Lets Drink To The Dead Page 6

  She finished her cup, rinsed it in the sink, and put it on the side to drain. Then pulled on her coat, relit her cigarette and went out.

  MYFANWY’S AUSTIN MAXI pulled out from outside her terraced house on Alma Street and headed towards the rank of hills that rose above Kempforth like a cresting wave. The north of Lancashire was harsh, craggy, unforgiving country; it often reminded Myfanwy of Merioneth in North Wales, where she’d grown up.

  Dunwich Road, the main road that ran through the town, passed through a defile between two of the hills on its way across the moors; a long grey ribbon, fading into the low ground mist that swirled along the damp, bitter moor. Dunwich Lane was a different prospect. Not long after Myfanwy passed through the defile, it was there to her left: a narrow, potholed, ill-lit thoroughfare running along the flank of the hills.

  She turned the headlights up and fought to keep the wheel steady. God, if David knew about this, he’d think she was senile. Out in the middle of the night, on the strength of a message from a ghost.

  The hills loomed black above her. Dunwich Lane ran the length of them, all the way to Ash Fell, the furthermost one. God, Ash Fell. That terrible place. There weren’t many houses along it; three terraced cottages here, two cottages there. And finally, almost right under Ash Fell, the farmhouse.

  Myfanwy pulled in outside it, eyed its lightless bulk, then let herself out. The muddy ground was frozen, hard and treacherous underfoot. She’d have to be careful; easy to fall and hurt herself here.

  She’d forgotten to bring a torch. But the night sky was clear and the moon full; she found her way to the front door easily enough. In the distance she heard far-off traffic, the skitter of small things in the undergrowth, the call of an owl.

  The house smelt of dirt and damp and char. There was soot around the empty windows and the blackened hole of the door. Cold dank air wafted out to meet her, as if something was breathing out in satisfaction now she was here.

  Silly to think that. But she didn’t want to go in, all the same. She didn’t fear the dead – by definition they could do no harm – but the fire that had gutted this place had been a bad one and the structure wasn’t safe. And then the night sounds died away, and there was only a blanketing silence.

  Myfanwy. The word burned a dull red in the blackness within and then faded. Come.

  No choice, then. She took a deep breath and stepped inside. The darkness closed around her like a shroud.

  Inside, the floor was stone, but littered with debris. She stumbled, almost fell. I’m no good to you if I break an ankle, she tried to say, but though her lips and throat worked she couldn’t hear it. But as if in answer to the thought, a cold sourceless light began to flicker. The same as in her room before. Ah, she knew it well.

  The young man stepped into view. She could see his face more clearly now. thin and pimply, with greasy yellow hair. Vast eyes and a slack mouth. She recognised him. The tip of her tongue.

  Tom Yolland, he said. His mouth moved without sound; the words glowed in the air. He smiled – rather shyly, she thought. Everyone called me Yolly.

  That was it. His picture had been in the paper last year. A murder. Two. You killed two people, one of them a priest, she said, or tried to.

  Mr Fitton, the butcher, and Father Sykes, Yolly said. They deserved to die. They raped children. And worse. I was one of those children once. But Mr Fitton and Father Joe, they made me one of them.

  She remembered the rest of the story now. He came here after killing them. He’d brought cans of petrol, poured them over himself and–

  The badness was in me, Yolly said. They put it there. Once it’s in you, it stays. You’ve got to burn it out. Fire purifies, Myfanwy. Remember that.

  Myfanwy put a hand to her mouth. All she could feel for him now was pity. There was no menace from Yolly; only sadness.

  They did worse.

  Worse? Dear God, what could be worse than this?

  They sold children to the Shrike.

  The Shrike? Who was the Shrike?

  Yolly didn’t answer; he only looked around. The flickering glow spread to light the burned-out interior of the farmhouse.

  Most of the internal walls were gone; they’d only been plaster and lathwork. It made the inside of the house cavernous, but it surely couldn’t be this big. It seemed endless. The light spread to illuminate children. There were dozens, scores. Too many to fit into a building like this, surely? The eldest Myfanwy could see was no more than ten or eleven years old; the youngest no more than two or three, a little boy, holding hands with a girl of about nine. All were pale; all had black holes in lieu of eyes. The eyelids held their shape perfectly, but there were only empty sockets beyond them.

  The girl holding the little boy’s hand spoke now. This earth is full of bones.

  Myfanwy looked down at the cracked stone flags, and for a dizzying instant she seemed to see through them into a rich sea of black earth where hollow bones writhed like pale worms. Then she blinked and saw only stone.

  He’s been coming here for years, the girl said. Sometimes he pays with money, sometimes with other things. But there are always people waiting here to give him what he wants. To feed him.

  The little boy spoke next. They take children from the town sometimes. Other times they take them from further away, so no-one will guess. And they sell them to him.

  A small boy in a parka, Indian or Pakistani, spoke now: He eats children. He does other things first. Terrible things.

  And then he buries us deep, says the girl. Deep in the earth. He buries our souls with our bones. Buries our voices in the earth so we can’t be heard. Till now. At last there are too many of us. We started to get out.

  I promised to help, said Yolly. Last year. I killed the others and burned myself so I wouldn’t suffer after I died.

  The Shrike is coming back, said the little boy.

  The police; did they want her to tell the police?

  They had a friend in the police, said Yolly. Mr Fitton and Father Joe. There was a man like them. He’s still there. And he’s found new children for them. Two of them. He’ll bring them tomorrow night.

  Here?

  No, not here. He can’t. I’ve spoiled this place for him, said Yolly.

  Then where?

  I don’t know yet. I’ll tell you when I do.

  You have to stop him, said the Asian boy. You have to find a way.

  But be careful, said the girl. He’s not a man. He looks human, but he’s not, not really.

  How am I supposed to stop him? Myfanwy found herself trying to shout it, forgetting it couldn’t be heard. I’m an old woman, how can I...

  Find someone you can trust to help, said the girl. You’ve got someone you trust. Haven’t you?

  Yes. Perhaps she did.

  Then do what has to be done. Do it.

  And remember, Yolly said, sometimes you have to burn the badness out.

  The flickering glow faded and the cold darkness flooded in to fill the farmhouse again. Myfanwy turned, and stumbled out into the moonlight, back towards the car. Home again, now. For a cup of hot milk and a few hours’ sleep, before she did as they had told her. The dead had spoken; on the rare occasions that they did, she’d no choice but to obey.

  3

  THE BATTERED OLD Land Rover, paintwork chipped and crusted with spatters of dried mud, rumbled down from the hills and into the town.

  Bronisław Stakowski stopped outside the newsagents on Station Road and got out. Smallish and wiry, in his late fifties, wrapped in a thick wax jacket, grubby corduroys and heavy, muddy boots. Grey hair; a thin, kindly face. But not soft. No, not soft. Men had made that mistake before.

  Kempforth was a strange place for a man like him to make his home; it wasn’t welcoming or accepting of strangers, especially ones with weird, unpronounceable names. But there’d been nowhere else to go; this was where his wife’s family came from, this was where her roots were. He had no roots of his own, not any longer. And he could not live in the cit
y, where machinery thumped and thundered. It was too like the hammering of machine gun fire, the crump of artillery, the dull thudding of grenades. His family had been farmers; the countryside had drawn him. And so he had made a place for himself here, won respect and acceptance by stubbornness, patience and hard work.

  “The usual, Ron?” the shopkeeper said. It was as close to his name as most people could come around here. There was no real equivalent for Bronisław in English. His son, at least, had an English-sounding name. Michael.

  It was best he did not think of Michael just now.

  He smiled at the shopkeeper. “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Here you go.” The shopkeeper was already pushing the packets of rolling tobacco and cigarette papers across the counter. Bronisław paid and went out.

  There were a few other little household items to get; that done, he made for the Creamery on Rudgate Street. They made good coffee there, and cream cakes. The cream cakes were his one indulgence; he allowed himself one each time he came into Kempforth.

  Bronisław wiped his feet outside and ventured in. Old women sipping tea and nibbling éclairs eyed him. He smiled, nodded, and went to the counter. “A cup of coffee, please, and a slice of the chocolate cream cake.”

  He searched for a table that was free, and then saw a woman looking right at him. Grey, wavy hair, eyes bright and sharp – it’d been years since he’d seen her, but he knew her almost at once. When she spoke, her throaty Welsh accent got rid of all doubt.

  “Hello, Bronisław.”

  “Myfanwy.” He went over to her table; she motioned to a chair. He sat opposite her. He could feel eyes on them both. “How are you?”

  “I’m alright.” But she didn’t look it. She was pale; there were bags under her eyes and a sense of her struggling to keep control. Bronisław had seen that before, too often. He wanted to reach out, take her hand; did not. “I heard Mike joined the Army?”

  “Yes.”

  “How’s he getting on?”

  “Alright. The last I heard.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  Bronisław shrugged. “And how’s David and his family?”

  “They’re well. Spending Christmas with them.”

  “Good. That’s good.”

  “How’s Roberta?”

  “She’s well.”

  “Are you both happy?”

  “Yes. No.” Bronisław sighed. “The business with Michael. It has upset her.”

  “Well, don’t let it mess things up. Good woman, Roberta.”

  “Yes.” Silence. She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “What’s wrong, Myfanwy?”

  “I...” She looked up. “I need your help, Bron.”

  “Anything, Myfanwy. You know that.”

  “Don’t say that until you’ve heard what it is.”

  “Anything. When I first came to Kempforth, who was the first person to be my friend? Heh?”

  She smiled. “More than just a friend, as well.”

  “Well, yes, that as well. But my friend again, even after that was finish.”

  The waitress came with the coffee and cake.

  “Tell me, Myfanwy. What is wrong?”

  She was looking down again. “Bron, do you remember me telling you that I had... sometimes that I saw...”

  “The... second sight, that is your name for it. Yes? Yes, you did.”

  “Did you believe me?”

  “I did not disbelieve you. I’ve learnt not to laugh at such things. Why?”

  “Because it’s come back. I thought it was gone now I’m old, but it’s come back. And there’s something I’m going to have to do, and I can’t do it alone. I need help. And I tried to think of who I could trust, who might believe me, and I could only think of one.”

  “I will help you. You can count on me.”

  “It could be dangerous.”

  “You still have not told me, Myfanwy. What it is you’re asking of me.”

  “Alright, then,” she said, and took a deep breath.

  WHEN SHE WAS done, he picked up his coffee and took a sip. She couldn’t look up at him. He put the cup down.

  “So,” he said. “This... Shrike. He comes to kill children.”

  “Yes.”

  “And a policeman is helping him to do this.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you ask me to help you prevent this.”

  “Yes.”

  “Look at me, Myfanwy.”

  At last, she looked up.

  “Did you really think I would say no?”

  “You believe me?”

  “As I said, I don’t disbelieve. If you are wrong, I will put myself only to some small inconvenience for my friend. If you are right, then I will be in the right place at the right time to prevent something that ought to be prevented. So you see, it is not a great thing to ask.”

  Myfanwy took a deep breath. Her eyes were bright. “Thank you, Bron.”

  “Don’t mention it. So?”

  “I’ll just have to wait until I know where the children are going to be left for him.” She snorted. “Makes it sound like I’m waiting for a phone call, doesn’t it?”

  “And you will call me, when you know?”

  “Yes.”

  “Alright, then. We will speak later, yes?”

  “Yes.” She stood. “Thank you.”

  Bronisław watched her go out and start along the pavement, in her thick, heavy coat and hat. Old woman’s clothes. But she was old now. And he was becoming old. But she looked back through the glass once and smiled at him, and for a second he could see what he had seen all those years ago. She’d been far from young even then, of course – around the age he was now – but there’d still been something about her. He saw it again now, and smiled back. And then she turned and walked slowly, steadily away.

  Bronisław Stakowski sipped his cooling coffee, picked up his fork and began to eat.

  4

  THE WINTER NIGHT soon fell on Kempforth; this was, of course, the year’s longest night. It was a bitter one, too; the streets grew icy and quiet.

  There was no-one waiting on the platform at Kempforth Railway Station when the Manchester train pulled in, slowing to a creaking, hissing halt, and only one passenger emerged, stepping with almost dainty care onto the platform and moving into the shadows of the waiting room. He stood watching, waiting, until the train began to roll forward again. Light shone off thick, round spectacle lenses, like the luminous eyes of a deep-sea fish.

  The train carried its warm yellow lights off into the winter dark. Shoes clicked on cold stone as the passenger stepped out of the shadows and down the platform. A black coat flapped around him; light glinted from a bald, bulbous head. He carried a briefcase.

  The passenger went out of the station and stopped at a telephone kiosk. He slipped inside. A car swept past on the road; its headlights briefly lit the booth’s interior. The man’s face was smooth and bland, lips pale and moist. The eyes were pale grey and large behind the spectacle lenses. He put his case down, took coins from his pocket with one hand, picked up the handset with the other. He wore tight black leather gloves. He fed the coins into the machine and dialled.

  The phone rang twice and was answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Detective Sergeant?” The passenger’s voice was thin and cold. Metal. A sharp blade.

  “Yes.”

  “You know who this is.”

  “Yes.”

  “You know what I’ve come for.”

  “Yes.”

  “You know what you promised to provide.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well?”

  “I have it. Them.”

  “When shall I...?”

  “I have to go and fetch them. They’re not in the town. They’re in–”

  “I’m not interested. When?”

  “Eight o’clock.”

  A sigh. “Very well.”

  “The usual place?”

  “No. There is an abandoned railway platform nearby
. At Ash Fell.”

  “Ash F–”

  “Is there a problem, Detective Sergeant?”

  “No. No problem at all. Sir.”

  White teeth glinted in the dark of the phone booth; a mirthless grin. “I didn’t think so. Leave them on the platform, suitably secured. I’ll leave your payment there for you to pick up.”

  “But–”

  “Yes?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Good.” Silence. The line hissed. “Was there anything else, Detective Sergeant?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then don’t let me keep you from your task.”

  The man replaced the phone and picked up his case again, then exited the booth. As he did, he stopped for a moment and looked about him. For a moment he thought he had heard a sound; something like a voice, whispering a single word: Shrike.

  After a moment, he shrugged, dismissed it, then walked on and crossed the road, ignoring the pubs, the chip shop, the Indian restaurant. He didn’t feel the cold, and he had no desire for food or drink; he desired only one thing, and that would come to him later. He would pace the streets of Kempforth for a while, keeping to the shadows. That was all he needed; the dark was light enough.

  5

  MYFANWY HAD SPENT the day, after parting with Bronisław, with David and Shelley and their children. That had helped, in more ways than one; a distraction from what was coming, and a reminder of why it had to be. The thought of Martyn, or worse, little Anna, in the hands of the Shrike was something she couldn’t contemplate, but she couldn’t wholly banish it either. Especially not when she’d gone home and there was nobody else there.

  She went to bed. She was tired after last night’s fitful and disrupted sleep, and she’d have to be awake and alert tonight. She was afraid of tonight; she was an old woman now and the days when she might have faced something like this without quailing were long gone. If there’d ever been such days. And Bronisław, come to that, was hardly a spring chicken.