"Is she still alive?" Elizabeth asked in a small voice.

John crouched almost on top of the screen, now so close he could see the lines that formed the picture. Get a close up of her face; come on, get a close up of her face.

The rotors of the helicopter were close enough to blow dust across the road along with the bloodstained dressings discarded by the medics. There was the car again. Filling the screen. A mess of bent metal, shredded tires. A motor exposed and naked now that the hood had been torn clear. That was the moment he saw it.

A red line painted down the side of the car. No, in fact, two narrow lines running in parallel along the body of the car. They were so fine that he didn't notice them before.

"Hon," John whispered. "Hon. That isn't your mother's car."

"It isa look."

"No. It's the same make, the same color. But her car doesn't have red lines painted down the side."

"Then it's not Mum and Paul in there?"

"No. It's someone else." He was trembling, and his throat burned so hotly he found it hard to speak. "Haven't we been a pair of idiots scaring each other like that?"

"But it looks the same."

"I know, hon. It's a coincidence, that's all."

He dialed Val's mobile.

"h.e.l.lo."

"Val?"

"Hi, John. I'm in the supermarket. I've got the mayonnaise. Do you want any more of that tomato ketchup they do here?"

He held out the phone so Elizabeth could hear. She was wiping away tears but grinning all over her face.

"h.e.l.lo, John? Did you catch that? Do you want any more ketchup? "

"No thanks, love."

"I'm in the queue. I'm just about to be served. Did you want anything else?"

"Only for you to be home soon, hon."

His insides were water but he was grinning, too. Elizabeth came to him, encircled his neck with her arms and hugged him. They stayed like that for a long time.

CHAPTER 15.

"Do you have any porter?"

"Any what?"

"Porter." John Newton had been testing the man's reaction as much as anything. But the manager of the local Rhythm & Booze looked puzzled. That rules you out as a mystery letter recipient as well as the mystery letter writer.

The man scratched his head. "Porter? Oh, you mean port? We've ruby, tawny and white. It's over there by the sherry."

"No," John said. "Porter's a beer."

"Sorry, that's a new one on me."

The afternoon sun burst through the plate gla.s.s windows of the store with a dazzling intensity. Ceiling fans stirred the air, but it was still searing. John felt pearls of sweat roll down inside his shirt. He'd antic.i.p.ated the storekeeper wouldn't know what porter was so John had consulted the encyclopedia for a modern alternative.

"I'll take a couple of bottles of Guinness, then please." John reached into his pocket.

"Sorry, we're out of bottlesa there should be some cans across there next toa no, wait. My apologies, we're out of cans, too."

"You're out of Guinness?"

"I can't understand it either," the man said, looking genuinely puzzled. "We had a real run on it this morning."

"It must be the hot weather." John smiled but his gut reaction told him exactly what had happened. The mystery mailman visited other people in Skelbrooke, too.

"Do you have any other stout?"

The guy didn't want to commit himself. "I'll just check. That stuff's been selling fast, too." He craned his neck so he could see to the back of the store. "There's none left on the shelf but there are a few bottles in the refrigerator."

John fetched the bottles himself. They were metric half-liter bottles. He bought two to be on the safe side.

Christ, just listen to himself. He was buying the beer as if lives depended on it. But then maybea he closed off the train of thought. All this was veering close to the delusional, if not out and out insanity. After John handed over the cash the guy slipped the bottles into a lilac carrier. "Phew. Feel that heat. I'll be ready for a cold one myself tonight." He handed John the bag. "There you go, sir."

John thanked him. Once he'd left the store he walked by the village pond where Robert Gregory threw whole sandwiches to the ducks.

Robert Gregory? He'd certainly taken a dislike to the man when he'd visited old Mr. Price. Could Gregory be the letter writer? Christ, you are getting paranoid, John. Come to that you're going soft in the head. These letters were like insect bites on the back of his neck. Tiny, insignificant things, but G.o.d how they itch. They dominate your day. You can't sleep at night for them. He followed the road uphill, the sun hot on his back. It was a little after three. The barbecued food he'd eaten lay heavy and undigested in his stomach. He'd eaten it to show there was nothing amiss. But the scare a few hours ago had left him badly shaken. If anything Elizabeth had recovered faster than he had when she realized it really wasn't her mother's car lying mangled on the road.

For a few minutes as they'd watched the live TV coverage he'd really believed that it was Val's car. And that his wife and his son were lying crushed inside. Of course, it was a mistake anyone could make. Your wife or husband has a car of the same color, the same make, you see it smashed to pieces on the road. You might jump to the same terrifying, albeit wrong, conclusion. But you'd recover quickly enough. Perhaps you'd feel an idiot for frightening yourself in such a way. Then that would be that. An anecdote you'd tell over dinnera nothing more.

But h.e.l.la he'd still been shaking twenty minutes later. The worst of it was he knew why he was still shaking. The letters. Those d.a.m.ned awful letters. With their demands and their threats. He remembered full well how he'd wanted to shout from the window earlier, Go on, do your worst! I dare you!

Now this was the crazy part. After he'd seen the car wreck on TV, and then realized it wasn't Val's car after all, he had told himself: That was a warning. You challenged the letter writer to do his worst. Even if you'd only thought that challenge. Five minutes later you saw the car wreck on TV. You believed your wife and son were dead. What you've just had is what they call a Scarborough warning, a shot across the bow, a promise of what's to come if you don't yield to the demands.

Which was madnessa But was it? He'd received the first letter demanding he leave chocolate on the grave of a Jess Bowen. He'd ignored it. Elizabeth had fallen from her bike, slashing open her chin in the process. For a moment he thought someone had cut her throat. That she lay dead on the gra.s.s.

Now he'd seen the car wreck.

But wait a minute, he told himselfa just wait a minute herea So wrapped up in his own thoughts he stepped out into the road without looking. A car horn blasted him. Quickly he stepped back, checked the road was clear then crossed to where the gates of the Necropolis stood like the bones of a gigantic bird against the sky. They were locked. Figuring there'd be another way in, he followed the fence uphill. The lilac carrier bag containing the bottles of beer swung in his hand.

So overgrown was the cemetery he couldn't see more than a few yards into its interior. Nevertheless, he could make out rows of headstones marching away into shadow. A bird screeched in a treetop.

He was thankful there were no other people around for the simple reason he didn't want anyone seeing what he was going to do. Because already he'd picked up the train of thought from a moment ago, when a car nearly broke him like an egg over the hood. Was he really attributing some supernatural power to the mystery letter writer? If he ignored the demands could he, or some great diabolical IT, really have the ability to pitch Elizabeth from her bike, or cause some stranger's car to crash? Simply to serve as a warning to one John Newton?

But then the Haslems had fled in terrora Think about it, John. Two hundred years ago your ancestors wouldn't have doubted it for a moment. For them dark forces prowled the night like ravenous panthers, just waiting for someone to let down their guarda With a deliberate effort he closed off the thought. He made a pact with himself. He'd do what he had to do, then he would forget all about it. He'd force the memory into some back closet in his head and seal it there for good.

He continued up the hill. It had grown hotter than ever. The white path bounced sunlight back into his face. Behind him Skelbrooke slumbered in the heat. Across the valley he could see the roof of the Water Mill. Val, Paul and Elizabeth would be there; no doubt Sam would be lying in the shade, his tongue hanging like a strip of pink plastic from his mouth.

Moments later he reached a gap in the fence where it had been broken down. As he entered the cemetery he saw a man of around fifty walking down the hill. Immediately the man saw John, and quickly turned off on another path to avoid pa.s.sing him. John noticed a lilac carrier bag in the man's hand.

"Snap, mister," John murmured, then strode on up the hill.

He soon realized this was going to be no easy task. The cemetery was vast. Tombstones must have numbered in their tens of thousands. Most graves contained more than one person, some contained whole families. He plowed on up the hill.

It had been the first time he'd been in the place. Soon he found himself taking paths at random. One took him into what appeared to be a whole forest. Tree trunks had toppled stone angels. Roots had burst open grave slabs like wafer. He found it impossible to read the inscription on every single stone. He scanned them like he was speed reading a book.

He came across a mattress-sized stone surrounded by an iron fence. Tied around the palings were a host of multi-colored condoms. Elsewhere he saw hypodermic needles in the dirt, while wedged in the crook of an angel's arm was a homemade bong, consisting of a plastic soda bottle with a plastic bag taped to the bottom, so the same lungful of smoke could be re-breathed several times. Crack heads could be thrifty, too.

Seconds later he exchanged cool shade for brilliant sunlight. The intensity of the light was like a blow across his forehead. Turning left, he forded a swathe of fern. A large angel blocked his way. Aerosoled across her stone wings were the words: FLYING c.u.n.t.

This was getting crazier by the moment. Here he was wandering round a cemetery with bottles of beer in a bag. Anyone noticing would figure him an alcoholic in search of a quiet corner to get juiced.

Headstones bristled from the earth in dizzying profusion. How could he find the one that bore the name Jess Bowen?

Earlier he had wondered if the Jess Bowen headstone really had been here, but after seeing the middle-aged guy with the lilac carrier bag he knew with a gut certainty the grief stowne, to use the quaint words in the letter, was here. But where?

After a while, the trail that had been a winding affair with nothing but dirt underfoot joined a broad path of stone slabs the size of table-tops.

The stones were a funereal black. Perfect for the Necropolis. Following them, he wiped the sweat from his eyes. Already he was getting a little taste of h.e.l.l himself. The endless maze of paths, the acres of grim headstones, the searing heat, the silence, with everything overhung by the most evil looking trees he'd ever seen. And not forgetting, either, he walked over the ribs and skulls of the dead.

The path ran downhill where it entered a channel. Walls rose at either side of him; soon he found himself in a labyrinth of alleyways. The surrounding buildings stood a good dozen feet high, with the walls almost closing off the sky above him into a narrow strip of dazzling blue. In some places trees had sprouted from the roofs, to seal the alley entirely, creating a dark tunnel. On both sides of him were dozens of iron doors. In these were holes just large enough to insert a finger.

Not that the idea appealed to him. These were crypts. They were, probably stuffed to the rafters with caskets containing what remained of the neighboring cities' richest and finest. But they were rotting down to meat paste in their silk shrouds now, just like the poorest man that ever walked. What was this place called? He'd heard the name oncea Valley Of Tears? No, he correcteda Vale Of Tears. An appropriate name. He could well imagine weeping mourners pa.s.sing this way with a black draped coffin that would be sealed behind one of these many doors. Wealthy Victorians-ostentatious even in death.

He kept up the mind chatter. It was deliberate. He was excluding any questioning thoughts about why he was really here. After making lefts and rights, either at random, or how the layout of the labyrinth dictated, he found himself following a broad ramp that ran upward into a gully that split a cliff in two. The cliff was manmade with a retaining wall of huge blocks of stone. These were topped with plump little winged babies in stone. A few had fallen (or perhaps more likely pushed) from the wall to plunge the thirty or so feet down into the Vale of Tears below.

Sweating in the heat, he toiled up the hill. Still he checked the names on the stones. No Jess Bowen. This was hopeless. Maybe he should simply forget the whole thing?

But what were the consequences? It didn't seem rational, but a gut feeling sang out loud and clear that he'd been issued a warning that morning. He'd been awarded a glimpse of the consequences if he ignored the letter's demands. Vividly, he still saw in his mind's eye the TV image of blood running from the car onto the road.

You've got to do this, John. You've got to. For your family's sake.

Thirty minutes later he had to admit he was getting nowhere fast. He'd seen graves of all shapes and sizes. Some were the size of houses; some were shaped like pyramids, or mock chapels. Others were tiny headstones the size of a paperback book, marked with merely the occupants initials-TP 1901a SLWS 1910. If it were one of the micro-stones he could easily miss it in the long gra.s.s.

He pa.s.sed a clump of bushes that looked as if they were wrestling a plaster Christ to the earth. Ahead was a stretch of ground scabbed black with tombstones. After scanning a dozen of these for the name Jess Bowen he happened to glance back down into the Vale of Tears. There, a woman walked along one of the alleyways below. She had long blonde hair and strode purposefully toward the ramp. Despite her purposeful walk she did seem uneasy, glancing backward once or twice. It was what was in her hand that gave it away. A lilac carrier bag.

And don't I know what you've got nestled there in the bottom, John told himself crouching out of sight. A can or two of Guinness. Or were you late going to the store like me? In that case, it'll be bottles of Samuel Smith's stout. A strong ale as black as the shadows that oozed amongst the crypts.

John saw that he didn't have to look for the Bowen grave himself now. The blonde would show him. He hung back behind the bushes, knowing he must have looked like a stalker if anyone caught sight of him. Well, hard cheese as they say. If lurking here in the vegetation saved him endlessly walking round the cemetery then that suited him fine.

The woman walked swiftly up the ramp. Now the lilac carrier bag was in her two hands. She was scared. There was no doubt about that.

Discreetly, he followed so she wouldn't see him. But he didn't have to follow far. Just fifty paces or so from the top of the ramp she stopped on the cliff top. Then looking round, furtive as a burglar, she pulled two cans from the carrier bag.

Ah, the early birda she got the Guinness.

Urgently now, she pulled the ring opener on the can. It squirted out at her, shaken by the walk uphill. She didn't make a fuss about it messing her clothes. Instead she tipped the beer onto a grave.

When one can was empty she pushed it back into the bag, then opened another. She shook this one to get the beer out faster; instead of a black trickle it spurted a creamy white all over the grave. When she'd done, she bagged the second empty can. Then, with a backward glance at the grave, as if fearing something would burst from it to drag her screaming into the earth she returned the way she came. Soon all John could see was a spot of blonde hair moving down the hillside.

So, John asked himself, how many other people have received the letters? How many of those have met the demands? Perhaps this made what he had to do a little easier. Others had come here today to carry out the furtive little ritual. Now here comes another, he told himself as he crossed over to the grave.

There it was. A slab of granite the size of a child's bed. Although reddish in color it was mottled with black, lending it the same noxious hue as ground beef when left out of the refrigerator on a warm day. Engraved deeply in the center a name: JESS BOWEN.

No dates. No rhymes. No epitaph. Nothing but a name.

At one end of the slab stood the statue of a crying boy. He'd been carved to show him weeping over the tomb, broken-hearted by the death of whoever lay six feet below the sod. What did strike John forcibly enough was the smell of beer. It hung in the warm air. There was something cloying, almost treacly about it. The stonework itself was sticky. Beer had even pooled in the chiseled words of the name.

Now what did the letter say? I should wish that yew pore a pinte of porter onto the grief stowne of Jess Bowena The deadline was the 'Sabbath night,' which would be tomorrow, Sunday night.

"Well, I'm ahead of schedule," he murmured, pulling the bottle from the bag. "Come here and fill your f.u.c.king boots."

He glanced round, not wanting to be seen by a pa.s.serby. But as he did so he wondered if someone-namely, the mysterious letter writer-lurked in the bushes watching him. No doubt spanking his filthy little monkey as he ogled yet another victim carrying out the bizarre ritual.

But then he wasn't going to rationalize this, John told himself. The detonation of absolute terror he'd experienced when he'd seen the wrecked car on TV had knocked the flippancy from him. OK, so it didn't make a whole lot of sense. But it was like throwing spilt salt over your shoulder, or not walking under a ladder. This was nothing more than one of those glitches in the modern world. Another little superst.i.tion that instinct told you to observe.

"Come on, you little beauty, drink upa drink up," he murmured, hearing the sarcastic sneer in his voice. Twisting the cap from the bottle, he poured the dark liquid over the head of the statue. It coursed down the statue's weeping face in great, black tears. It dripped from its nose and chin onto the blood red tomb itself. John poured more beer across the stone slab, splashing the letters; it streamed in black rivulets to the ground where it was swallowed by the thirsty soil.

In his mind's eye he saw the beer flowing down underground, filtering through stones and dirt to gush into the coffin six feet down where an acc.u.mulation of the black liquid would pool there, soaking what bones and shreds of skin remained of Jess Bowen.

When he had tipped the last drops of the second bottle onto the statue he stuffed the bottles into the bag, then walked away down the hillside. He didn't look back. The sensation he experienced now wasn't what he had expected. He thought he'd feel foolish for yielding to the demands in the letter. He didn't. Instead he felt grubby and guilty. As if he'd been forced into some perverse s.e.xual act with a stranger. What's more he'd thought this ritual would have been the end of it all. Now he felt as if it was just the beginning.

CHAPTER 16.

1.

They say a good English summer is two days of sun followed by a thunderstorm. True to the old country proverb, thunderheads grew like malignant tumors on the horizon, and that Sat.u.r.day evening darkened fast. Shadows ran from the ground as if the earth itself lay bleeding.

"Anything on your mind, John?" Val snaked an arm round his neck as they sat on the sofa.