Part 6 (1/2)

2.

”Miranda?” Paul looked over the ranks of headstones. ”Did you hear someone screaming?”

”Screaming?” She shrugged. ”There's always someone shouting or carrying on round here. It's nothing but a kid's playground these days.”

Paul turned his head to hear the voice again. Although it sounded distant he could hear real distress running through it.

”Lover's tiff,” Miranda said then pointed with the toe of her sandalled feet. ”Look. See that?”

He noticed her toenails were painted a red so luscious that all he could do was stare at them, nothing else.

”See what's written on the back of that headstone? Peace Be Unto You, Until You Follow Me.”

He grinned. ”In other words, take that smug look off your face, because it won't be long until you're pus.h.i.+ng up daisies, too. Where now?”

”Who knows, who cares?” Slipping her arms around his neck she smiled. ”Kiss me.”

Paul kissed her. Her lips seemed like vast cus.h.i.+ons of velvet. He couldn't imagine anything as soft. Or exciting.

”Mmma” she pulled back her head.

He found himself gazing into her eyes. Wonderful eyes that sent a zillion s.h.i.+vers through him.

”You know, Paul,” she whispered. ”You can touch me with your hands when we kiss.”

This time when they kissed she took hold of his fingers and guided them down to her breast.

3.

Mary Thorp ran through a tunnel of green as she sped along the path between the bushes. In and out of sunlight she ran. Plunging from deep shade to brilliant light, then back again. She raced through swarms of insects that hung like clouds of gold dust. Ivy snagged her feet. Sweat drenched her.

All the time she could hear his feet pounding behind.

The carrier bag swung at the end of her arm. It smacked stone crosses then rebounded back against her thigh. Jesusa where was that headstonea she was sure it was close. She could have sworn she remembered that painted Jesus Christ standing with his hand raised like a traffic cop.

But where was that stone with the weeping child? h.e.l.la Deep down she knew if she could only slap that bag down onto the stone all this torture would end. Joe Budgen wouldn't tear her to pieces. He'd go away. He'd leave her and little Liam in peace.

This was only happening because she'd paid no attention to the letter that came in the dead of night a week ago. A folded piece of paper lying there, as if b.u.t.ter wouldn't melt. d.a.m.n it. If only she'd done what had been asked of her. Joe Budgen wouldn't be here. He wouldn't be chasing her.

G.o.d, if he caught her. He'd really hurt her this time. She cried out as a hand tore at her blonde hair. Stopping, she turned to fight him. She wouldn't go down as easy as that. Not submissive, not merely waiting for him to head-b.u.t.t her, or batter her face against a tombstone. She'da Noa a low hanging branch had snagged her hair. It held her as surely as if it was his fist gripping her. With her free hand she struggled to disentangle the ma.s.s of frothy hair from the branch.

Just thirty yards away Joe rounded the corner. His eyes bored into hers.

”Mary. There's no way you're gonna get away from me. Did you hear me, Mary?”

She raged: d.a.m.n hair, d.a.m.n hair-I'll shave you off!

At last she was free. Leaving a few golden strands hanging there, she tore along the path, weaving by tree trunks, leaping over toppled stone crosses. Rabbits scuttled aside. A squirrel raced up a tree trunk.

Behind her she heard his footsteps. Closera closera Breathing didn't come easy now. Her throat burned. It was closing-the trachea narrowing to little thicker than a drinking straw.

”Where's that grave?” she yelled at the trees. ”Where is it?” Then added in a pleading voice while shaking the carrier bag. ”Look. Just like you asked. I've brought it!”

At that moment the sun slipped behind a cloud. Darkness crept out at her. For all the world it could have been creeping from the graves-a graveyard darkness that had all the dead power to seize her and draw her down into one of the coffins, where the lonely dead waited.

”Leave me alone!” she screamed. ”Leave me alone!” And for once she wasn't screaming at her pursuer. Because she thought she'd seen a face look through the branches. A stark, white face with veined eyes that bulged obscenely at her.

Footsteps closed behind her.

She ran even more desperately. Now a path cut into the hillside took her into an artificial gully.

The Vale Of Tears.

Yes, yes! She recognized this now. The Vale Of Tears. A whole labyrinth of channels cut below ground level. Enclosed on three sides, with only the top open to the sky, it formed a complex of individual family crypts; hundreds of them lying behind iron doors. This was the heart of the Necropolis-the city of the dead.

She couldn't be far from the tomb now with its crying boy.

Not far now, not far nowa the words thudded to the rhythm of her heart.

She ran along the stone channels that were narrow enough, if she'd had a mind to, to span with her outstretched arms. Here, roots from trees growing at ground level above her head burst through the walls. Or they forced themselves through the crypt doors. And like scaly tentacles they reached out at her, tugging her hair and clothes as she brushed by.

Nearly therea I'm nearly there. Her heart beat faster.

Now a spark of hope flickered. All she had to do was set the bag down on the grave and cry out in triumph, ”Therea I've done it. I've brought you what you wanted!”

Then everything would be fine again. When she saw little Liam she'd bury her face into his sweet hair. She'd kiss his fingers, his toesa h.e.l.l!

Her feet shot from under her as she took a right-angled bend. She went down hard sliding on her rear end, skinning her bare elbows. Gritting her teeth, she blinked away the pain, then scrambled up onto her feet. She glanced back. No sign of Joea no visible sign that is, but she could hear his feet echoing along the labyrinth.

She must be nearly at the grave now. She knew this place. There was a broad pathway that led up a slope. The grave with the crying boy was right at the top of that.

Then she looked at her hands. She stared without understanding for a moment.

Then it hit her. Where's the d.a.m.ned carrier bag? You must have dropped it, you stupid, empty headeda For a second she planned to run on without it. She was near the crying boy grave. It couldn't be more than a moment away-not if she ran hard.

But what's the f.u.c.king point? she asked herself. The reason she was here at all was to leave the contents of that bag on the stone slab. Her eyes scanned the pa.s.sageway. Yes, there was the bag. She must have dropped it when she fell. But if she ran to retrieve it there was every chance she'd run straight into Joe as he barreled round the corner.

She listened. The running footsteps grew louder, loudera then they stopped. She creased her forehead, puzzled. Why had he stopped running?

Maybe she was being given a chance? She took it. Five seconds later the carrier bag was in her hands, the clunky weight in the bottom as welcome as it was rea.s.suring.

Nearly there. She turned back to run the last two hundred yards.