Darkness Demands Part 6

2.

"Miranda?" Paul looked over the ranks of headstones. "Did you hear someone screaming?"

"Screaming?" She shrugged. "There's always someone shouting or carrying on round here. It's nothing but a kid's playground these days."

Paul turned his head to hear the voice again. Although it sounded distant he could hear real distress running through it.

"Lover's tiff," Miranda said then pointed with the toe of her sandalled feet. "Look. See that?"

He noticed her toenails were painted a red so luscious that all he could do was stare at them, nothing else.

"See what's written on the back of that headstone? Peace Be Unto You, Until You Follow Me."

He grinned. "In other words, take that smug look off your face, because it won't be long until you're pushing up daisies, too. Where now?"

"Who knows, who cares?" Slipping her arms around his neck she smiled. "Kiss me."

Paul kissed her. Her lips seemed like vast cushions of velvet. He couldn't imagine anything as soft. Or exciting.

"Mmma" she pulled back her head.

He found himself gazing into her eyes. Wonderful eyes that sent a zillion shivers through him.

"You know, Paul," she whispered. "You can touch me with your hands when we kiss."

This time when they kissed she took hold of his fingers and guided them down to her breast.

3.

Mary Thorp ran through a tunnel of green as she sped along the path between the bushes. In and out of sunlight she ran. Plunging from deep shade to brilliant light, then back again. She raced through swarms of insects that hung like clouds of gold dust. Ivy snagged her feet. Sweat drenched her.

All the time she could hear his feet pounding behind.

The carrier bag swung at the end of her arm. It smacked stone crosses then rebounded back against her thigh. Jesusa where was that headstonea she was sure it was close. She could have sworn she remembered that painted Jesus Christ standing with his hand raised like a traffic cop.

But where was that stone with the weeping child? h.e.l.la Deep down she knew if she could only slap that bag down onto the stone all this torture would end. Joe Budgen wouldn't tear her to pieces. He'd go away. He'd leave her and little Liam in peace.

This was only happening because she'd paid no attention to the letter that came in the dead of night a week ago. A folded piece of paper lying there, as if b.u.t.ter wouldn't melt. d.a.m.n it. If only she'd done what had been asked of her. Joe Budgen wouldn't be here. He wouldn't be chasing her.

G.o.d, if he caught her. He'd really hurt her this time. She cried out as a hand tore at her blonde hair. Stopping, she turned to fight him. She wouldn't go down as easy as that. Not submissive, not merely waiting for him to head-b.u.t.t her, or batter her face against a tombstone. She'da Noa a low hanging branch had snagged her hair. It held her as surely as if it was his fist gripping her. With her free hand she struggled to disentangle the ma.s.s of frothy hair from the branch.

Just thirty yards away Joe rounded the corner. His eyes bored into hers.

"Mary. There's no way you're gonna get away from me. Did you hear me, Mary?"

She raged: d.a.m.n hair, d.a.m.n hair-I'll shave you off!

At last she was free. Leaving a few golden strands hanging there, she tore along the path, weaving by tree trunks, leaping over toppled stone crosses. Rabbits scuttled aside. A squirrel raced up a tree trunk.

Behind her she heard his footsteps. Closera closera Breathing didn't come easy now. Her throat burned. It was closing-the trachea narrowing to little thicker than a drinking straw.

"Where's that grave?" she yelled at the trees. "Where is it?" Then added in a pleading voice while shaking the carrier bag. "Look. Just like you asked. I've brought it!"

At that moment the sun slipped behind a cloud. Darkness crept out at her. For all the world it could have been creeping from the graves-a graveyard darkness that had all the dead power to seize her and draw her down into one of the coffins, where the lonely dead waited.

"Leave me alone!" she screamed. "Leave me alone!" And for once she wasn't screaming at her pursuer. Because she thought she'd seen a face look through the branches. A stark, white face with veined eyes that bulged obscenely at her.

Footsteps closed behind her.

She ran even more desperately. Now a path cut into the hillside took her into an artificial gully.

The Vale Of Tears.

Yes, yes! She recognized this now. The Vale Of Tears. A whole labyrinth of channels cut below ground level. Enclosed on three sides, with only the top open to the sky, it formed a complex of individual family crypts; hundreds of them lying behind iron doors. This was the heart of the Necropolis-the city of the dead.

She couldn't be far from the tomb now with its crying boy.

Not far now, not far nowa the words thudded to the rhythm of her heart.

She ran along the stone channels that were narrow enough, if she'd had a mind to, to span with her outstretched arms. Here, roots from trees growing at ground level above her head burst through the walls. Or they forced themselves through the crypt doors. And like scaly tentacles they reached out at her, tugging her hair and clothes as she brushed by.

Nearly therea I'm nearly there. Her heart beat faster.

Now a spark of hope flickered. All she had to do was set the bag down on the grave and cry out in triumph, "Therea I've done it. I've brought you what you wanted!"

Then everything would be fine again. When she saw little Liam she'd bury her face into his sweet hair. She'd kiss his fingers, his toesa h.e.l.l!

Her feet shot from under her as she took a right-angled bend. She went down hard sliding on her rear end, skinning her bare elbows. Gritting her teeth, she blinked away the pain, then scrambled up onto her feet. She glanced back. No sign of Joea no visible sign that is, but she could hear his feet echoing along the labyrinth.

She must be nearly at the grave now. She knew this place. There was a broad pathway that led up a slope. The grave with the crying boy was right at the top of that.

Then she looked at her hands. She stared without understanding for a moment.

Then it hit her. Where's the d.a.m.ned carrier bag? You must have dropped it, you stupid, empty headeda For a second she planned to run on without it. She was near the crying boy grave. It couldn't be more than a moment away-not if she ran hard.

But what's the f.u.c.king point? she asked herself. The reason she was here at all was to leave the contents of that bag on the stone slab. Her eyes scanned the pa.s.sageway. Yes, there was the bag. She must have dropped it when she fell. But if she ran to retrieve it there was every chance she'd run straight into Joe as he barreled round the corner.

She listened. The running footsteps grew louder, loudera then they stopped. She creased her forehead, puzzled. Why had he stopped running?

Maybe she was being given a chance? She took it. Five seconds later the carrier bag was in her hands, the clunky weight in the bottom as welcome as it was rea.s.suring.

Nearly there. She turned back to run the last two hundred yards.

"I said you couldn't run away from me, didn't I, Mary?"

She found herself looking into his blazing eyes. He'd run along one of the parallel channels then turned to cut her off. Her breath coming in frightened sobs, she backed away from him, the carrier bag held like a shield in front of her chest.

"I told you I'd catch you. And that when I did, I'd make sure you were f.u.c.ked."

She walked backward until her body hit one of the tomb's iron doors. The clang sounded like the single peal of a bell. Cold air oozed through ventilation holes in the door and into the back of her neck. Tomb air, that had enveloped a dozen coffins for a hundred years. It stank of death and eternity.

He closed in on her, his hands clenched down by his side. Despite the fact he'd been running, his face was a bloodless white.

"Pleasea" she panted. "Don't hurt me, Joe, please."

"What is it, Mary?" His face was stiff, unsmiling. "Have you been wondering what I was going to do to you? Maybe have a go at pulling that loose tongue of yours out again? Hmm? Or maybe kick your teeth so far down your throat you can bite toilet paper?"

"Joe-"

"Soa what do you think it's to be, then?"

"Joe, don't hurt me. It was a long time ago; you don't want-"

"Don't want what, hmm? You were going to wait for me, Mary, but you just got naked for the first guy who came along. You dumped me like I was a piece of s.h.i.t."

She breathed deeply, controlling her voice. "Joe. Don't do this, please. I've got a little boy now. I'm all he's got. He'll be put into care if I-"

"If you what? Join those guys in there!" He head-b.u.t.ted the iron door. It rang like a bell. The echoes took forever to die. "Joe. My little boy needs me."

"What about Stevo?"

"He's no good as a father. He won't look after him."

"How very, very sad." Joe pushed out his bottom lip in mock concern. "Mary, my love, you don't have to worry about a thing."

He raised his clenched fists. She flinched expecting them to come crashing into her face.

"No, Mary, I'm not going to lay a finger on you. In fact, I came all the way up here to tell you not to worry about little Liam." He opened his fists at eye level showing her his palms. "I've taken care of him for you."

She saw the palms of his hands. They were covered with dried blood. Then, as she understood, she began to scream. She screamed long and hard. And the iron doors of the tombs hummed in harmony with her.

4.

"Mmma" Miranda's sigh was as exciting as anything she said, then giving a regretful shrug she whispered. "Sorry, Paul."

"Sorry for what?" Paul wondered if he'd tried to cover too much ground too quickly.

"I'm babysitting for my sister at four."

She pulled down her T-shirt, hiding her wonderful b.r.e.a.s.t.s from his eyes. He felt a pang of loss, wondering if he'd ever see them again; they were such firm handfuls of flesh with a dusting of freckles around the beautifully dark nipples.

For the first time he began to take notice of his surrounding again. That they were sitting on a tombstone surrounded by bushes. As he watched her push her hair back from her face she paused. "I can hear it now."

"Hear what?" He was still all eyes for Miranda; the outside world and the rest of the cosmos in general seemed a far less interesting place than this slender hipped girl with hair as glossy as fresh chestnut.

"Screaming," she said, frowning slightly while looking down the hill.

"Maybe we should check?"

She shrugged. "Why bother? It's probably kids. This is a mad place." She shot him a grin. "It gets madder after dark. A couple of months ago we built a huge fire and Shaun Richards, oh, you've not met him, have you? Well Shaun brought in half a dozen cases of beer. Everyone got out of their facesa Christ, the hangovera"

"Sounds fun." Paul smiled but felt a stab of jealousy. Just who the h.e.l.l's Shaun Richards?

"Do you fancy walking me home?"

"I'll be heading that way anyway," he said, deliberately nonchalant (but his heart still thudded outrageously after spending twenty minutes in that tight clincha and, good G.o.d, his groin ached; he felt as if he was going to explode).

"Anyway, old screamer's stopped." She spoke lightly. "It'll be kids. Like I say this is nothing but a big playground these days."

"Little kids by day, big kids by night?"

"Absolutely. You should see what goes on in the crypts."

"Sounds spooky."

"It's d.a.m.n spooky." She grinned mischievously. "Especially when you're there alone at the dead of night."

"We should try it sometime."

"Yeah, why not," she said surprisingly. "It'll be a thrill."

"I'll bring the stakes. You bring the crucifix."

The mischievous smile came again. "Oh, I'd definitely recommend you bring some protection."

Does she mean what I think she means? His pulse fluttered like b.u.t.terfly wings beneath his skin.

They headed up a narrow track through the trees. Here, as everywhere, the place was a riot of wild flowers, bushes, nettles. Many a headstone had been toppled; while most were either splashed white with bird c.r.a.p or dark green and woolly looking with growths of ivy.

As they crested the hill Paul noticed a peculiar looking tomb with a statue of a crying boy.

"Miranda, what on earth goes on here?"

"Oh, that's a famous one."