Secrets of the Dead Page 7

  ‘You listen yourself, you idiot.’

  Fletcher put his nose to the end of the tube. ‘You can smell his mouldy bones … phawww!’ Fletcher had that evil gleam in his eye. He liked frightening Oliver.

  This made Oliver angry again. ‘I told you I liked you, but you don’t like me.’

  ‘Yesterday, I promised to show you secrets. That’s what I’m doing. You’re my friend.’

  ‘Well, I don’t like it.’ Oliver backed away.

  ‘Sniff the tube, Ollie-bollie, you can smell His Lordship’s rotten face. Smells like the fish-burgers your mother’s frying for your dinner.’

  ‘Sicko. I’m going.’

  ‘Wait. I’m going to tell you more secrets.’

  ‘You’re just trying to scare me.’

  ‘Did you know, if you go into the castle at night, and look through the keyhole into the room where the mummies are kept, you’ll see a shrivelled eye looking back at you?’

  ‘Bugger off!’

  Oliver ran in the direction of the cemetery’s gate. He’d had enough; this was bullying, and he was going home.

  The boy called after him, ‘You didn’t give me a chance to warn you about the mummies. They kill people! They hurt my mother! She’s dying and it’s the mummies fault. Do you hear?’ Fletcher wasn’t saying these things as a joke now. He screamed, ‘The mummies are bad! They hurt people. They’ll hurt your dad! They’re going to kill you!’

  The barbecue was a full-blown party. John Tolworth realized that his neighbours had invited pretty much everyone that lived in the castle’s extensive grounds. Come to think of it, John told himself, nearly everyone here would be employed by the owners of Baverstock Castle, or be related to someone that was. One person he didn’t see was Philip Kemmis, which was a relief. Clearly, his childhood friend had led a troubled life and was, frankly, mentally ill, as well as suffering the loss of his hand. John hadn’t time to dwell on it, because as soon as he and his family arrived, he quickly became recruited to help out with refreshments. Samantha Oldfield’s husband, Tom, a pleasant man, with a shaved head, and wearing a Black Sabbath tour shirt and Bermuda shorts, asked John to help him unload the cider from his car. The cider was in plastic kegs. Each one required two men to carry it.

  John made conversation as they hefted these monster barrels on to trestle tables on the lawn. ‘Samantha told me you’re a musician.’

  ‘That’s right. I’ll show you my studio later. I converted the garage.’

  John remembered Samantha’s dire warning about being taken to the studio, but he decided he could withstand hearing about ‘Found Sound’ in the name of neighbourly friendship. Samantha had come on strong in a flirtatious way earlier in the lab, but now she expertly played the role of hostess. Perhaps the woman’s display of come-hither sexiness had been merely a playful welcome. I’m probably flattering myself if I believe she was really trying to seduce me, he told himself.

  ‘Shall we try some?’ Tom slapped one of the kegs that were now lined up on the table, which, it must be said, sagged under the weight. ‘We’ve worked up a thirst.’

  ‘Thanks. Don’t mind if I do.’

  Tom pulled plastic glasses from a box under the table. ‘This cider is brewed by a local farmer, using his own apples and a cider press that’s over two hundred years old.’ Tom operated a tap to release a stream of golden liquid into a glass. ‘It looks like a urine sample, and it has a taste that’s … shall we say, interesting? But it’d power a rocket to the moon. Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers.’ John gasped. ‘Phew. I best pace myself with this stuff, it’s strong.’

  Tom laughed as he began pouring out more glasses of cider for the guests. Greg Foster was there, and without the tie for once. He wore his white shirt open at the neck.

  ‘Chin-chin,’ Greg said, and downed the cider in one go.

  As Tom and John handed out drinks on the ever more crowded lawn, Tom murmured, ‘If it’s anything like last time, Greg will be swinging through the trees like Tarzan after he’s had a couple more pints of this stuff.’

  John noticed Ingrid chatting to a couple of women that he didn’t recognize, while Oliver hung on a rope swing. Samantha’s son was pushing him. Both boys were laughing, clearly having a good time. Meanwhile, Vicki, who had arrived in one of her grade-A sulks, insisting she’d be bored, had struck up a conversation with Samantha’s eldest son, Jason. He was about seventeen or so. Vicki smiled, playing with her hair, as he explained something to her that required big arm gestures. John had a feeling that his daughter was already smitten.

  ‘John.’ Tom pointed at the barbecue. ‘Would you do me a favour? Fire up the beast, would you? All you need do is light the gas.’

  John said that he would. He walked across to the barbecue – a regular behemoth that looked as if it would be capable of roasting half a cow. At that moment, the chatter and laughter stopped dead. It was as sudden as someone hitting a mute button.

  A figure stood at the garden gate. John recognized the boy. It was Fletcher, his son’s new friend. The expressions on the faces of the other guests said loud and clear that they weren’t pleased to see him. In fact, there were scowls as people exchanged glances that seemed to say, Here comes trouble.

  Fletcher announced, in an oddly emphatic way, ‘I’ve come to the barbecue. Oliver Tolworth said it would be alright.’

  ‘I don’t want Fletcher Brown here. I don’t like him.’

  John overheard the Oldfields’ youngest son, Mark, saying this to his parents. Fletcher stood at the gate with an air of solid immovability. John began to appreciate why the Oldfield family regarded the boy as being a bit peculiar. The twelve year old had a bovine quality.

  Samantha whispered something in her son’s ear, perhaps reminding him to be polite. Samantha adopted an artificial smile. Turning to the still-as-the-proverbial-statue boy, she said, ‘Come on in, Fletcher. Of course you can join the party.’ She opened the gate. ‘There are soft drinks on the table over there. Burgers and hot dogs are under the gazebo. Help yourself.’

  Fletcher could have been an alien creature from another world, the way the crowd on the lawn fell silent and parted to allow him to pass through to the drinks table.

  Ingrid touched John with her elbow and murmured so no-one else would hear, ‘Reminds me of Quasimodo in that old film The Hunchback of Notre Dame. The people react like that poor boy’s some kind of ugly monster. It’s not right, is it?’

  ‘They say he’s odd.’

  ‘Being odd doesn’t entitle us to mark a child out as a social outcast. Look, they avoid him as if he’s got an infectious disease.’

  ‘Not our problem, Ingrid.’ He topped up her glass with white wine.

  ‘It should be everyone’s problem.’ She watched Fletcher open a can of coke. ‘Prejudice is like a virus that mutates. It can change from dislike of a person’s skin colour to rejecting a person on account of physical handicap, or if they behave a little bit differently from other people. Prejudice is always hungry for more victims.’

  ‘I’m glad I married you.’ He smiled. ‘You’re the wisest person I’ve ever met.’

  She smiled back. ‘Thank you. You say the nicest things.’

  He appreciated that Ingrid’s duties at the school where she worked included explaining to pupils what was right and wrong, and carefully instilling moral values. All of which meant that she’d quickly identified that prejudice probably lay at the root of people here disliking Fletcher.

  John’s phone signalled a call coming through.

  ‘John.’ Ingrid raised her eyebrows. ‘It’s a party. Are you going to switch that off?’

  ‘I had an email to say the three-D printer’s in stock. The courier’s going to ring me when it’s on its way. I need to get it up and running before I start work on Monday. S’cuse a mo.’ He grinned at her as he took the call. The courier told him that he’d deliver the 3D printer between four and five. The device cost a heck of a lot, yet it would be a useful asset for his business.r />
  The moment he finished the call with the courier, his son raced across the lawn, shouting excitedly, ‘Water fight! Water fight!’

  ‘What water fight?’

  ‘Parents versus kids.’

  ‘Buckets?’

  ‘Water blasters!’ Oliver laughed with delight. ‘Parents are going to take on the kids. We’re gonna have a water war!’

  Mark produced an entire arsenal of formidable water weaponry. These were brightly coloured plastic rifles with large reservoirs that contained a couple of pints of water. A pump compressed air in a canister attached to the rifle. The result was, when the shooter pulled the trigger, a high-pressure blast of water would drench the target. Children laughed and shouted as they collected their guns. Mothers, on the whole, wisely excused themselves from the battle. It was the dads who accepted the challenge; they removed watches along with anything else that would suffer from a soaking, while exchanging slightly embarrassed grins.

  Those not involved with the contest quickly moved clear of the lawn. John noticed that Fletcher hadn’t been invited to take part, and he stood by the barbecue, eating a hamburger. There was something disconcertingly mechanical about the boy’s movements. His face was completely blank, not the tiniest indication whether he was enjoying the party or thought it was the most dreadful afternoon of his life.

  John selected his weapon of choice: a bright-pink bazooka-style water blaster. He pumped the handle. Bubbles fizzed in the reservoir of water. ‘Unleash the dogs of war,’ John said to nobody in particular. He chuckled, though, a mixture of high spirits and the cider that was so potently rich in alcohol.

  ‘Before you unleash any dogs of war,’ Ingrid told him, ‘you best give me your phone.’

  ‘You’re right, I doubt if it would survive a squirting.’ He handed the phone to her. ‘Best keep it switched on. The courier might have to change the delivery time.’

  ‘Will do, soldier.’ She saluted. ‘Now, go and be my hero.’ Her dark eyes twinkled with mischief. ‘Something tells me you’ll look good in a wet T-shirt.’

  The atmosphere brimmed with good-natured fun. The children formed a line at one side of the lawn, while the adults exchanged banter as they familiarized themselves with these unusual aquatic weapons.

  Tom Oldfield armed himself with a pair of water pistols. ‘OK, listen up,’ he announced to the two opposing armies. ‘The battle commences when I’ve reached the count of ten. Right? No firing until I say “ten” – it’s a rule of the Geneva Convention.’ He took a deep breath. ‘One, two, three, four—’

  The children didn’t wait any longer. They fired into his mouth as he uttered the word ‘five’ – such is war.

  The battle of the Oldfields’ garden raged. No mercy given, no prisoners taken. Torrents of high-pressure water blasted friend and foe alike. The sun that shone through blasts of spray painted rainbows.

  John staggered, half blinded by jets that stung his face. Dear God, these water blasters are powerful. He wiped away water from his eyes just in time to see Fletcher take a direct hit. Fletcher hadn’t been part of the war. As a bystander, he’d been standing quietly eating the hamburger. However, Mark Oldfield took the opportunity to target the boy he disliked so much. The force of the water blasted tomato ketchup from the burger into Fletcher’s face, making it look as if he’d been spattered with blood. He didn’t react like any other boy of twelve – there was neither anger nor laughter. His face remained expressionless.

  Instead, he uttered in a flat voice, ‘Mark Oldfield. I’ve seen them at night looking in through your bedroom window when you’re asleep. They’re coming to get you. And there’s nothing you can do to stop it.’

  Mark ran up to Fletcher, pushing him hard in the chest. Fletcher, the bigger of the two, pushed back, sending Mark falling on to his backside.

  ‘I’ll get you!’ Mark scrambled to his feet, ready to start punching.

  Tom pounced first. He caught hold of his furious son and pulled him aside. Fletcher took a step forwards. John Tolworth wasn’t sure if Fletcher would attack Mark, so he grabbed hold of Fletcher’s arm; however, the boy appeared strangely impassive.

  ‘I’m going home,’ Fletcher stated.

  ‘You don’t have to go,’ John told him. ‘Look, we’ll get you cleaned up.’ He scooped up a roll of kitchen tissue from the table. ‘Here, dry your face. Then I’ll get you another burger.’ He glanced at Ingrid, who nodded her approval. She was pleased her husband hadn’t ignored the boy who was being treated like a social outcast. ‘See, no harm done,’ he said. ‘It’s just a bit of water and tomato sauce.’

  Oliver ran across the lawn to Fletcher, the water blaster still gripped in his hands. ‘That wasn’t fair what Mark did,’ Oliver said. ‘You weren’t armed.’ He held out the gun. ‘Want a go?’

  Fletcher shook his head. ‘I’m going to eat a burger. Are you going to have one?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Just a moment,’ John said to Fletcher. ‘Let me wipe your hair. You’ve got onion stuck to your head. Believe me, that’s not a fashionable look.’

  The joke bypassed the stone-like Fletcher. John cleaned the onion from the boy’s hair. As he did so, he heard his phone again.

  Ingrid pulled the phone from her pocket. ‘I’ll get it for you.’

  ‘It’ll be the courier again,’ he said. ‘Make sure he confirms the delivery time.’

  Ingrid nodded as she answered. ‘Hello, John Tolworth’s phone. Pardon … what was that?’ Her expression changed from one of bemusement to concern. ‘You’re calling from the hospital? Yes, John Tolworth does have a son. Why … who wants to know? Sorry, I don’t understand. You say John’s son has been injured in an accident?’ Now she was smiling with relief. ‘Sorry, you must have the wrong John Tolworth. I’m Mrs Tolworth … Yes, we have a son. I’m looking at him right now. He’s standing in front of me.’ She began to sound exasperated. ‘No, my husband doesn’t have another son. Look … who is this exactly? A friend of Ben Darrington? I don’t know any Ben Darrington. Yes, alright.’ Her eyes fixed on John in a very direct way. ‘You should talk to my husband. He’s right here.’ Ingrid held out the phone. ‘John. I think you should speak to this person. Someone called Ben Darrington’s been hurt in an accident. They’ve told me that Ben is your son.’

  Philip Kemmis watched the party from a distance. Smoke rose from a barbecue where a man flipped burgers. Children and adults alike towelled themselves dry after the water fight. John Tolworth spoke into a phone, while his wife stared at him, arms folded. Fletcher Brown stood alone, holding a plateful of food. The boy wasn’t eating. He stared into space, seemingly unaware that he was in the middle of a crowd who were chatting and laughing, while consuming plenty of beer, wine and cider.

  Philip kept to the shadows beneath the tree. His hand itched furiously. He’d have loved to dig his fingernails into the skin and scratch as hard as he could. The problem was, there was no actual hand. However, the phantom pains, aches and endless itching still plagued him. It wasn’t unusual, of course, for people who’d lost limbs to still have sensation in the missing flesh. However, he’d endured thirty years of this – his fingers on his right hand stung, even though he had no fingers. His palm prickled, even though the flesh had long gone. Knuckles continued to ache, even though the hand would have been burnt to ashes in a hospital incinerator. Part of him had been cremated long ago. Yet it still seemed as if he was haunted by the ghost of his dead hand.

  Philip studied the faces of the people enjoying the party. Every so often those faces were transformed. They became masks of dried-out skin. Eyes shrivelled to nothing in the socket, leaving empty voids. Clothes became the linen strips that wrapped corpses in ancient Egyptian tombs. Just for a moment, an Egyptian mummy raised a glass of wine to its withered lips. A rotted paw of a hand picked up a slice of watermelon. Laughter pealed from a woman who was nothing more than a dead husk.

  When he saw these monstrous things, Philip wanted to believe that they were hallucination
s. He no longer could reassure himself that they were, however. The medication didn’t help like it should. He lived in a world where humans became walking mummies. He watched as children playing on a rope swing morphed into dead things wrapped in bandages that fluttered in the breeze.

  He must destroy the mummies. He must smash them to pieces, burn them, annihilate them – and do it soon.

  ELEVEN

  Saturday evening after the barbecue. Empty cardboard boxes stood against one wall. The 3D printer, the size of a re-frigerator and made from cream-coloured plastic, stood on a table in a back room of the cottage. John read the instruction manual: printing three-dimensional objects was straightforward, it reassured him, providing he carefully followed this step-by-step guide. Thank goodness I didn’t have too much cider, he told himself. I’m going to need a clear head for this.

  Ingrid walked into the room. Instantly, there was an air of tension that was nothing less than electric.

  He glanced up, smiling. ‘How’s the headache?’

  ‘Not too bad now, thanks. How’s the printer?’

  ‘It’s all set up. I’m going to give it a trial run.’

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘The printhead gradually builds up a plastic replica of whatever you want to duplicate. It can take hours.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He glanced again at his wife. Her face seemed strained. ‘Samantha Oldfield gave me a memory stick,’ he told her. ‘There’s data on there of a detailed CAT scan made of one of the mummies. I’m going to attempt to print the head.’

  ‘This machine will actually produce a three-dimensional copy of the head?’

  ‘All that and more. A conservator used a computer program to repair the damage and shrinkage to the girl mummy’s face. When the printer’s finished making the model we should have a copy of a human head as it was in life … not after lying dead in a tomb for three thousand years.’