Part 23 (1/2)

Many villagers had received letters with identical demands. Today a steady stream of men and women, clutching their lilac carrier bags, had climbed the hill to the cemetery. They'd found the Jess Bowen grave. Then they'd made their payment in beer, pouring it over the stone figure of the weeping boy. The whole area around the tomb squelched underfoot in a sticky, tarry mess of stout.

Now it was dark enough for the pub's lights to blaze out across the green, sending s.h.i.+mmering ghost lights across the waters of the pond.

For a moment he thought the pub was deserted, but as he pa.s.sed he looked in through the windows. There were plenty of people in there. A surprising number in fact. They sat with their drinks on the tables in front of them. But the usual animated conversations, bursts of laughter, and lighthearted banter over the pool table were absent.

Who's died?

The thought was flippant. And he regretted it. Just the day before a child had been murdered in the village. The child's mother had hanged herself. Exactly where he didn't know, but he'd heard about the deaths on the radio.

Then he did something so out of character it caught him by complete surprise. Without any hesitation he walked into the largest of the Swan's bars. Tobacco smoke and beer odors hung densely in the air. There was something else, too, in the atmosphere. Something pungent that he couldn't readily identify.

Instead of heading to the bar he walked to the far wall where there was a dartboard. Beside that hung a blackboard to record the scores. He set down the bag containing the champagne. Then he wiped a set of old scores from the board.

By this time he sensed all heads turning to watch what he was doing. The tension in the air rose. Voices stopped.

Selecting a piece of chalk from the shelf beneath the blackboard, he wrote in large letters: Porter Jess Bowen At the point of returning the chalk to the shelf he changed his mind. Of course there was another important name here. One that didn't appear on the anonymous letters.

In huge, stark letters he spelt out the second name: Baby Bones Then he turned to see the reaction of the crowded bar.

CHAPTER 17.

1.

Thunder crashed over the house. Stan Price opened his eyes. ”Harry,” he whispered. ”Harry, we've got to do something.” Lightning sent splashes of white against the wall, creating the pattern of a s.h.i.+fting face. A face with bulging eyes. And a leering mouth that looked as raw as an axe wound.

”Harry, it's back.”

So weak was he with hunger that he fell instantly asleep once more. He dreamed he was lost in a forest. But instead of trees televisions had been piled one on top of another; weird totems with dozens of staring gla.s.s eyes. Power cables hung like creepers; aerial wires were strangling vines. In the dream thunder sounded, too. A t.i.tanic groaning sound, like a trapped man trying to break out through a nailed down coffin. Instead of lightning. TV screens flashed white, each one showed a face with eyes that bulged outa staring at him with wormy veins that ran thick and dark from fierce black irises to pouched sockets. Thunder became a monstrous heartbeat. The earth shooka a million faces leered.

He ran faster through swaying cables. The totems of TV set upon TV set creaked, swayed, threatening to topple and crush him. With thunder battering his ears Stan Price ran faster. But he was lost. The faces, all identical, in a million TV screens, watched him go by.

Thunder roared.

Stan scrambled through the swaying forest. ”You're lost, you foolish old man. Lost.”

No way outa no waya no waya

2.

In the bar of the Swan Inn John Newton turned to face the thirty or so faces that looked back at him. Still there was no sound. Come to that, no reaction either. John cleared his throat. He could have been a teacher facing his first ever cla.s.s.

”I'm sorry to interrupt your evening.” He looked round at the unsmiling, watchful faces. Behind the bar the landlord and his wife watched, too, without moving so much as a muscle.

He indicated the words chalked on the blackboarda Porter. Jess Bowen. Baby Bones.

His voice sounded calm in his ears. Inside he trembled.

”Do these words mean anything to anyone?”

He scanned the faces. There wasn't a flicker. People had locked up tight; the shutters were down-no one home. Silence.

”Or,” he continued, ”has anyone seen these words recently?”

No reaction.

He nodded back at the blackboard, then read off what he'd written there. ”Porter. Jess Bowen. Baby Bones.”

Nothing.

He gave a dry laugh. There was precious little humor in it. ”You know, there's been a h.e.l.l of a run on Guinness and stout at the store. Not a bottle lefta I wonder what anyone makes of that?”

Now he saw two or three people give tiny shakes of their heads. He knew they weren't so much responding to his questions as shaking their heads in disbelief.

Why was the idiot saying those words? Why doesn't he shut up? Why doesn't he keep quiet about it? We always have, so why should he make a song and dance of it?

John was no mind reader. But those were the questions going through their minds right there and then. He knew it.

He gave it one last try. ”Has anyone been to the graveyard today?”

”Mr. Newton.” It was the landlord's voice. It sounded strained. ”Johna You might not have heard, but a little boy died in the village recentlya I don't think anyone's in the mood for games tonight.”

John looked back at the words chalked on the blackboard, then nodded. It was nothing to do with the death. These people were going to keep schtumn. And they were going to keep schtumn because they were frightened.

He picked up the carrier bag containing the champagne. ”I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you.”

With that he left the pub. Thunder sounded like a ma.s.sive door slamming behind him.

These people knew all right. They knew plenty.

3.

The clock struck two in the hallway downstairs. Stan Price opened his eyes. The ceiling flickered blue-white. Lightning's noisy twin sounded off just seconds later. If it rained his mother wouldn't let him go fis.h.i.+ng tomorrow. Harry had a new rod, and it would be great to try to get the carp down by thea No. Stan shook his ancient, wrinkled head. He raised his hand in front of his eyes. In the flicker of lighting he saw brown liver-spots, the fingers that were so thin as to be nearer to bird's talons, not the muscular fingers with good square nails he'd known in the past. No. His mother had been dead seventy years. It was after the third letter had arrived. She'd been travelling back from Leeds by train. For some reason she'd leaned against the carriage door. No one saw it happen, but she fell out onto the embankment. The train was going very slow. She should have survived the fall. But she'd rolled back down the slope and under the wheels of the traina the poor woman. Not yet forty.

Yes, he remembered it all clearly now as he lay there watching reflected lightning flashes play like ghosts across the ceiling. They darted toward the bathroom door then back again, to swirl around the light fitting in a whirling vortex of electric-blue.