Blind to the Bones (2 page)

Somewhere in the darkness beyond the streetlights was Waterloo Terrace, where the Oxleys lived. Alton could picture the eight brick cottages, tightly packed like a row of soldiers, standing shoulder to shoulder against the larger stone buildings that clustered around them.

Derek Alton and Neil Granger stood in the church porch a few moments longer, listening to the noises from the village. The screaming faded, then grew louder again.

‘Does that sound like a rat to you?' said Neil.

‘Yes, it does.'

Neil nodded. ‘OK, then.'

He rubbed at his face as he began to walk away down the flagged path. His clothes rustled like the sound of the blackbird in the dead leaves. Alton lifted his head for a second to look towards the village. And when he turned back, he found that Neil had already disappeared into the darkness beyond the yew trees.

Later, Derek Alton would have a lot to regret. He would be sorry that he hadn't watched Neil Granger leave, and hadn't observed the moment when the young man passed out of his sight. Perhaps he could have called Neil back and said something that might have changed his mind. But he hadn't. Alton had been too distracted by the noise coming from the village, and too absorbed in his own concerns. He would feel guilty for that, too.

But most of all, Derek Alton would regret not saying goodbye.

T
here were ten more dead bodies to collect that night. Others had probably died underground, or had been trapped deep in the spaces between the stone arches and the hillside behind them. But Sandy Norton wasn't satisfied.

‘We're going to have to put more poison down,' he said. ‘The buggers are breeding like, well –'

‘Rats?'

‘Yeah.'

Norton shone his torch into the mouth of the middle portal. It was one of the nineteenth-century tunnels, the old westbound line, which wasn't used for anything these days. The railway track had long since been ripped up, and the tunnel abandoned. The arched walls glistened with water, and a small stream ran into a stone conduit near his feet. Just beyond the limit of his torch beam, there were shadowy, scurrying movements on the dirt floor.

‘It makes you wonder what they find to eat,' said his mate, Jeff Cade, as he took off his rubber gloves and put them away in a pocket of his overalls. ‘I mean, aren't they supposed to live near people? You're never more than six feet away from a rat, and all that? But there are no houses around here any more.'

Norton laughed. ‘That's no problem. Look up there, where the old station and platforms used to be. You see that car park and the picnic area, right? Well, that's like a drive-in McDonald's as far as these little buggers are concerned. Just think – there's all the food that people leave on the grass when they've been having their picnics, and all the bits of sandwiches and chocolate bars, and God knows what, that they chuck out of their car windows. There's thousands of people coming past here, especially at the weekend, ever since they turned the old railway line into a footpath.'

‘It's called the Longdendale Trail. I know.'

‘And then there's the road up there – the A628. Have you ever seen how much stuff lorry drivers bung out of their cabs? You can't walk along the roadside up there without getting splattered with lumps of flying pork pie and pasties. It's disgusting. Particularly when they have tomato sauce. I hate tomato sauce. But it means there's waste food lying all along the roadside. Not to mention the cafés in the lay-bys. The bins are overflowing with rubbish up there sometimes.'

‘I suppose you're right.'

‘No, there might not be people living here any more. But the whole world comes by to feed the rats in Longdendale.'

‘It's a good job they can't get to the cables in the other tunnel. They can gnaw their way through anything, given time, can rats.'

‘We need some more poison, anyway,' said Norton.

A few yards away, in the old eastbound tunnel, a pair of four hundred thousand volt cables ran through a concrete trough. The cables entered the tunnel three miles away at Dunford Bridge, carrying a section of the National Grid between Yorkshire and Manchester. As they emerged again at Woodhead, they ran past a relay room, then up into a series of giant pylons that marched down the valley towards Manchester. The abandoned Woodhead tunnels had saved the moors from being covered in pylons for those three miles.

Sandy Norton had often admired the quality of the stonework in the tunnel arches, which had survived in good condition for more than a hundred and fifty years. But their present use was one the navvies who built the tunnels couldn't have imagined as they hacked their way through the hill with their pickaxes and gunpowder.

In fact, those navvies wouldn't even have been able to imagine the newer two-track tunnel to the south, which had been cut in the 1950s and accommodated the country's first electrified rail line. That tunnel was empty, too, now. Apart from the little battery-powered locomotive that ran on the maintenance track in the National Grid cableway, the last trains had run through the Woodhead tunnels over twenty years ago.

Norton and Cade were packing up to leave the site when a car slowed and stopped on the road overhead. They heard it pull on to the bare concrete pad where a house had once stood above the tunnel entrances, but which was now no more than a pull-in for a good view down the valley. After a few moments, the car started up again and drove off.

‘That was an old Volkswagen Beetle,' said Norton.

‘How do you know that?'

‘I recognize the sound of the engine. It's distinctive – air-cooled, you know. I used to have a Beetle myself years ago, when I was a lad.'

‘Have we finished with these rats, then?'

‘For now,' said Norton. He turned off his torch. ‘You know, I wouldn't like to walk through this tunnel in the dark.'

Cade shuddered. ‘Me neither. Three miles in the dark? No thanks. It'd be bad enough, even without the rats.'

He turned back towards their van. But Norton didn't follow him immediately. He was looking up at the stones over the arch of the tunnel mouth. He'd once been told that the navvies who built the old tunnels had been very superstitious men. They were convinced that their tunnelling had disturbed something deep in the hill, which had been the cause of all the disasters that happened to them – the tragedies that had earned Woodhead the nickname ‘Railwaymen's Graveyard'. Norton had heard that when the navvies had finished tunnelling, their final act had been to carve faces at each of the tunnel entrances to control the evil spirits. But if the carvings were still there, they were so worn now that he couldn't make them out.

Sandy Norton shrugged. He didn't know about evil spirits. But the faces hadn't done much to control the rats.

Finally, he locked the steel gate that prevented unauthorized access to the middle tunnel. All three tunnels had their own gates. Without them, rail enthusiasts and others who were even less welcome would always be trying to get into the tunnels. Some of those folk would want to walk all three miles to the other end, just to prove they could do it. They wouldn't be bothered by the rats. They wouldn't take any notice of the risk from the high-voltage power cables. They wouldn't even be deterred by the National Grid's yellow-and-black signs on the gates. The meaning of the signs was clear enough, with their symbol of a black lightning bolt cutting through a body. It was clear even without their message, which read:
‘Danger of Death'
.

W
henever the phone rang in the Old Rectory, Sarah Renshaw stopped what she was doing and looked at the nearest clock. It would be important to have the exact time, when the moment came.

She was in the sitting room, where the mahogany wall clock said five minutes past ten. Sarah checked her watch, and adjusted the minute hand slightly so that it read the same. She didn't want there to be any confusion. All the times were important – the time Emma had last been seen, the time her train had left Wolverhampton, the time she should have arrived home. And the exact minute they got news that she had been found would be vital. Sarah felt comforted by the recording of the minutes. It was more than a ritual. Time was important.

Howard had gone to answer the phone, so Sarah waited. In the middle of their big oak Jacobean sideboard, a candle was burning. The wick was already halfway down, and the melted wax was pooling in the brass holder. There were plenty more candles in one of the drawers, and Sarah wanted to light a new one right away to mark the moment, as if the act itself would make a difference. But she hugged her hands under her armpits and restrained herself as she listened to Howard speaking in the next room. She would be able to tell by the tone of his voice.

Sarah looked at the clock again. Six minutes past ten. For a moment, she panicked. Which would be most important – the exact time the phone had rung, or the moment she had got the news? Which would she celebrate, in the years to come?

‘Howard?' she called. ‘Howard?'

But he didn't respond, and Sarah quickly calmed again. Howard's voice was subdued. If the call had been about Emma, she would have known it by now. The news would have communicated itself to her through the wall. Sarah had often thought that the call, when it came, wouldn't produce any normal-sounding ring on their phone, but would announce itself like a fanfare. She vaguely imagined a line of liveried trumpeters like those who appeared with the Queen at state occasions. Her ears already rang to the sound they made.

And certainly there would be the sensations – the tingling and the little quivers of pleasure that she experienced whenever she felt that Emma was close by. When the call came, she expected a jolt like a great charge of electricity, like the entire four hundred thousand volts from the cables that ran through the hillside two hundred feet below their house.

Yes, when the phone call came, she would know. Sarah would have no need to listen to the sound of Howard's voice, or to hear what the person at the other end of the line was saying. The fanfare would sound, and the electricity would surge through her body, stinging her hands and burning the skin of her face. And the mahogany wall clock would stop of its own accord at the exact moment, at the precise second and micro second, and it would never start again. Sarah would know.

Howard came into the sitting room, instantly dominating it with his bulk. He was wearing a thick, white Arran sweater that made her want to wrap her arms round him and bury her face in the wool. But he shook his head briefly, and averted his eyes.

Sarah had been standing at the bookcase near the door. She ran her hand along some of the spines, and touched a folded and dog-eared piece of paper that had been used to mark a page in
Twentieth-Century Design
. She tried to breathe in the scent of the books, but the familiar smells of paper and ink seemed fainter tonight.
Subjects and Symbols in Art
had a small stain on the cover that had almost faded now because Sarah had touched it too often. She took out
Art Deco Graphics
and a David Hockney book, and put them back the other way round.

Many of the books were inscribed in Emma's own handwriting on the title page. She had only put her name and the date, but the inscriptions seemed to offer a sort of continuity, a narrative reflecting a particular period in Emma's life.

These were the books Emma had once handled and read, which meant that the words on their pages must have entered her mind and become part of her. Sarah was able to pick up a book that Emma had once opened, and read the words that Emma had studied.

Sarah Renshaw often found herself spending time rearranging the books. Perhaps by shuffling the dates on the books, she could change the order of events in Emma's life. If she had read
this
book before
that
one, might things have been different? Would Emma have been at home now, complaining that her mum was messing up the order of her books?

Sarah wiped a tear from her eye. She caught herself just before she spoke aloud, and dropped her voice to a whisper, so that Howard wouldn't hear her.

‘I'll help you put them back exactly how you want them, dear. We'll do it together.'

Sarah turned away from the bookcase and took down a calendar from the top of the TV set. She crossed off another day, neatly deleting it with two short, sharp strokes of a black marker pen.

It was Day 743. Emma Renshaw had been missing for over two years.

N
ow the laughter in the village had subsided, or the woman making the noise had moved out of earshot. Derek Alton stood in his church porch and listened to the sound of Neil Granger's car engine as it moved slowly out of Withens. It climbed the road away from the village and began to cross the miles of bare moorland towards the valley of Longdendale.

Finally, even the sound of the engine disappeared behind the hill. The blackbirds settled into the yew trees, Alton's breathing returned to normal. And as it grew dark, Withens became almost entirely silent. Except for the screaming.

Saturday

W
ith a heave of his shoulders, a police officer in body armour swung the battering ram. The door split at the first impact. He swung a few more times, and the thump of steel hitting wood wrecked the stillness of the early morning. A burglar alarm began to shriek as the lock shattered, and the officer gave the door a kick with his boot.