everything together and made a point of locking shut windows and setting the burglar alarm. But then canceling it because he'd forgotten his wallet and some coins. Even though you might have broken your leg or gashed open your head the hospital still demanded that you pay to park your car there.

  At last he'd switched on the radio in the kitchen (the dog would bark and worry the rugs if left alone in silence), then reset the alarm before going out to the car. Now Elizabeth's kitchen tissue beard had turned red against her chin as the blood soaked through.

  When he jogged to the end of the drive to open the double gates he heard agitated voices-one male, one female-coming from the lane itself.

  Despite his urgency in getting Elizabeth to the hospital he found himself tuning into what was being said. Perhaps it was the emotion in the voices that caught his attention. If anything the woman's voice sounded fearful while the man's veered more to anger.

  "I tell you," the still unseen woman was saying. "It was the letter. That's why he was so upset this morning. He's never gone off before like this. The letter must-"

  "Why on earth did you show it to him, then?"

  "I didn't intend to. I left it on the table. But he came in asking for breakfast while-"

  "Breakfast! He's always asking for breakfast."

  "He saw the letter and-"

  "You should've thrown it away."

  "I didn't have time, Robert. When he saw it he just cried out. He was like a little boy screaming as if he'd hurt himself."

  "Dear God." The Dear God was laced with irritation.

  "Robert, he was terrified."

  "He read it, then?"

  "Yes."

  "Why on earth did you let him run off like that? In his pajamas! We must be bloody laughing stocks. Why can't…"

  John now saw the couple as he swung open the driveway gates. The man had seen John, too, and clammed up.

  John showed that he wasn't paying any attention to the couple. But the truth of the matter was the writer side of him never switched off. Even in the present circumstances with his daughter dripping blood into a towel.

  It wasn't deliberate on his part; it was fully automatic now. Even at funerals some part of his mind would absorb details for future work, whether images, the things people said, or peculiar incidents.

  Now it was the middle-aged couple hurrying red-faced up the hill.

  John didn't know their names but he'd seen them before in the village. The woman was mousy, dressed plainly and struck him as being shy; certainly way down the list when it came to saying boo to a goose. Her husband was sturdily built, smiled a lot and spoke loudly when he came into the pub. He was one who'd call out, "Usual, love!" to the barmaid no matter how many were at the bar before him.

  Today they looked like yet another Skelbrooke family in crisis. On seeing John the man's face shifted from fuming irritation to broad smiles. The pair continued by as if enjoying nothing more than a walk up the lane.

  But once they'd gone by, John heard the woman whisper, "Robert. Ask him?"

  "No… do you want everyone to know?" This was also whispered but Robert's whisper was the kind that people in the next street hear.

  "Robert, please…"

  "Uh… all right."

  By this time John had the gates open and was heading back to the car.

  "Eh… excuse me… ah?"

  John turned to look back at the man.

  "Sorry to trouble you," the man began; the voice gruff, no nonsense; not apologetic in any shape or form. "But we're looking for… uhm…"

  "We're looking for my father." This time the wife had plucked up courage to speak. It was probably fear that did it. Her voice was quick sounding, breathless. "I wonder if you've seen him. He was wearing pajamas and he's a bit, well-"

  "Forgetful," the man said, tactful at last.

  John nodded. "I did as a matter of fact."

  darkness demands

  "Oh when?" The woman sounded brighter now.

  "Just a few minutes ago."

  "Oh, you couldn't show us where, could you? We're ever so worried about him."

  She looked worried. His eyes still carried a flash of anger.

  "I'm sorry. I can't, my daughter's had a fall from her bike. I need to get her to the hospital." As soon as he said the words he felt like an unfeeling shit; an uncharitable shit at that.

  "Oh, no, don't worry." The woman sounded embarrassed for having asked. Her dark mouse-like eyes darted nervously as she spoke. "Don't let us keep you. I'm sure we'll find him."

  Guiltily, John Newton walked back to the car. Elizabeth's injuries weren't life threatening by any stretch of the imagination. Perhaps if he spared a few moments to help look for the old man? John felt a sudden sympathy for the woman. Certainly her husband wasn't showing much in the way of compassion. The man was standing on the grass banking, a hand shielding his eyes as he scanned the meadow. He looked more like a hunter searching for something to kill rather than a man looking for his elderly father-in-law.

  But the moment John saw Elizabeth he knew where his priorities lie. She looked pale now. Shock had started to kick in. The tissue had turned a soggy mass of red.

  "Come here, hon," he said, climbing into the car. "Let me take that tissue away. There… use the towel instead."

  "But it'll get messed up with blood."

  "Don't worry," he said gently. "It might help stop the bleeding."

  "Will it wash?" She sounded anxious.

  "I'm sure it will."

  "Are you sure my shoes aren't ruined?"

  He didn't give them a second glance; instead he gave her a warm, reassuring smile. "They're fine. The important thing is that we get that chin of yours fixed."

&nb
sp; Holding the towel to her chin, she nodded. "I'll be glad when we get to the hospital."

  He figured by that the wound was beginning to hurt. Starting the car, he reversed out onto the lane. The couple were standing on the grass bank looking over the hedge into the meadow.

  As he turned the car he saw a pair of figures moving slowly-very slowly-down from the top of the lane. There was the elderly man in striped pajamas. His head hung down with exhaustion. Helping him carefully by the arm was Mr. Marcello from the post office.

  The daughter and son-in-law hadn't noticed the pair yet. Both still stood looking over the hedge.

  John, relieved to be of some help, touched the horn long enough to catch the couple's attention. When they looked at him he pointed in the direction of the old man and Martin Marcello. The couple saw the old man immediately. The woman shot John a grateful smile.

  As John drove forward down the lane toward the main road, he said to Elizabeth, "There's my good deed for the day."

  "What good deed, Dad?"

  He smiled. "It doesn't matter. How're you feeling, hon?"

  "Fine. It doesn't hurt."

  Which he interpreted as her chin was hurting, only she was trying hard to be brave.

  What a day! And it wasn't even halfway through yet. His neighbors had fled from their house, apparently half crazy with fear. He'd witnessed a geriatric runaway. His daughter had opened up what looked like a second mouth under her chin-blood everywhere. He even felt its sticky grip on the steering wheel. But he'd no need to worry now. The hospital would fix the wound. Soon she'd be back watching cartoons. John decided to buy some comfort food for her on the way home. Perhaps one of those bright green fondant frog cakes from the baker's in the village.

  Turning onto the main road, he told himself it had been one of those crazy days… or crazy mornings, he corrected… when everything had either gone wrong, or had been downright weird. Already he half glimpsed a pattern to the weirdness, as if the runaway old man and the fleeing family, and maybe even his daughter's accident, yearned to be connected together into a coherent pattern. But he was still too shaken by all that blood to think about it right now.

  As he accelerated away from the village Elizabeth asked if she could listen to her favorite CD. He said it was. Then he tried to concentrate on the road ahead. Not the redness that bloomed like a flower through the towel she pressed to her chin.

  CHAPTER 4

  1

  The old man called from the bedroom window. "Harry, the letters have started. Go up to the Water Mill and warn Mr. Kelly… he'll know what to do. There'll be trouble if we don't do anything. Harry? Where are you, Harry? Why won't you answer me?"

  In the garden below Robert Gregory shook his head behind his paper.

  The old man called again louder, "Harry? It's me, Stan Price, why won't you answer me, Harry?"

  "Because he's been dead for the last five years. You went to the funeral, you stupid old goat."

  "Robert? Did you call me?" The mousy woman came out through the back door. She was carrying a bowl full of potato peelings.

  Robert Gregory jerked his head at the bedroom window where the old man leaned out. "He's been calling from that window for the last twenty minutes. Can't you do anything to quiet him down?"

  "I'm sorry, Robert, he's never like this usually. It's probably that nasty letter. Whoever sent it wants locking up."

  "I've told you, Cynthia. It'll just be kids. But can't you do anything with him?"

  "Robert, he's confused."

  "He's upsetting the neighbors, Cynthia."

  "He's never usually like this. It's the-"

  "The letter, I know." Robert returned to his paper, staring gloomily at the sports pages. "But we can't have him yelling out of the window all day. I won't be able to show my face in the pub at this rate."

  "Once he's had his dinner he'll quiet down."

  "Lord, let's hope so."

  The old man's voice sprang up again. A notch higher, as if in desperation. "Harry! Harry! The letters have started again. Go up to the Water Mill; warn Mr. Kelly. Harry?"

  "Jesus wept," Robert Gregory muttered.

  Cynthia Gregory looked up at the window. "Don't go upsetting yourself, Dad, please."

  "Harry!"

  "Go back to bed, Dad."

  "Harry! It's the letters!"

  "Oh, Dad, please. I'm making your dinner…"

  "Harry. It's Baby Bones… Baby Bones is back."

  Robert muttered to himself. "Christ. It's a damn mad house… we'll all be as bad as him before we're through."

  "Robert." Cynthia sounded wounded. "It's not his fault. He's suffering from dementia."

  "It's not him that's suffering from dementia," Robert grunted. "We're the ones suffering from it."

  "Harry! Come to the window, Harry! It's the letters again. Tell Mr. Kelly."

  In a tight voice Robert Gregory spoke to the old man in the window. "Dad, don't you remember? Harry's dead. He died five years ago. You went to the funeral."

  "Harry… Harry! I got a letter! Harry, I'm frightened!"

  "Poor Dad." Cynthia's eyes watered.

  "Poor us."

  "He's calling his old friend," Cynthia said, "They were friends before they even went to school together. Harry lived in the house there, just over the back fence. Dad used to tell me he'd call Harry from his bedroom window just As he's doing now, then they'd go fishing together."

  "Harry! Har… reee." The old man's voice cracked. He sounded close to weeping.

  Cynthia sighed, "Oh, I better go up to him, I suppose."

  "Harry! Listen to me. It's Baby Bones… He's back. He's back!"

  "Dear God," Robert Gregory murmured into his newspaper. "If I ever get like that put a bullet in my head."

  2

  John Newton had returned home from the hospital by early afternoon. He had managed to get a message through to Val about Elizabeth's accident. She'd called in some favors to finish work early. As they made sandwiches in the kitchen at the Water Mill he'd run through the day's events. He told her about the departure of the Haslems, and seeing the old man attempting to flee the village up the back lane. How Martin Marcello had followed him from the post office, after noticing old Mr. Price, shuffling away from home in his pajamas. And how the old man had finally been reunited with his daughter and son-in-law.

  Val washed cherry tomatoes in the sink. Her mind was still firmly with Elizabeth. "Did they say anything else at the hospital?"

  "No, apart from not getting the wound wet for a week."

  "And they're certain she doesn't need stitches?"

  "No, they used tape to hold the wound together."

  "There's bound to be a scar."

  "There will. But it will be right under here." John pointed with the tip of the knife under his chin. "No one will see it."

  "God, I'm away a couple of hours and all hell breaks loose."

  "Hey, you're not blaming me, are you?"

  "No, John." She smiled, relaxing a little. "I know these things happen. She's going to be all right, that's the main thing."

  "And perhaps a bit wiser, too," he said. "She might not go so fast on her bike again."

  "And pigs might fly. Just make sure she wears the helmet, John."

  Val slipped effortlessly back into the mother role again after a few hours of being the highly efficient export manager at the kitchen utensil manufacturer where she'd worked these last ten years. A company flippantly referred to within the family as Pots 'n Pans R Us.

  As they talked, John buttered the bread and watched his wife move around the kitchen with that seductive walk of hers. She'd loosened her shoulder length hair from the clip, teased her blouse from her skirt, so he caught glimpses of her bare waist when she reached up to the top shelves for the glasses. It may have been the after-effects of a chaotic morning but he found himself craving to stroke her bare back before slipping off to bed to grab a few steamy moments alone with her.

  "John? John, you've not been li
stening, have you? Did she need a booster?"

  The image of Val lying naked on the bed, smiling sexily up at him reluctantly sloped away from his mind's eye. "Booster?" he echoed, scrambling to pick up the thread of the conversation.

  She shot him a smile. "Booster, yes. Did Elizabeth need a tetanus booster?"

  "Oh…" He was back on track. "No. The one she had as a baby is still good for a few years yet. Do you fancy orange juice to go with the sandwich?"

  "No, let's go mad and have a beer."

  "God, I could do with it."

  "The accident really shook you up this morning, didn't it?"

  "You can say that again. I thought she'd cut her throat. I really thought she-"

  "Put it behind you." Kissing him, she slipped her hand around the back of his neck. "Mmm… muscles are tight. If we get a chance after lunch I'll see what I can do to relax you."

  He found a grin working across his face. "Is that a promise?"

  "Do you mean are you onto a promise?" Her voice dropped, sounding so husky and warm that it sent a shiver up his back. "We'll have to wait and see, won't we, my little glamour boy?"

  He slipped a hand under her blouse and stroked the skin on her back. It was deliciously silky and deliciously cool despite the summer heat.

  "Mm, John… you know I demand gratification… and I will begin with that cold beer. You get that. I'll bring the sandwiches."

  His heart purred inside his chest. Somehow she always made him feel like a teenager again; one just about to experience a naked clinch for the first time. Perhaps it was that erotic flash in her eye; or the way her lips would grow larger, redder and so compelling he could hardly take his eyes off them. Hell yes, it was all happening at an animal level.

  But hallelujah to that. After seventeen years of marriage they still enjoyed moments in bed that were nothing less than electric. And now, with a promise of generating a little more electricity upstairs that afternoon, he went through into the lounge of the Water Mill with a spring in his step and memories of the blood-sopped morning thankfully blunted.