Part 26 (1/2)

The stones blurred through the distorting lens of water. He leaned forward to see deeper into the tunnel, his face nearly touching the yard thick jet of water. Spray tingled his face; draughts generated by the torrent's pa.s.sing ruffled his hair, tugged his s.h.i.+rt. Its full-blooded roar punched deep into his ears.

The water hypnotized him, drew him closer. He wondered what it would be like to slip his face inside the cool, green jeta He looked into the rock artery that ran through the depths of his home. He saw the regular slabs through the water getting smaller and smaller as they receded into the distance. The liquid turned from green to a swirling darkness that was as enticing as it was awe-inspiring.

That was the instant it came. A dark shape, sleek as a crocodile, fast as a torpedo, shot from the darkness. A distorted face locked on his, blurred by speed.

In one convulsive movement he jerked backwards from it. A split second later it burst from the tunnel.

A long, dark neck, a body pitted with age, frayed serpent skin.

Water splashed into his eyes, his heart rammed against his chest.

Then, as he threw himself back, he recognized what it was. A huge old fence post, three hundred pounds of timber at very least, had been drawn by the floodwater under the house. What he took to be a face was only the frost bitten end of it. But it exploded from the millrace tunnel with the ferocity of a bomb. If that thing had struck him in the face it would have smashed his skull to splinters.

The post had a sting in its tail, too.

The end of it cleared the tunnel, dragging behind it a mad tangle of barbed wire, coiling into a dozen hangman's nooses. Once more he ducked as a noose of barbed wire threatened to slice off his head. The barbs on one loop raked the side of his head. As the timber post crashed back down into the water John saw a tuft of his hair on the wire.

”d.a.m.n you,” he panted as he dropped down onto the gra.s.s. ”d.a.m.n you.”

Only he knew he wasn't d.a.m.ning that piece of water-bloated timber.

Trembling, he returned to the house. He touched the side of his head. When he looked at his fingers they were tipped with blood.

Still catching his breath, he went to the bathroom to clean the wound.

It must have been that balk of timber, sc.r.a.ping its way through the gullet of stone, driven on by the pressure of the water, that created the h.e.l.lish noise. But how did a post of that size get into the stream? The millpond was fed only by springs from the hillside further up. Either the fence post had lain at the bottom of the lake and the storm had loosened it or someone had dumped the three hundred-pound monster into the stream.

But who would do a thing like that?

Baby Bones.

The answer came automatically.

He pushed the name aside. The rational part of him could do just that. But there was an older, primeval self buried deep inside his head. One that operated by instinct. Yes, he could laugh at what the woman had told him. But that older self showed him a picture as he might be in the future, of him weeping pitifully against an apple tree in the orchard just as Herbert Kelly had wept all those years ago. Yes, he could ignore it if he chose. Yet the great and dark and terrible picture of him weeping heartbroken tears was there, nonetheless. A resonant omen.

CHAPTER 21.

Dianne Kelly walked through the broken fence into the vast cemetery known as the Necropolis. She remembered when its lawns were neat, bushes well pruned. Once, bra.s.s bands played in the bandstand. Now it reeked of urine.

She would keep the pledge she'd made. She wouldn't return to Skelbrooke. Yes, her career as a general pract.i.tioner here had been long and satisfying. But without the work to divert her, she had come to dwell too much on that dreadful time seventy years ago when her father had seemed to lose his mind with despair. So, this was one last visit. She would pay her respects at the family tomb where her mother had been interred after the leukemia had turned her blood to water.

Dianne walked on beneath the dark ceiling of trees. It was silent. No one else was in sight. The smell of rain-sodden soil hung thickly in the air. Nettles swayed and danced on either side of her. In the depths of the wood, branches groaned. Overhead, clouds nearer to green than black warned of a coming storm. Already the place oozed deep shadow as daylight faded. The sound of dripping trees became a spectral hiss.

She didn't want to be here when the rain came, but she'd decided to stand before the family crypt, say her goodbyes. Then it would close a long chapter in her life. She might only have a few years left to her at most. She was determined to spend them looking over the ocean far away from Skelbrooke. And far away from the nameless thing that ran through the earth beneath her feet like a stain.

Stone angels watched her pa.s.s by. She stepped over the shattered head of a cherub. A Jesus leaned over her, so distorted by erosion His face had become a leper's face of holes and rotting eyes.

John Newton would now be struggling to accept what she had told him. She knew that. He would want to dismiss her idea of a malignant power beneath this very hill. Yet some deep buried instinct wouldn't allow him to reject it out of hand. For the sake of his family he must accept what she had told him. The demands in the letters would be trivial. All he need do was take a little away time from his civilized self and offer up those sacrificesa as his ancestors had done without so much as a quibble for thousands of years. They would have understood. And in a little time so would he. Then the letters would stop. He could go on with his life.

But don't ignore them, John Newton. Don't ignore them. Otherwise things will happen that'll eat into you for the rest of your life.

Dianne Kelly made her way into the Vale of Tears; its grim stone walls rising up until only a narrow ribbon of greenish sky remained above. Shadows were cold-liquid like. Damp found its way fast through her skin into her old bones. She scanned the names above the iron doors that sealed the crypts-BYERS, REDWAY, MORCHANT, LEBERVILLEa The Vale Of Tears had become a playground for children, just as the rest of the graveyard had. Broken gla.s.s littered the ground; it flickered with spectral lights like so many eyes staring up at her as she pa.s.sed. Walls covered with graffiti: names, curses, statements of love and hate. A child's bike had been broken against a wall. Some way ahead up the ramp to the cliff top was the Bowen grave, but she didn't have time to see it now, not that she wanted to. She would always feel a skin-crawling revulsion whenever she set eyes on it.

Pa.s.sing along the narrow man-made gullies from where tree roots hung like dead tentacles, she scanned the names above the doors once more-SNEYMAN, PARKES-LOWE, SPURLOCK. She wasn't looking for Kelly but for her mother's maiden name. A moment later she saw it. HAYLING. Her eyes swept down from the carved block above the lintel. The iron door of the crypt lay open.

The wretchesa couldn't they leave anything alone?

This had happened before to other crypts. Vandals had broken in. Often they smashed open coffins out of ghoulish curiosity. Skulls wound up under some adolescent's bed as grisly trophies, no doubt. Experiencing sadness as much as anything she entered the vault. Darkness sucked her in, like a snake swallowing an egg.

The coffins, she saw to her relief, were untouched. Stacked on shelves, they were still draped in what remained of sheets-one or two bore the skeletons of floral tributes that were more than a century old. Here she was in the presence of her ancestors. Prosperous businessmen and once elegantly beautiful women.

Perhaps, even with her eighty-four years, she might have the strength to close the crypt door to keep out the rats and vandals?

But a moment later she realized she wouldn't have to. For the door swung shut with the ringing sound of a t.i.tanic funeral bell. That was the moment, too, when she knew that she wouldn't be saying goodbye to Skelbrooke after all.

CHAPTER 22.

1.

”I did warn you.”

”And you were right. This place is a swamp.”

”How was it?”

”The show? Well, let's say my dad enjoyed it.”

”Enough said. Watch out for the puddle.”

Miranda held out her hand. Paul took it and helped her step over a pool of water that stretched across the cemetery path.

Well, he thought, it's here at last: Sunday evening. He'd counted the minutes away. Now Miranda was close, her Spanish eyes darting s.e.xily around his face. Her chestnut hair fell in thick coils down her back. G.o.d, she looks good. There's a perfume in her haira the sway of her hipsa Jesusa ”How was the hotel?”

”OK.” She smiled at him, amused. And when she spoke again he realized she'd heard enough small talk. ”Paul. Did you bring the you-know-whats?”

He smiled back, his heart beating faster. ”Yes, I've got the you-know-whats.” He patted his back pocket.

”We are talking about the same thing? Rubbers? Durex? Condoms? Sheaths?”