The Taken (21 page)

Beside her, Alice was still crying and Mary sighed. It had been a cathartic experience for both of them, and despite her pain, Alice would survive. The story, their history, was shared, and she would realize that her guilt in it all was not so very great. People would forgive her, and then maybe she’d eventually be able to forgive herself.

Scanning the room, Mary sought out the dishevelled figure of Dr. Jones, and was pleased to see him sitting alone. She stared at him until eventually his eyes met hers, and she signaled him over. There were things she needed to know and there was no more time to wait. Dave Carter had moved away, and the doctor took his seat, awkward and embarrassed. Mary found she didn’t care much either way about his disapproval. He wasn’t country born and bred. He didn’t know how tough country life made you. She stared at him for a moment, taking in the weakness of his chin and jowls, and knew that after all he’d just heard, he’d tell her what she wanted to know.

“Tell me about Alex.” There. The words were out.

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The doctor looked into her calm eyes, and this time didn’t offer platitudes.

Maybe after what he’d just heard, he’d decided she could take it straight. And he was right. That’s what she wanted.

“She’s dying. Ovarian cancer. She’s known for a while. She’s got a few months.

No more than six.”

“Thank you.”

Nodding, Mary rose, hoping that only the stiffness in her back gave away the sudden grief, stronger than any physical pain that ripped through her. Still, it would be gone soon. For all of them, life was only fleeting. A breath, a whisper, and then nothing.

Going behind the familiar bar, she poured herself a large brandy, slipping the small serrated knife that Crouch used for slicing lemons into her cardigan sleeve unnoticed. Yes. Everything was as it should be.

“I’m going to have a hot bath.” The doctor dragged his eyes up to hers from his seat, and nodded.

She smiled gently at him, forgiving him, forgiving all of them. “Don’t disturb me unless it’s really necessary.”

Feeling the comfort of the knife against her wrist, she headed upstairs.

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By the time Simon staggered onto the gravel of the Tucker’s home, Paul a few steps behind, his legs were like jelly and they were both covered in mud and exhausted. The gloom of the day was becoming dusk and very soon it would be pitch-black. Staring at the light coming from the house ahead, he felt relief flood through him, and only then realized how tense he’d been. A house.

Normalcy. That was what he needed. Surely once they were inside any thought of ghosts and memories of giggles and strange electricity would fade. That would be good, because when grown men started believing in ghosts it was time to doubt their own sanity.

“Let’s hope Enid Tucker’s got the kettle on. I’m gasping for a cup of tea.” Paul sounded as tired as he looked and Simon could empathize. Ever since they’d arrived in Watterrow weird shit had taken over, and although the rain had slowed it had still been a hard slog trying to find the farm.

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“I’m hoping for a brandy, myself. Maybe in a coffee.” Simon grinned at his friend, and Paul nodded.

“Yep, that does sound good.” Paul’s voice was distant and he looked up and around him as if something weren’t quite right.

They were approaching the house from the side and the sound of their shoes crunching against the stones seemed too loud in the silence, almost hurting Simon’s ears with the invasion of noise. They reached the front porch door and finding it ajar, Paul stepped backward, looking around the farmyard, puzzled.

“That’s what’s missing. The dogs.”

“What dogs?”

“The Tucker’s dogs. Tinker and Jess. They’d normally be out here saying hello.”

Simon shrugged, looking out into the emptiness around them. “Well, it’s been raining. Maybe they’re inside.”

Paul shook his head. “They’re farm dogs. There’s no way old man Tucker would bring them in. They’re working dogs, not pets. They live outside and use that lean-to against the main house as their shelter.”

“Well, I guess that’s where they are then.”

Paul didn’t look convinced. “Maybe. But those two dogs are friendly. The rain wouldn’t have stopped them from coming out to meet and greet.”

Turning, he scanned the horizon. “That doesn’t look good, either.”

Simon could hear the tension creeping back into Paul’s voice and he looked up at the fields behind the house, the side away from the woods. The sheep were still out there on the hills, the lambs seeking shelter at their mothers’ sides.

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“What is it?”

“Surely in all the thunder and lightning of the past twenty-four hours Tucker would have brought them in. Even if young Tom was down in the village and not there to help, old Tucker would have brought them in himself. He is too proud not to. He wouldn’t want anyone to be able to say that he couldn’t look after his animals. Farmers never leave their animals out in weather like this. Never.”

Paul looked up at Simon, and then at the back door of the house. “I’ve got to tell you, I’m getting a bad feeling about this, mate.”

Nervousness creeping into his soul, the ghost in the woods suddenly seeming much closer, Simon pushed the back door slightly. Paul stepped through first.

“Hello? Tom? Enid?”

Despite his trepidation, Simon had expected at least one of the elderly couple to answer Paul’s shout, but there was no reply. Stepping across the threshold as quietly as they could, neither man spoke as they quietly made their way into the hallway. Simon could hear his heart beating. Maybe they just hadn’t heard Paul, that was all. That was all, surely. Or maybe Tom and James had been there and the four of them were heading back down to the pub. If the other two had come across the same problems he and Paul had trying to get out of the woods, then that was a distinct possibility. He felt a twinge of relief. That had to be it.

That would also explain why the dogs weren’t there. They’d gone with their master.

A television blared some old black and white cowboy film at him from the room to the left, and Simon followed Paul as he headed toward it. If the Tucker’s were all heading down to the pub, then why hadn’t 212

they turned the TV off first? It didn’t seem right. He couldn’t imagine his own mother leaving her house with the box still on. It wasn’t something that generation would do.

Just inside the lounge doorway, Paul suddenly stopped.

“What? What is it?” Simon couldn’t help but whisper as he came alongside Paul.

Staring in front of him, he could just see what must have been old Tom Tucker’s head over the top of the armchair, wisps of gray covering his mainly bald and shiny scalp. The old man seemed to be sitting very still. Too still. His heart froze. This wasn’t right.

“Tom?” Paul’s nerves jangled in his voice. “Tom? Are you okay?”

Both men came around to the side of the old green velour chair, Tom Tucker’s face hidden from them as it hung down.

“Could he be sleeping?”

Paul stared at him as if he were mad, and down in the pit of his stomach Simon knew that wasn’t true, but it wasn’t until Paul tentatively shook the man that the reality screeched at them.

Old man Tucker’s head rolled sideways in a mockery of looking at them, and swearing under his breath, Paul fell backward from his crouching position.

“Jesus.” Simon couldn’t think of anything else to say, but it was patently obvious that the Lord had had nothing to do with whatever had gone on.

Tucker’s eyes bulged from their sockets with frozen fear and his tongue reached out, purple and distended, swollen to twice its normal size.

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on panic, Simon caught his breath before touching the man’s hand. It was still ever-so-slightly warm.

“I don’t think he’s been dead too long.”

Paul nodded, and Simon wasn’t too sure whether he could see a slight relief in his friend’s face. Relief that they hadn’t got here a little earlier and had to face whoever, whatever, had done this.

Leaning forward, Simon studied Tom more closely. Around his bruised neck hung a tie, a striped one, maybe even a school tie, and someone had strangled him with it. He thought of the children in the village. And the children in the woods.

Just what the fuck was really going on here?

Getting slowly to his feet, Paul shook himself slightly. “If Tom is here and dead, then where is Enid?” The two men stared at each other. For a second, Simon almost said something about her perhaps having left the farmhouse and going to the village, but he knew it would be crass. They both knew that if her husband was in the house and dead, then it was likely that she would be too.

“I guess we’d better go and look for her.”

Leaving the sitting room behind, Simon smelled the damp around them, his senses fully alert and awake. The back door must have been open quite a while for the weather to have crept into the heart of the house. Or maybe Melanie brought the storm with her. Maybe she brought the storm and a friend with a school tie. He pushed the thought aside. He didn’t have a clue what was happening, but he was damned if he was going to scare himself with thoughts like that. He didn’t need it.

Steeling himself, knowing that Enid would have to be here or upstairs, he followed Paul and stepped onto

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the old tiles of the large kitchen. The side door was wide open and a pool of water had gathered in the doorway. His eyes scanned the room, absorbing what they saw.

A pan of potatoes sat drained on the side by the store, their fluffy edges declaring them cooked. Had Enid opened the door to let out the steam from cooking? Or maybe she’d opened it to run. And maybe she’d gotten away and was lost out in the woods somewhere, going around in circles just like they’d been a short while before. Simon could see it playing out in his head. Tucker’s face going blue as he choked, one arm waving at Enid, urging to her to flee, to save herself.

Moving to the other side of the large oak table, his images of Enid Tucker’s escape vanished. Enid hadn’t run anywhere. Her large, homely frame, still dressed in her housecoat, lay face up on the hard floor. Around her head was a halo of blood that must have flooded from the deep and untidy gash in her throat. Her glassy eyes didn’t have the expression of fear that her husband’s death mask wore; she merely gazed at the ceiling in mild surprise. Feeling numbness creeping up his limbs, as if the cold were spreading from the tiles beneath, Simon stumbled backward, hands reaching behind him until he felt the cool edge of the sink in his grasp. Leaning against it, relieved that Enid’s body was no longer in direct view, he shut his eyes in an attempt to dispel the dark spots that played at the edges of his sight. So much for being shock hardened. Not quite so brave as you think, are you? Not when the world has changed the rules and children come back from the dead and the forest stops you from leaving town.

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He sucked in a long, shaky breath and opened his eyes again.

“Let’s hope your mate Tom made it out of the forest. He shouldn’t have to see this.”

Still staring down at Enid’s body, Paul shook his head. “If we weren’t allowed to leave, then Tom and James won’t be, either.”

Allowed to leave. Simon wished Paul would stop talking like that.

“But you’re right,” Paul continued. “Maybe we should go outside and wait for them. Tom shouldn’t come in and find his parents like this.” Turning his back on Enid, Paul rummaged through the old cupboards under the sink and after a few moments pulled out a large square flashlight. It wasn’t the sort favored in the city, but much larger, it’s square face six or seven inches across. It got a whole lot darker in the country. He flicked the button and the light blazed.

Thank fuck for that.”

Shutting the cupboard, Paul took half a step outside and froze. Even in the darkness that was rapidly falling Simon could see the color drain from his friends face. “Oh god.”

“What?”

“Look. Look what’s written here.”

Simon came alongside him and stared at the open back door. Despite the rain and the way the blood had run, blending some of the words together, he could still read the scrawl. If he looked closely enough he could still see the imprint of the small finger that had written it.

Tom Tom, the farmer’s son, can you finish what your mam began 216

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Paul shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Doesn’t the rhyme go ‘Tom, Tom the piper’s son?’”

“Yes. She’s changed it. She liked rhymes and songs.” Paul was staring at the words, his voice breathy. “She liked to add her own bits in. Change them. All kids do.”

Simon didn’t like the chill that gripped his insides. He didn’t need to ask who the she was to whom Paul was referring. “I wish you would stop talking about her as if she were still alive. That little girl’s dead. You know that as well as I do.”

Paul smiled at Simon as if he pitied him. “Yes, I do. I know she’s dead. But it seems that death doesn’t have the limitations it used to. Not in Watterrow at any rate. Not today.”

Simon shook his head. “I worry about you, Paul. Believing in ghosts. What you told me about how she was as a child is pretty rough, but to think she’s come back from the dead is a little far-out, wouldn’t you say?”

“So what’s your answer, Simon? Have you got something practical to offer? People are dying, and these are no ordinary killings. There were the lights in the woods.” His eyes flared slightly, the whites shining. “And don’t try and tell me there was anything ordinary about those. Or the messages she keeps leaving.” He sighed. “And all the bloody children.”

Paul turned away, flicking the switch on the flashlight, sending a white beam out into the courtyard. Simon stepped up alongside him. The light put them both in shadow, their faces outlines against the dark, and Simon was pleased. He didn’t want to see Paul’s face and he didn’t really want Paul to see his own troubled expression. The wind was calm, but the rain was 217

still coming down heavily and Simon felt cold to the core. He hoped that Alex and the others had stayed inside the warmth of the pub. They should be relatively safe there from whatever was doing all this. Relatively. The word didn’t give him much reassurance against the madness that surrounded them and suddenly he wanted to get back to The Rock.