Part 29 (2/2)
”Practice makes perfect.”
”Is there one left in that packet?”
He smiled. ”Well, I do believe there is.”
”Good,” she said firmly, then she held him tight. ”Use it.”
CHAPTER 25.
Wednesday evening. At the same time as Paul lay with Miranda in the Necropolis station, and while old Stan Price coughed bath water from his throat, John Newton sat gazing down through the gla.s.s into the millrace. The floodwaters were falling but the bottom of the chamber still churned white as if beasts writhed beneath the surface. If he could have lifted the observation window like a trap door no doubt he'd have been struck by spray, along with an updraft of icy air and the roar of water.
Despite the fact he sat there without moving a muscle his thoughts mirrored the turbulent waters below. The result of searching the house was a great fat zero. This time he'd found no convenient tin trunk full of the letters Kelly received seventy years ago. Maybe he burned them. Maybe he dumped the whole lot over the s.h.i.+p's rail as it chugged across the great, wide Atlantic to Canada. John wouldn't have blamed the man.
Again he wrestled with his own dilemma.
So, he told himself, you can jump two ways with this. You could go with the scenario that there's some freak writing the letters, leaving them in the garden at night, then no doubt exulting in the perverse thrill of watching all those poor saps (including one John Newton) trekking shamefaced up to the Bowen grave with gifts of chocolate, beer and red b.a.l.l.s.
But then he could jump in the other direction. The direction pointed out by old Miss Kelly. That all this was the product of some monstrosity that had haunted these hills and valleys long before the Romans had even driven their highway through the place two thousand years ago.
He strained to accept the first scenario: the control freak forging letters. Then said freak laughing himself into a sweat while he watched all those jerked-around fools rus.h.i.+ng to pour beer over the grave. But John's instincts were pus.h.i.+ng him to the second scenario. He wished to h.e.l.l they weren't. It bordered on madness. Yet deep inside, a primeval sliver of his brain insisted, 'Yes. What the old woman told you is true.' It was the same cl.u.s.ter of brain cells that prompted you to throw spilt salt over your left shoulder, or not to walk under a ladder, or that gave you that momentary twinge of unease when you realized you had to take a flight on Friday the 13th.
Yes, of course it's a heap of c.r.a.ppola; it's all solid sterling silver b.o.l.l.o.c.ksa or so you tell yourself. But doesn't a knot of unease appear in your stomach when that magazine horoscope catches your eye? The one that warns you a spell of bad luck is coming your way? He remembered as a child when he lived at number 11 Hadrian Close. He'd always been amused by the fact that the house numbers skipped from 11 to 15. Hey, these were rational people in Hadrian Close-schoolteachers, lawyers, hardheaded salespeople. But were any of them happy to move into a house with number 13 on the door?
Were they h.e.l.l.
Superst.i.tion isn't a one-off peculiarity of Hadrian Close either. When he became a paperboy he never did find a house numbered thirteen on his round. The house after number eleven was either 11A or nimbly skipped ahead to 15.
He stared dreamily through the gla.s.s into tumbling waters now flecked green with pondslime carried down from the lake. All the time the gluttonous throat of the tunnel gorged on the water, sucking it down into the roaring darkness beneath the house. Driftwood raked stonework like fleshless fingers. It hammered against archways. The sound worked its way into his brain. He clenched his fists and shut his eyes because at that moment it seemed as if it would continue for an eternity.
CHAPTER 26.
1.
The June sun returned. That Thursday morning the heat hit the moist ground, raising a mist that buried Skelbrooke as deep as the rooftops.
Robert Gregory wiped the sweat from his forehead with a hunk of kitchen roll. His hands shook; his stomach twisted like a hundred little hands plaited the muscles.
Big daya it's a big day, Robert. A big daya He tried to stop the same thought shooting round and around his head. He couldn't. It was all he could do to stop saying it out loud. It's a big day, a big, big day. They don't come any bigger. It's aa ”Robert, have you seen Dad?” Cynthia walked into the kitchen with an armful of was.h.i.+ng.
”Upstairs in his room as far as I know, dear.” Robert sweated hard. He leaned forward resting his hands on the worktop making a show of staring out the window, so she wouldn't notice the way b.a.l.l.s of perspiration stood out on his forehead. ”Will you take a look at that mist? I haven't seen anything as bad as that in years.”
She looked. ”Good heavens. You can't even see as far as the gate.” With a sigh she began to push laundry into the was.h.i.+ng machine. ”I hope it clears soon. I want to get this onto the line.” Pausing, she frowned. ”Are you sure Dad's still in his room? I thought I heard him coming downstairs about half an hour ago.”
”Positive, dear. He was listening to his radio.”
”I can't hear anything. I best check.”
”No, dear. I'll do that.” The muscle knots had reached into his throat. ”I'll check in a minute. I was going to make some coffee first.”
”Thank you, love. I'll make a start on the ironing.”
Robert Gregory stood with his hands bunched into fists on the worktop. He stared out into the mist that swirled like a lake of milk round the house, hiding the gates in the garden wall.
A gleeful horror blazed inside of him. Cynthia could have stood beside him, stared into the mist-stared until her eyes bulged-but she wouldn't have seen that the gate was open.
Just a few minutes ago Stan Price had shuffled downstairs wearing a business suit over his pajamas. Robert opened the kitchen door, then he went down through the mist to the gate and unlocked it. When he'd returned to the house the old man was walking out of the outhouse with that dotty old straw hat on his head. For some reason he also clutched a briefcase to his chest like it was a sickly child. The briefcase had seen better days. The leather sides were cracked and wormy looking. Cobwebs clung to it in dusty white clots.
”I'm going to the office,” he'd told Robert. ”There's a consignment of color televisions due todaya you know, this time next year there will be a color television in every house.” He adjusted the straw hat. ”I'll be back around five.”
Robert had shot a sweaty look at the house. Cynthia wasn't in sight.
”OK, Dad,” he whispered. ”I'd look sharp if I were you. You're running late.”
”Oh, mustn't be late. It would set a bad example. Cheerio.”
With that the man had hobbled away; the business suit pants not quite meeting the jacket, exposing a backside of striped pajama.
Robert had stood, not daring to breathe in case Cynthia appeared. If she saw her father it would ruin everything. But no. Stan moved off down the garden to be swallowed whole by the mist.
Now, twenty minutes after Stan's departure, Robert still looked out the window. His eyes burned into the mist. Even though he couldn't see more than thirty paces his mind's eye flew like a missile through the fog.
He pictured the man, shuffling in that rapid little step of his, straw hat on his head, filthy briefcase clutched in both hands. Stan Price was making for the Ezy View office in Leeds. An office that hadn't existed for the last ten years.
But that didn't matter to Robert Gregory. His heart hammered. He was frightened, elated, excited and sickened all at the same time. Because it took no effort on his part to imagine the old man walking through the misty streets. He'd be heading for the long disused railway station up by the Necropolis.
It was dangerous enough for a feeble old man up there. Even more dangerous was the main road he must cross. Through the thick mist trucks, buses, cars, motorbikes and vans would come ripping through the countryside. Of course they always drove too fast. Visibility was poor. A doddering oldster would be putting his life in his hands crossing a road like that.
Especially one as confused as Stan Price.
Robert Gregory's luck was changing. He could feel it. The blood roared through his head. It's a big daya it's a very big daya
2.
<script>