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 shimmering 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 shifting 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 fishing 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.

Harry was dead, too. There'd be no more fishing trips. Then, as happened so infrequently these days, his mind swung into focus. He remembered the letter arriving during the night last week. He'd read it where Cynthia had left it on the kitchen table. She knew nothing about what it meanta ignorance is blissful indeed, he told himself, as he pulled himself out of bed onto shaky legs. His stomach burned with hunger. He was getting weaker by the day.

For a moment he saw himself going to the refrigerator to help himself to sausage, bacon, mushrooms, eggs. Beautiful big white eggs. He'd eat them raw if he had to. But no. Prioritize. Prioritize1. He'd used this word often enough in business long ago. Decide what's really important, then do that first.

He shuffled to the door, then clinging to the banister rail, took one step at a timea if he fell now everything would be ruined. There was only one person who knew what to do. Stan would have been the one to act once, but his days of being fit and able were long gone. Why, at any moment his mind could go again, clouds of unreason would roll in and he'd be a babbling sh.e.l.l of a man once more, crying out for his best friend that had lain dead in the ground these last five yearsa No, he was an old man that was regularly slapped by his son-in-law. One Robert Gregory, who waited impatiently for his inheritance.

Stan Price wiped his face with a trembling hand. The exertion soaked his skin with perspiration. Now across the halla Ahead, stood the table with the telephone. He made a point of switching on no lights. Don't wake Roberta you'll not get another chance to make this call. The next time you slip into dementia you might never emerge again. Time is running outa Lightning flickered. Shadows leapt from the walls. He flinched, afraid the darkness would seize him.

Then, steeling himself, he walked on.

He found the telephone number in his address book. Talon fingers prodded the keys. Thunder rumbled. It might wake Robert. Robert might find him. Stan could almost hear the sneering voice: Telephoning people in the middle of the night, Dad? Why do you have to embarra.s.s us so much, you filthy old man? Then a full-blooded slap to the back of his head, sending him staggering, with pains shooting down his neck so ferociously he'd wonder if the vertebrae had shattered. But that's what Robert Gregory wanted. He'd tell everyone that poor old Stan Price (with fog for brains and withered legs) had slipped on the staircase, or fallen into the bath, or tripped over a rug and broken his skull like an egg.

Thunder hit the door with the sound of a savage kick. Something out there wanted in! It wanted to stop Stan Price from making the telephone calla he could feel it in his brittle old bones. Air currents rattled the door handle. Through the window bulging eyes stared ina Harrya Ha-reeeeea No. He was loosing his grip on reality again. It was all starting to slip from hima why was he here in the hallway in the middle of the night?

"h.e.l.loa h.e.l.lo?"

The female voice in his ear brought his mind back into focus as it continued with an irritable: "h.e.l.lo. Who in d.a.m.nation is phoning me at this time of the night?" Static crackled on the line. "h.e.l.loa who's there? Oh! Suit yourselfa only I don't appreciate been woken by your silly games. I'm going to hang up now. Goodbye."

Frantic, he forced his wits together with an effort that made him shudder from head to toe. "Dianne Kelly."

"Yes, speaking. Who-"

"Dianne. Listen." With a sense that time was running out he spoke quickly, his voice little more than a whisper. "This is Stan."

"Stan Price?"

"Yes."

"Stan? They told me that you'd gone soft in the head." It was the old Dianne Kelly, sharp-witted, straight to the point. "You sound OK to me, but you do realize what time it is?"

"Yes, Dianne, please listen. I'll have to be quick-"

"Why what's wrong, Stan? You sound rattled."

A light came on upstairs. Robert's voice sounded m.u.f.fled but annoyed. "Stay in bed, Cynthia. I'll go see to him."

Stan held the phone close to his mouth. "Dianne. It's started again. A letter came last week."

"Sorry, Stan. There's a lot of interference on the line. The angels must be frying bacon tonight. What was that you just said?"

"Dianne-"

"Now, now, Dad." Robert's tread sounded heavy on the stair. "Put that phone down. It's not a toy, you know?"

Closing his eyes, Stan concentrated on speaking clearly. "Dianne. Listen. It's starting again. A letter appeared last week."

"Stan, speak upa the static's awful."

"Dianne. Cynthia found the letter under a stone in the yard. She doesn't know what it is. But there's a man living up at the Water Mill; he-"

"All right, Dad. Give me the telephone."

"Newton, they call him. John Newton. I don't know how much he knows, but he must-"

Lightning and thunder mated-blue light burst through the hallway. The sound of cathedrals collapsing crashed through the house.

Stan saw the trail of sparks through the door gla.s.s. They spurted down the outside of the house, following the telephone line like a fuse to dynamite. Then a fist of fire struck the ear that touched the telephone. The floor rose up to strike him a second blow.

For a full second he stared at the rug, so close he could see individual fibers, then his eyes closed. If it thundered again he never heard it.

CHAPTER 18.

1.

Dead of night. John Newton lay on his back gazing at the ceiling. Lightning flashes were few and far between now. Thunder sounded muted, damped down by rain that drummed like a thousand skeleton fingers on the roof tiles. Val lay on her side, her back to him. He felt the rounded form of her naked bottom against his hip. She slept soundly after more than an hour's lovemaking.

For John the champagne had only worked its magic for a couple of hours at most. Then the warm, contented envelope that surrounded him had evaporated. And now the time was coming up to three. He'd been brought awake by the terrific crash of thunder a little after two. Now sleep seemed as far away as the dark side of the moon. He listened to the rain along with the sound of his own thoughts.

Did he really walk into the bar and chalk those words on the board? Then stand there challenging people to tell him more? Yes, he had and in the coming days he knew he'd attract some reproachful looks from his neighbors. But they were scared. They were scared to answer him tonight when they saw that blackboard bearing what looked like an incantation.

Porter.

Jess Bowen.

Baby Bones.

He understood the first two on the list. The third, Baby Bones, was still a mystery. He'd heard Elizabeth use the name when she and Emma were frightening themselves in that chase game. Later, Elizabeth claimed that if you saw the face of Baby Bones in the lake then you'd die. It all sounded like some local spook story that kids scared one another with.

Val murmured in her sleep. He rested his hand on her hip. The skin ran smooth and deliciously warm over the curves of her body. Turning over, he moved in close to her back so the contours of her body followed the front of his. He had everything to feel good about. The book sale to Thailand. The champagne. The pleasant evening in front of the TV with his family. Then coming upstairs at bedtime and realizing that Val was in one of her s.e.xy moods, her eyes giving him the come on; the way her hands caressed him as they slid together across the bed. The way she'd teased him with her tongue to the point of explosion. Life doesn't get better than that.

And several thousand dollars will soon be slipping into your bank account. Now that is sweet. Twenty thousand dollarsa Dirty money. The words weren't rational. He'd earned the money through writing a best-selling book. But the e-mail was despatched the very same moment he poured beer onto the Jess Bowen grave. The money made him feel as if he'd gone a-whoring for it. As if he'd rented his body for perverted s.e.x acts. Dirty money, for a dirty boy.