Relics (13 page)

‘How long?’ he snapped, interrupting her.

Kim looked at him angrily for a moment.

‘I’m not sure,’ she said, slowly. ‘A week or two. It’s difficult to say.’

‘Let me know as soon as you have anything important.’

‘I’ll be coming out to the site in a day or two anyway,’ she said.

‘Why?’ said Cooper, eyeing her suspiciously.

‘I need to pick up some of those skulls for carbon dating,’ she explained.

‘The tablets are the first consideration.’

‘I realize that.’

‘The skulls can wait,’ he said. ‘We might not have that much time.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Cutler threatened to close the site. We must try to do as much work as possible before he decides to go through with his plan. He doesn’t realize what he’ll destroy if he builds over that site.’

‘Is there nothing we can do about it?’ Kim asked, quietly.

Cooper didn’t answer. He merely turned and headed for the door.

‘Let me know what you find,’ he said as he left the room.

She heard the front door as it closed behind him, then, outside, his car revving up. A moment later he was gone.

Kim shook her head, looking across at the tablets. Gathering up her handbag, she flicked out the light above the worktop and prepared to leave, deciding to glance at the animal cages again as she went out.

Every one of the creatures was dead.

Kim’s mouth dropped open in shocked surprise. She quickly inspected the cages, gaping at the bodies inside.

The mice were huddled together in one corner of their cage, their small bodies stiff and unmoving. The rats, including the pregnant female, were also stiff with rigor mortis. Kim noted with renewed revulsion that the skin of the female’s belly had split, spilling the unborn rats into the bottom of the cage. Their tiny bodies were shrunken and hard, looking more like faeces. The rabbits too were dead. But it wasn’t only the fact that the creatures had died so suddenly which caused Kim to shudder. It was also the appearance of their bodies.

All of them were shrunken and shrivelled, their fur patchy and discoloured. The bodies looked only half their normal size. Every one was thin, as if they’d been starved to death.

As if the life itself had been sucked from them.

Stuart Lawrence slipped the bookmark into the paperback and laid it on the coffee table. He sat back in his chair, massaging the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, listening to the wind which whistled around the house. He reached for the glass of white wine on the table and finished what was left, then went into the kitchen and rinsed the glass beneath the tap. Outside the kitchen window the lilac bushes which grew so lushly in summer were now little more than shrunken stumps buffeted by the wind.

Lawrence wasn’t one for gardening, but the bushes had been there when he’d moved into the house and he’d decided to leave them. The rest of his considerable garden was laid to lawn so that all he had to do was mow it every now and then. Any garden job beyond that constituted hard work to him, and as far as the young surveyor was concerned, work should be reserved for the office.

He switched off the kitchen light and padded back into the sitting room, checking first that he’d left the porch light on. Ruth would return sometime later, and he didn’t fancy having to clamber out of bed in the dead of night to let her in because she couldn’t see the lock in the dark. She had been gone since seven that evening, visiting friends in the nearby town of Mossford. No doubt comparing notes on babies. Lawrence thought scornfully. His sister was six months pregnant and staying with him until her husband returned from his three-month stint on one of Shell’s North Sea oil rigs. Lawrence didn’t object to his sister staying temporarily. It meant that he ate a good breakfast and dinner, and she was company for him, especially in the evenings. Not that being alone bothered him that much; he rarely arrived home before eight. It made a break for Ruth as well, but her little visits would only continue until she had the child. After that, Lawrence would have to find some excuse to stop her visiting so frequently. He didn’t want any whining, puking kid messing up
his
carpets. He sat down to watch the tail-end of the late news, then switched the set off and made his way upstairs, taking his book with him. He found it difficult to sleep, but he had discovered that reading seemed to do the trick. He usually nodded off after a couple of chapters. His insomnia he put down to an over-active mind. He was forever turning new projects over in his brain, and at present the Cutler development was occupying all of his working time. He and his partners had worked for the land developer before and had always been more than satisfied with the financial rewards. This time was no exception.

Lawrence tossed the paperback onto the bed, then went into the bathroom to clean his teeth. As he finished he paused and stood listening, a sound from outside having caught his attention.

It sounded like fingernails scraping on glass.

He remained motionless until the sound came again.

Lawrence opened the bathroom window to find the branches of a leafless willow scratching the pane. He decided to leave the window open rather than risk being kept awake by the perpetual tapping and scraping.

He undressed quickly and slipped between the sheets, reaching for the book. The slow, rhythmic ticking of his alarm clock was the only thing that broke the silence of the room. He glanced at it and saw that the time was approaching 11:30. Ruth was late, he thought. He hoped she hadn’t missed the last bus; he didn’t fancy having to get dressed and drive to Mossford to pick her up.

Just then he heard movement outside the front door and nodded to himself, satisfied that she had finally returned.

A minute passed.

Two minutes.

Perhaps she had lost her key and couldn’t get in. He waited for the knock.

It didn’t come.

The noise seemed to fade and Lawrence returned to his book.

For the first time that night he noticed how cold it was in the room. He lowered his book for a moment, watching his breath clouding in front of him. He shuddered and pulled the covers up higher. He hadn’t noticed the chill until now. Christ, it was freezing. He put down the book and tucked both hands beneath the covers in an effort to restore some warmth to them. Perhaps he’d left a window open in one of the other rooms. The draught couldn’t be coming from the bathroom because he’d shut that door. After a moment or two he climbed out of bed and padded across the landing, heading for one of the spare rooms.

He opened the door and stepped into the darkness.

Switching on the light, Lawrence saw that no windows were open and decided to try Ruth’s room next. Her door was open, but as he walked in he saw that the windows were firmly closed. The surveyor stood with his hands on his hips, puzzled by the unexpected drop in temperature. He turned and headed back toward his own room.

From downstairs there was a deafening crash. A sound like glass being shattered.

Lawrence froze, his heart pounding.

Still on the landing, his skin puckering into goose-pimples, he stood waiting.

Silence.

He swallowed hard and took a step forward, peering over the edge of the balustrade down into the gloom below.

Still there was no sound, only the low hissing of the wind as it swirled around the house.

The surveyor moved to the top of the stairs, muttering under his breath as the uppermost step creaked loudly.

He stood still, wondering if there would be more noise from downstairs.

For what seemed an eternity he remained at the head of the staircase. Finally, with infinite care and slowness, he began to descend. The darkness closed around him and now another sound reached him. The rushing of blood to his ears, driven by his wildly pumping heart.

Gripping the bannister with one hand, Lawrence moved closer to the bottom of the stairs.

He was halfway down when the figure loomed up out of the darkest shadows below.

For an interminable moment the surveyor could not move. His entire body was frozen, transfixed by what he saw, but then, as the figure started up the stairs after him, he found the will to turn and run. Gasping in terror, he fled back up the steps, aware that the intruder was closing rapidly. He could hear the footfalls behind him as he stumbled on the top step and went sprawling onto the landing.

If only he could reach the phone . . .

Lawrence dragged himself upright and sprinted across the landing, hurling himself through his bedroom door, slamming it shut only an instant before the figure crashed into it with a force which almost sent the surveyor flying. But he kept his weight against the wood, his eyes closed, his breath coming in terrified gasps. He felt another crashing impact against the door, so powerful that it was all he could do to retain his balance. Then, nothing.

Quivering madly. Lawrence kept both hands on the door handle waiting for the next blow. Sweat was running from his face despite the numbing cold and his legs felt like water. He pressed his ear to the door, listening for any sounds of movement outside the room.

He heard nothing.

If he could just get to the phone . . .

It was on the bedside table. Five or six feet from the door against which he now leant. But dare he try to reach it?

If he released his grip on the door and the intruder charged it again, there would be no hope for him.

If he did manage to dial the police, would they arrive in time?

If . . .

He released his grip on the handle but kept his shoulder pressed firmly to the wood, trying to control his breathing in case the figure on the other side could hear him. Only by a monumental effort of will did Lawrence manage to open his eyes and look down at the handle, now smeared with his own perspiration.

He looked across at the phone.

Down at the handle.

At the phone again.

He eased away a fraction from the door.

The handle moved down slowly and it was all Lawrence could do to prevent himself from screaming.

His eyes bulged wildly in their sockets as he watched, then the realization seemed to hit him and he threw all his weight back against the door.

The handle now jerked up and down with terrifying rapidity until it threatened to come free.

Lawrence closed his eyes again as he felt a shuddering impact against the wood. He stood with his back against it, arms spread wide, gripping the frame as his body shook under the repeated hail of blows.

He didn’t know how much longer the door would hold up to such sustained punishment

There was a loud crack and part of it splintered. A great hairline splinter which ran half the length of the door.

Lawrence whimpered in terror, praying that someone would come to his aid, but knowing that there
was
no one who could help him.

The pounding stopped and, in the silence which followed he sank to his knees against the door, fear sapping his strength as surely as physical movement.

He looked around him for something to barricade the door with. The bedroom chair could be wedged under the handle, but how long would that hold the intruder back? A mad idea sprang into his mind, one born of desperation. Perhaps he could wedge the door shut just long enough to jump from the bedroom window. Surely the fall wouldn’t kill him. He would be landing on grass. Then he could reach the next house, get help.

It wasn’t much of a choice but it was the only one he had. With his back still pressed against the door he snaked out one leg and hooked his toes around the chair leg, pulling it towards him, waiting for the seemingly inevitable assault on the weakened door.

He dragged the chair nearer, closing his hand around it, then scuttled swiftly away from the door and jammed the chair under the handle.

He backed off and ran to the window, clawing wildly at it.

And now the pounding began again, much louder and more intense than before. Massive blows which shook the door and its frame.

Lawrence chanced a look over his shoulder as he struggled with the recalcitrant window catch.

‘Please, God!’ he whimpered, tugging at it with hands that shook insanely.

Part of the door was staved in by a thunderous blow that sent fragments of wood spraying into the room.

Another few moments and it would all be over.

He managed to free the catch, panting with renewed hope. He looked out into the night, guessing he was fifteen or twenty feet up.

There was no time to worry about the risks. If he stayed in the room he was sure to die.

He began to clamber onto the sill.

The door exploded inwards with an ear-splitting shriek, the sound mingling with Lawrence’s scream of pure terror as the figure bounded across the room towards him.

He allowed himself to slip off the window sill.

A hand was thrust out after him and closed around his wrist. He felt an incredible power in that hand as, by sheer physical force, the intruder hauled him back inside, cracking his head on the window frame in the process.

Lawrence could only stare up at his assailant in disbelief, his terror now reaching an even higher pitch. He was close to madness now.

His attacker wasted little time and the surveyor felt vicelike hands close around his throat, lift him to his feet and then, with almost nonchalant ease, hurl him clear across the bed. He slammed into the dressing table, the impact making him feel sick.

The figure was upon him like lightning and now Lawrence roared in agony as he felt fingers tearing at his eyes, pushing into the bulging orbs, burrowing into the sockets themselves until blood burst from them in crimson spurts. Denied even the mercy of unconsciousness, he felt the fingers driving deep into his skull, tearing the eyes free, leaving pieces of optic nerve dangling over his cheek like bloodied tendrils, before oblivion finally came to him.

Blood pumped in thick gouts from the riven eye sockets, splashing down the dying man’s cheeks to form a puddle beneath his head. One of the eyes fell into this red pool, but it was quickly retrieved.