The Man in the Moss (39 page)

           
In an
act of explicit contempt he lowered himself upon her, and her hands moved to
her crotch, thumbs extended, to open herself for him.

He's ... quite small, isn't he? I somehow
expected him to be bigger. More impressive.'

           
'Quite
manageable, really. Oh my, earth to earth, peat to peat ... it would have been
rather less easy to get at him in a week or two. Watch it now, be careful of
his eyes. Mustn't be blasé.'

           
'I'm
not. It's just I'm actually not as worried about, you know, touching this one.
It doesn't seem like a real body, somehow. More like a fossil.'

           
'Lay him gently. You've done well so far.
I'm proud of you. But lay him gently, he's ours now. And remember ... never
forget ...'

           
'I
know ... I'll feel so much better afterwards.'
           
'Shut up. Join hands. In a
circle. Around the body.'

It was not a rape; she was a whore, and a heathen
whore. When he plunged into her, he found her as moist as black peat and packed
just as tightly around him.

           
Light
into darkness.

           
Not
to be enjoyed. It was necessary.

           
'Whore,'
he gasped with every breath. 'Whore ... whore ... whore ...'

           
Lifting
his head to seek out her eyes, looking for a reaction, searching for some pain
in them.

           
'Whore.'
Saw her mouth stretched into a static rictus of agony.

           
'Wh
...' Tighter still around him.
           
And dry.

           
'...
ore ...'

           
Dry
as stone.

           
No.

           
Too
late; he thrust again. Into stone.

           
The
pain was blinding. Immeasurable. The pain was a white-hot wire driven through
the tip of his penis and up through his pelvis into his spine.

           
His
back arched, his breath set solid in his throat. And he found her eyes.

           
Little
grey pebbles. And her mouth, stretched and twisted not in agony but ancient
derision, a forever grin.

'...in the midst of death we are alive . .
           
'... WEAREALIVE!'

           
('Go on ... two handfuls ... stop ... not on
his face ...shine the light... there ...')

           
'Behold, I shew you a mystery. We shall not
sleep, but we shall be changed. In a moment. In the twinkling of an eye. At the
last trump -for the trumpet shall sound. And the dead shall be raised.'

           
'...
AND THE DEAD SHALL BE RAISED!'

           
('OK,
now fill in the grave ... quickly, quickly, quickly ...')

           
'Dust
to dust, to ashes, to earth.

           
'DUST
TO ASHES TO EARTH!'

           
('Now
stamp it down, all of you. Together ...')

           
'And
the dead shall be raised corrupted ... and we shall be changed.'

           
'...
WE SHALL BE CHANGED.'
           
('Douse
the lights. Douse them!')

CHAPTER IV

Another hard, white day, and she didn't like the look
of it. It had no expression; there was a threat here most folk wouldn't see.

           
Not
good weather, not bad weather. Nowt wrong with bad weather; you couldn't very
well live in Bridelow if you couldn't put up wi' spot or two of rain every
other day or a bit of wind to make your fire smoke and your eyes water. Or
blizzards. Or thunder and lightning.

           
But
this was no weather. Just cold air at night and a threat.

           
Everything
black or white. Black night with white stars. White day with black trees, black
moor, black moss.

           
Cold
and still. Round about this time of year there should be some colour and
movement in the sky, even if it was only clouds in dirty shades of yellow
chasing each other round the chimney pots.

           
Shades.
There should be shades.

           
Ma
Wagstaff stood in her back kitchen, hands on woollen-skirted hips.

           
She
was vexed with them cats too. She'd washed their bowl, first thing, and doled
out a helping of the very latest variety of gourmet cat food Willie'd brought
her from that posh supermarket in Buxton - shrimp and mussel in oyster sauce.
And the fickle little devils had sat there and stared at it, then stared at
her. 'Well, that's it,' Ma growled. 'If you want owt else you can gerout and
hunt for it.'

           
But
the cats didn't want to go out. They mooched around, all moody, ignoring each
other, looking up at Ma as if was her fault.

           
Bad
air.

           
As Ma
unbent, the cat food can in one hand, a fork in the other, her back suddenly
creaked and then she couldn't stand up for the pain that started sawing down
her spine like a bread knife.

           
Then
the front door went, half a knock, somebody who couldn't reach the knocker. As
Ma hobbled through the living room, the white light seemed to be laughing
heartlessly at her, filling the front window and slashing at the jars and
bottles.

           
The
door was jammed and opened with a shudder that continued all the way up Ma's
spine to the base of her skull.

           
'Now
then,' Ma said.

           
On
the doorstep was her youngest grandson with that big dog of his. Always went
for a walk together before school.

           
Benjie
said nowt, grinned up at her, gap-toothed, something clutched in one hand.

           
'Well,
well,' said Ma, smiling through the agony. 'Where'd you find that?'

           
'Chief
found it,' said Benjie proudly. 'Jus' this mornin', up by t'moor.'

           
'Ta.'
Ma took the bottle and fetched the child in for a chocolate biscuit from the
tin. The bottle wasn't broken, but the cork was half out and the glass was
misted. The bit of red thread that hung outside for the spirit to grasp was
soaked through and stuck to the bottle.

           
"Ey!'
Benjie said suddenly. 'Guess what.'
           
'I'm too owd for guessin'
games, lad.'
           
'Bogman's bin took!'
           
'Eh?'

           
'It
were on radio. Bogman's bin stole.'

           
'Oh,'
said Ma, vaguely, 'has he?'

           
The
child looked disappointed. 'Are you not surprised?

           
'Oh,
I am,' Ma said. 'I'm right flabbergasted. Look, just get that stool and climb
up theer and fetch us biscuit tin. Me owd back's play in' up a bit.'

           
Ma
held up the bottle to the cruel light. Useless.

           
'Will
it still work?' asked Benjie innocently, arms full of wooden stool. Ma had to
smile; what did he know about witch-bottles?

           
'Would
it
ever
've worked, lad?' She shook
her head ruefully, wondering if she'd be able to stand up straight before
teatime. 'That's what I keep askin' meself.'

           
Fine
lot of use
she
was. She ought to be
out there, finding out exactly what they were up against - even if it killed
her - before two thousand and more years of care and watchfulness came to ruin.

           
Oh,
she could feel it ... mornings like this, everything still and exposed.

           
She
looked down at young Benjie, chomping on his chocolate biscuit. It
will
kill me, she thought. I'm old and
feeble and me back's giving way. I've let things slip all these years, pottered
about the place curing sick babbies and cows, and not seeing the danger. And
now there's only me with the strength inside. But I'm too old and buggered to
go out and find um.

           
It'll
come to
me
, though, one night. Ma
thought, with uncustomary dread. When it's good and ready.

           
But
will
I
be?

Joel Beard awoke screaming and sweating, coughing and
choking on the paraffin air.

           
He
sat on the edge of the camp bed, with the duvet wrapped around him, moaning and
rocking backwards and forwards in the darkness for several minutes before his
fingers were sufficiently steady to find the candle on its tray and the
matches.

           
He
lit the candle and, almost immediately, it went out. He lit it again and it
flared briefly, with a curious shower of sparks, before the wick snapped,
carrying the flame to the metal tray, where it lasted just long enough for Joel
to grab his cross, his clothes and his boots and make it to the door.

           
On
his way through the tunnel to the steps, he knocked over the paraffin heater,
with a clatter and crash of tin and glass, and didn't stop to set it upright.

           
At
the top of the steps he was almost dazzled by the white dawn, awakening the
kneeling saints and prophets, the angelic hosts and the jewel-coloured Christs
in the windows.

           
Deliverance.

           
He
dressed in the vestry, where he found a mildewed cassock and put that on over
his vest and underpants. But he did not feel fully dressed until his cross was
heavy against his chest.

           
The
air in the nave felt half-frozen; he could smell upon it the bitter stench of
autumn, raw decay. But no paraffin. And the cold was negligible compared with
the atmosphere in last night's dungeon.

           
He
unbolted the church door, stood at the entrance to the porch breathing in the early
morning air - seven o'clockish, couldn't be certain, left his watch in the
dungeon, wasn't going back for it - and he did
not
look up, as he said, 'You're finished, you bitch.'

           
And
then went quickly down, between the graves, to the gardener's shed, up against
the perimeter wall.

           
The
shed was locked, a padlock through the hasp. He had no key. He shook the door
irritably and glared in through the shed's cobwebbed window. He could see what
he wanted, a gleaming edge of the aluminium window-cleaning ladder, on its
side, stretching the length of the shed. He also saw in the window the
reflection of a face that was not his own.

           
Joel
was jolted and, for a moment, could not turn round.

           
The
face was a woman's. It had long, dark hair, steady, hard eyes and black whore's
lips. The lips were stretched in a tight, shining grin which the eyes did not
reflect.
           
Cold derision.

           
Remembered
pain speared Joel's spine as he turned, half-hypnotized by the horror of it,
turning as he would turn to stare full into the face of the Gorgon knowing it
would turn him into stone, like the angels frozen to the graves.

           
He
saw the still figure of a woman on the other side of the church wall, the
village street below her. Her back was turned to him. Slowly, she began to walk
away, and because the wall blocked her lower half she seemed at first to be
floating. Her long, black hair swayed as she moved, and in the hair he saw a
single thin, ice-white strand.

           
Joel
felt a twisted revulsion. Twisted because there was inside it a slender wafer
of cold desire, like the seam of white in the hair of the woman who walked
away.

           
He
watched her, not aware of breathing. She was wearing something long and black.
He watched her until she was no more, and not once did she turn round.