House of Bones (17 page)

“This particular property was built in 1908, so how would you describe it?”

John looked up at it. “Bit of an old dump, I suppose.”

“Not exactly, John. Not when you're trying to sell it. It was built in 1908 during the short reign of Edward VII and so you would call it Edwardian.”

He put his key in the lock. “In the estate agency business, any property that is run down is generally described as ‘ripe for imaginative renovation', and any property that is ugly or impractical has what we call ‘character'.

“This was once a very fine house. It was built of the finest materials to a standard that today's so-called craftsmen could never hope to match. Look at this door. It needs repainting, but it's made of solid mahogany from the Honduras, and the joinery … it's superb.”

“Voice Bros,” said John.

They were in the hallway now, with its black and white chequered floor. “What do you know about Voice Bros?”

“They were a firm of local builders … they built lots of prizewinning houses.”

“Well, well. You
have
been doing your homework.” There was another rumble of thunder, closer this time. The light inside the house began to dim as clouds rolled over the sun. A wind suddenly got up, and blew last autumn's dried leaves across the black and white floor.

Mr Vane walked across to the sitting-room and opened the door. He went to the large bare window and stared out at the garden.

“You could have a great future in front of you, you know.”

John came up and stood beside him but said nothing.

“You could lead such a life … you could see such things.”

John said, “I don't want to be an estate agent all my life. I want to be a rock musician.”

“Ah. A rock musician.” Mr Vane pronounced “rock musician” as if it were a phrase in a foreign language. “You want to be famous, do you? You want your name to live for ever?”

John shrugged. “I want to make some money, mainly. You know.”

“So you're not interested in immortality?” Mr Vane stood very close to John and looked directly into his eyes. Through the window, behind him, John could see the trees starting to sway.

“I know about the Druids,” he said.

“The
Druids
?” said Mr Vane. He stepped away
from John and paced slowly around the room, circling the shabby chaise-longue and the overturned chair. John watched him and his mouth was so dry that he had to lick his lips. “And what do you think you know about the Druids?”

“Everything. I know all about the ley lines. I know all about the people who got sucked into the walls. I know all about the statue, too.”

“That's good, John. That's very good. At least I won't have the uphill struggle of trying to persuade you that it's true.”

“Then it
is
true?”

The lines on Mr Vane's brow formed a narrow V-shape, like the wake of a speedboat. “Of course it's true. What do you think you're doing here today?”

“You sent that statue after us. It nearly killed us.”

“You're right, John. It nearly did. But you and Lucy escaped it, didn't you, and that's why I'm making you an offer today instead of sending my condolences to your parents.”

Suddenly an immense burst of thunder detonated right over the house, and it felt as if the ceiling were falling in. John said, “I can't believe that you can
admit
it, just like that! You
admit
that you sent that statue to try and kill us! You
admit
that you've been selling these houses to people when you
knew
they were all going to die!”

“Why shouldn't I? Nobody will ever believe it. Nobody ever has. Don't think that you're the first
person who has tried to bring down my little empire.”

John said, “I'm leaving. I'm leaving, and believe me, I'm going to tell the police all about you and this time I'll make sure that they knock down every single one of your houses and find out just how many people you've killed!”

“And I, of course, shall deny all knowledge.”

“I'm still going to try. You just watch me.”

John stalked back into the hallway and opened the front door. Outside, the sky was dark and coppery green, and the first fat drops of summer rain were falling into the garden. There was a feeling of electricity in the air, and danger.

And there – as he had expected – was the statue, standing ivory-faced, its arms by its sides, waiting for him. His pulse began to quicken with fear but he knew what he had to do.

He slammed the front door and walked back into the living-room. Mr Vane was watching him with a small, amused smile.

“You can't kill me, you know,” John said defiantly. “People know where I am.”

“Kill you, John? I don't want to
kill
you! You have spirit, John. You have initiative. I've been looking for somebody like you for a very long time.”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“Then I'll tell you. In 1885, when I was twenty-seven years old, I had my own small building
company in Peckham. We were building quite modest houses, really – homes for doctors and solicitors and accountants – but I like to think that we built them very well.

“I had a wife, a very dear wife, and two beautiful boys. One winter I began to feel unwell, and when I went to the doctor he told me that I had a malignancy, and that I had no more than a few months to live. I was in despair. I didn't tell my wife what was wrong with me, but I went to all kinds of faith-healers and spiritualists and herbalists.”

John stayed where he was. The room was so gloomy now that all he could see of Mr Vane was a silhouette against the window. His voice crackled with age and grief.

“One day, in Salisbury, I went to a Druid doctor. He told me that I didn't have to die. All I had to do was assist the Order of Druids to rebuild their temples, and in return they would use their healing powers to save my life. He demonstrated the power of his healing by placing his hand on my cheek and removing a birthmark that had troubled me all my life.

“I adored my family. I was desperate not to die. So – foolishly, perhaps – I agreed. Nobody else had been able to help me.

“I borrowed money and formed the company of Voice Bros – although my name wasn't Voice and there were no brothers. The name came from the
Bible – when Cain has murdered Abel, and buried him in the earth, and God says ‘
the voice of thy brother's blood crieth unto me from under the ground
.'

“I thought it was witty, when I first dreamed it up. It was only later that I realized how ironic it was.”

Lightning flickered outside, and for a split-second the living-room was lividly lit up. Mr Vane's shadow jumped up the wall behind him like some terrible Jack in the Box.

“I built my houses exactly where I was told by the Order of Druids to build them –
exactly
. In the case of this house, it's standing right on a north-south ley line. The ley line runs through the exact centre of the garden at the back and out through the front door.

“Not only did I have to be precise about position, I had to set into the fireplace of every house one of the original stones from the last Druid temple on the Isle of Thanet. Do you see here?”

He approached the huge stone fireplace. Right in the centre of its main arch was a roughly-hewn piece of natural rock, engraved with twig-shaped runes.

“These stones are what transforms these houses. They make them into a gateway, do you understand? A gateway into the past, and a gateway into another existence.”

He touched the stone with his fingertips, very
reverentially. Then he turned back to John, smiling, and said, “I set up a small estate agency with two of my friends, Henry Blight and Frederick Simpson, and we put the houses on the market. We were to sell them to families with plenty of children, that's what we were told. In those days, of course, it wasn't uncommon for a family to have nine or ten children, or even more.

“My health improved day by day. By the time we sold the first house, I was in terrific shape, and my doctor pronounced that my malignancy had vanished. I felt younger and fitter than ever. And then, of course, I discovered that the house was empty, and that the family to whom I had sold it had disappeared.

“I went back to the Order of Druids and they explained to me then that my houses were not really houses at all, but sacrificial temples – places where the Old Ones could satisfy their need for youth and energy and human flesh.”

“Why didn't you stop then?” asked John, trying to hold up Courtney's mobile phone without making it look too obvious. “Why didn't you tell them to shove their sacrificial temples? Why didn't you pull down your houses and refuse to have anything more to do with them?”

Thunder cracked the sky from side to side. Mr Vane stood with his head lowered. “Because I didn't, John. Because I knew that if I did, my
illness would return, and I would die. I was still so young. I loved my wife and my family more than I can tell you.”

“You certainly loved them more than hundreds of other people.”

“They were just
people
, John! When you've lived as long as I have, you begin to understand! People come and people go! Millions of people die from disease! Millions of people are cut down in wars! They're like wheat, being harvested! The sickle sweeps and down they go!”

“So what are you?” John demanded. “You're just a person, aren't you? Isn't it time that somebody harvested you?”

“Believe it or not, that's what I'm proposing. I've had enough of this life, John. I made a bargain with the Druids and I'm weary of keeping it. When they said that I wouldn't die, I didn't realize that I would
never
die. I've seen my beloved wife grow old, and buried her. I've buried my sons. I've buried my grandchildren. I've seen my friends grow from vigorous young men into creeping geriatrics. I used to think that living for ever would be wonderful. But I'm sick of it, John. I'm sick of the loneliness, and I'm sick of this business. I've been sick of it for a very long time. But up until now – up until
you
came along – I've never found any young man who was prepared to believe that what I was doing was true.”

He took a deep, harsh breath. “Take my place, John. Take over the business. You, too, can live for as long as you like. One hundred years, two hundred years. You could still be alive in the year 2100!”

“Oh, yes?” John demanded. “And how many people would I have killed by then? How many people have
you
killed? Hundreds? Thousands?”

“The choice is yours, John. I didn't invite you to get involved in any of this. You poked your nose into something that was nothing to do with you, and it had tragic consequences. Poor Liam. That was all your fault.”

Underneath the rumbling of the thunderstorm and the pattering of the rain, John thought that he could hear something else – a
whispering
, a
rustling
, as if dozens of people were moving swiftly all around the house, as if people were running barefoot from room to room. He could almost feel the draught as they passed him by. He could almost
see
them.

“You don't want to die today, do you, John? Of course you don't. But in that corny old cliché of crime fiction, John, you know far too much. Quite a few of my employees have known too much, in the past, but not many of them have had the persistence or the intelligence to do anything about it. You frighten me, John, because if I let you walk out of this house today, you might find a
way to prove what I've done, and I can't let you do that.”

John said, “You can do whatever you like, Mr Vane. I'm going, and that's it.”

He walked back out to the hallway. He was so frightened that he felt as if his hair was bristling. He knew the statue was going to be waiting for him outside. But this time he was prepared for it – or at least, he thought he was prepared for it.

He had almost reached the door when it burst wide open right in front of him with the lock tumbling across the floor. The statue stepped in, its face calm but utterly uncompromising. It started to move towards him and it was then that John released his secret weapon. He scooped his hand into his pocket and scattered glass marbles all across the floor. They bounced and rolled everywhere, and the statue walked right into the thick of them.

But instead of losing its balance, the statue simply
crushed
the marbles underfoot, grinding them into powdery glass sugar. It kept on coming, swiftly and silently, and it pushed John in the chest with such force that he staggered back three or four paces, totally winded. It marched forward and pushed him again, so that he collided with the wall.

Gasping, he tried to dodge out of the way. But to his surprise he found that he was stuck against the wall. His back felt as if it were being tugged by dozens of grasping hands. The harder he
struggled, the more powerful the tugging seemed to be.

“
No
!” he shouted. He suddenly thought of Liam being dragged into the wallpaper in Brighton with his mouth stretched open and his one eye begging.

He reached behind him and tried to push himself free from the wall, but his hand stuck to it too. He turned around and watched in horror as his fingers gradually disappeared into the yellow-painted plaster. Each finger felt stiff and numb, as if he were suffering from frostbite. Within a few seconds his whole hand had been sucked into the wall, right up to the wrist.

The statue stayed where it was, its face impassive.

“
Help me
!” John screamed. “
Don't just stand there – help me
!”

Mr Vane appeared from the living-room and approached him with a quiet, measured tread. “I made you an offer, John. You decided to turn it down. You must understand that I can't possibly let you go.”