Part 5 (2/2)

”Now,” she said urgently. ”Now!”

He gripped her waist and drove himself into her. With every push of his hips, with every surge of her breathing, with her every moan of pleasure, the outside world-along with his baggage car of cares-receded into the distance and finally died away to nothing.

CHAPTER 5.

1.

Sunlight struck her face. It seemed nothing less than a physical blow as she ran from shadow to open ground. The place was an infestation of weeds, bushes, creepers, vines and acre upon acre of gravestones bulging from the ground like scabs.

Jesus Christ where is it?

She paused, sweaty, hot, breathless, a pain digging so deep into her side she cried with every breath she took.

Where the h.e.l.l was it? It had to be somewhere near here. She'd seen it plenty of times as a kid; she'd even freewheeled her bike across it once. It was a dare all local kids had scared themselves with at one time or other. Now the graveyard looked different to her. But then again it was fifteen years since she'd actually been in the place. The last time had been to offer up her virginity on some G.o.dforsaken tombstone shaped like a four-poster bed. The Virgin Buster they had called ita that's where many a Skelbrooke teenager had finally cut loose from Planet Childhooda h.e.l.l, she was rambling like a lunatic. This thing was. .h.i.tting her hard. Oh Jesus, she was so scared; she'd never been so scared. But where in Christ's name was the stone? She needed it now. She needed it so badly.

She took a path that forked to her right downhill. Trees reared over her once more like beasts from nightmare. Stone angels were overgrown and overwhelmed with bindweed. Nettles all but exploded from this tract of earth that held more than eighty thousand dead. As she ran, the carrier bag swinging from a balled fist, she read the headstones.

Corporal Stanley Harold Strong. Died of his wounds, Somme 1916. A glorious deatha Alice Wincanton Goodall, wife of Montgomery Nes.h.i.+t Goodall, yielded the spirit, December 25th 1879a Huxley Peter Wrathler, released by the Lord G.o.d of his suffering 1867, aged 93a Victoria Sefton, aged 6, drowned in the Water Mill Mere, July 2nd 1911-short was her race the longer is her rest, G.o.d called her hence because he thought it best, weep not for me my parents deara ”d.a.m.n.” The path ended, blocked by a pyramid-shaped tomb that was a full ten feet tall. Turning, Mary Thorp retraced her steps. She was thirty years old. Too young to die.

Again she toiled up the path, plunging into shadow before bursting into sunlight, sunlight so bright it felt as if laser beams where burning right through her eyes to sear her brain.

Dear G.o.d, where is it? It must be near here. She remembered the pyramid tomb; she remembered the statues of children on the Necropolis walla asweet little children taken into the arms of the lorda not dead, but sleepinga don't weep for us parents deara She was a slim blond woman, she looked fit, but this was taking a toll of her. A dozen different pains speared through her thigh and b.u.t.tock muscles. As she ran a branch speared the carrier bag, dragging her to a dead stop.

”s.h.i.+t! You b.a.s.t.a.r.d s.h.i.+t!”

Startled birds flew up from the bushes.

After dislodging the impaled carrier bag and checking that her precious gift was safe, she ran on, stopping every so often to read a headstone inscription, before howling with frustration. Mary Thorp prayed she found what she was looking before he found her. Him. Joe Budgen. That b.a.s.t.a.r.d was h.e.l.l-bent on tearing her apart. So she didn't wait for him while he was in gaol. What was she supposed to do? He'd gone down for eight years. How did she know he would be out in four? d.a.m.n prisons. Why don't they keep killers behind bars forever? Everyone knew that Joe Budgen had gone up to Harrison's place with the intention of killing him. Cops were so f.u.c.king blind.

Now Joe Budgen was out. He'd learnt she was living with Stevo; that she'd had a kid by him. And, Christ, Joe hated Stevo; he blamed him for gra.s.sing him up to the cops over that Ecstasy scam. And Joe would be even more p.i.s.sed if he found out that Mary fell pregnant with Liam within about three weeks of Joe being sent down.

She cut from the main path to wade through long gra.s.s. Sunlight forced her to squint so tightly she barely saw at all.

Where was that d.a.m.ned thing?

She had to find it soon. Had to.

Because now that was the key to everything.

She paused long enough to look round. h.e.l.l, the cemetery looked different from when she was last here fifteen years ago. Trees that were mature then had toppled in winter storms; those that were saplings would now be full-grown trees, altering the look of the place entirely. And there was that d.a.m.ned ivy; it was everywhere, snaking up over the faces of angels and cherubs like some spidery green cancer.

She climbed onto the back of a fallen Virgin Mary, trying to find some highpoint where she might see that distinctive tombstone. The one with the statue of the little weeping kid. Of course it might be gone now. Some teen stud showing off to his girlfriend (no doubt bound for the Virgin Buster) might have simply shoved the thing over into the nettles.

”Oh Christ, noa not yet.”

The words came out in a groan. She hadn't seen the gravestone with the weeping kid. Instead she saw a denim-jacketed figure striding up the hill. Although he didn't wave or shout, she knew that he'd seen her.

”Oh, Christ,” she groaned again. ”He can't have found me that quicklya s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t.”

She looked around. There was no one in sight. No one to run to. Not that it mattered. He was a f.u.c.king headcase. Once in the early days when they were together she'd bad mouthed him in a pizza restaurant and he'd simply leaned forward and stuck his fingers through her lips and tried to tear out her tongue there and then. Three st.i.tches-three f.u.c.king st.i.tches she'd needed at the hospital-then like an idiot she'd told the police that she'd bitten her own tongue eating pizza. G.o.d, she'd been stupid then, but yeaha same old storya she'd been in love with the thuga she'd believed he'd settle down; he'd change his waysa that they'd have kids and everything would be sugar 'n spice and all things nice. But Joe always said he'd never have kids ('Can't stand the little t.u.r.ds,' He'd spit the words out. 'Kids f.u.c.k you up.') Now there he was. Mary Thorp stared in horror. He was going to tear her apart. Hadn't he telephoned her the same day he'd gotten released to tell her just that?

”Mary. Consider yourself f.u.c.ked,” he'd breathed down the phone. ”I'm going to come down to Skelbrooke. Then I'm going to f.u.c.k your whole life awaya”

She believed him.

With a shout she ran uphill through a wilderness of brambles and trees and shadows and headstones. Her feet rapped against the ground hard enough to carry tremors down to the bones in their coffins, startling the rabbits that had nested there. The heat blazed in her face. Her eyes blurred with tears that came out in big glistening gobs.

Oh, G.o.da it wasn't as if she didn't know this was going to happen. She should have seen it coming. But she'd ignored that square of paper weighed down beneath a hunk of tombstone outside her front door.

”MARY!”.

The voice hit her like the blast from a grenade. Stung by its force, a yelping sound spurting from her throat, she started running.

”Marya you can't run away from me.”

She glanced back. Joe Budgen, his face oozing menace, was perhaps a hundred yards behind her. Even though he wasn't running, he surged through the gra.s.s like a tank. Her knees turned weak. For a moment she looked down at her legs, convinced they'd buckle, dropping her down in the gra.s.s, where all she could do was lie and wait for him to find her.

In terror she found herself crying out. But she wasn't crying out to him for mercy. She cried out to the source of her misfortune. ”I'm sorrya I'm sorry. Listena I've been awaya I never saw your letter. Look!” She held up the carrier bag to the trees as if invisible eyes watched her. ”Look! I've brought you what you want. But I can't find the gravestone!” Her eyes flashed with hysteria. ”It's here! I've got what you want!”

She struggled on, half stumbling, ever conscious of Joe Budgen getting nearer and nearer.

”Please listen. I'm sorry I ignored your letter. But I've got what- what you want nowa pia per-leezzea” Her voice disintegrated into a stammer. ”I-I got it. I-I G.o.ddittt!”

At that moment she looked back. Joe Budgen had paused to glare at her through his psychotic eyes. The man should have been laughable there in his faded denim jacket and black turtleneck with a gold Albert chain; his hair flashed blond. He looked more like a rent boy than local hard man. For a second their eyes locked. Nothing moved. A bird sang on the still summer air.

Then suddenly he began to run.

Turning, she ran too.

At that moment a crazy idea struck her. If she could only find the headstone with the crying boy statue everything would be OK. Magically she'd be safe like a child crying 'Den' during a game of catch. She ran hard. Her eyes scanned the thousands of headstones looking for that single distinctive statue.

All she need do was find that, and to drop the carrier bag onto the slab.

Then she'd be safe. Joe Budgen could do nothing to harm her.

Now she could hear his feet pounding through the gra.s.s as he chased her. And as she ran she found herself crying out over and over, ”No, no, no, noa”

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