Death Day (19 page)

    Emma Reece.

    There was an urn on top of the grave, withered carnations drooping impotently over the edges. The Inspector removed it, laying it gently to one side. He rested the torch on the headstone itself, the beam giving them a little light to work by.

    Standing one on either side of the grave, the men looked at each other and Lambert noted how pale Kirby looked. His face was dark with shadow and, despite the cold, the Inspector could see that there were tiny beads of perspiration on his forehead. They held each other's gaze for a second, then, with a grunt, Lambert drove his spade into the dark earth. The doctor watched him. for a second then followed his example, using the fork to tear up large clods which he flung to one side.

    In the beam of the torchlight they worked, tearing away more and more earth until mounds of it began to accumulate on either side of the grave.

    Lambert felt the perspiration seeping through his shirt and, twice, he had to stop to wipe it from his forehead. He leaned back, using the handle of shovel as a kind of stool. Kirby too, stopped for a moment and wiped his brow.

    'Four hundred years ago we'd have been burned at the stake for this,' he said with a grim humour in his voice.

    Lambert nodded and smiled weakly.

    They continued with their digging, aware of nothing but the sounds they made as they turned the dark earth and the gentle rustling of the wind in the trees above them. Both men were stooping now to get at the fresh earth.

    'Nearly there,' said Lambert, quietly. Almost triumphantly. He felt his heart quicken a little bit.

    The earth was piled high on either side of the hole and both men found that it was sticking to their clothes. Kirby tried to pull the clods from his shoes but it was useless. They stuck like lumps of thick brown glue. The prongs of the fork, too, had become encrusted with the wet ground.

    There was a dull scraping sound as Lambert's spade struck wood.

    He pulled away the remaining clods with his hands, baring the brass plate on the coffin lid. He reached up for the torch and shone it on the plate.

    'This is it,' he said.

    'How do we get the lid off?' said Kirby, noticing the thick screws which held it firmly in position.

    Lambert produced a penknife from his trouser pocket and, tossing the spade aside, pulled the blade up into position.

    'Shine the light here,' he snapped, handing the torch to Kirby who put down his fork and held the beam over the place where the Inspector was indicating. Inserting the wide edge of the blade into the groove in the screw head, Lambert began to loosen it. It turned easily and he grinned triumphantly up at Kirby.

    One by one, the screws were removed and Lambert slid his fingers beneath the lid to ease it free. He swallowed hard, not knowing what he was going to find beneath the heavy lid.

    'Keep that bloody light steady,' he whispered.

    Heart thudding against his ribs, he pushed the lid to one side.

    Lying in the coffin, arms folded sedately across her chest, was Emma Reece.

    Lambert looked at Kirby who shrugged with the sort of gesture that says 'I told you so.' The Inspector stood up, wiping a hand across his forehead, his eyes riveted to the two empty sockets in Emma Reece's face which had once housed eyes. Gaping black maws now filled with the dirt of the grave. And yet, there was something else…

    Kirby stepped forward, handing the flashlight to Lambert. He knelt beside the corpse and touched a hand to the face. It was ice cold.

    'Curious,' he said, abstractedly.

    'What is?' Lambert wanted to know.

    'She was buried three weeks ago. The skin usually begins to undergo some minor deterioration within a matter of days. Her skin is still, supple.' He prodded it again. 'No deterioration at all.' He reached for the right arm and lifted it a few inches. 'Not even evidence of rigor mortis.' Kirby straightened up, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. 'It must be something in the soil.' He felt a lump between his fingers. 'It is very moist, that could account for the preservation.'

    Kirby knelt once more, shining the torch into the face of the corpse, bending close until the putrid smell finally drove him back. He shook his head and straightened up again, turning towards Lambert.

    'Well, Tom,' he said, brushing the din from his hands, 'that seems to put pay to your theory.'

    The thing which had once been Emma Reece leapt from the coffin with the speed of an arrow.

    Kirby had no time to move and Lambert was momentarily frozen by the sight before him.

    The living dead thing fastened both hands around Kirby's neck and pushed him forward, grinding his face into the mud wall of the grave. He struck blindly at it, trying to shake himself free of the vicelike hold. Lambert struck out madly with the torch, shattering the bulb as it crashed against the top of Emma Reece's head. The place was suddenly plunged into darkness, only the vague light from the street lamps outside the cemetery illuminating the unholy scenario.

    Kirby was clawing at the bony fingers which encircled his throat, the dirt now beginning to clog his nostrils. He was fighting for breath, his throat being blocked by the crushing fingers while the stinking dirt of the grave filled his nostrils. He felt unconsciousness wrapping its dark blanket around him and his efforts to break free grew more feeble.

    Frantic, Lambert drove a fist into the side of Emma Reece's face, hearing bone splinter beneath the impact. It was enough to make her loosen her grip on Kirby, who slumped to the ground sprawled half in and half out of the open coffin.

    The living dead thing turned towards Lambert, and he saw with horror the blazing red pinpricks deep within the gaping empty eye sockets. Saliva dripped from her open mouth and he noted, with disgust, that her false teeth were dangling pathetically from her top jaw. Emma Reece leapt at the Inspector across the narrow hole but he caught her by the wrists and held her, surprised at the strength of those apparently frail arms. Her face pressed close to his and he was splattered with the yellowish mucous. A hideous grin began to spread across the creature's face as she forced Lambert back, her talonlike hands reaching for his throat. He stared into those bottomless pits of blackness that had once been eyes and, with a surge of strength aided by fear, forced her back. They both fell, still locked together, Lambert not daring to relinquish his grip on those arms. But now he was on top of her. Still that feral grin sneered up at him.

    Kirby, meantime was dragging himself to his feet, his head spinning.

    'Kill it,' screamed Lambert, realizing that the Reece thing was squirming free. But Kirby could only stagger against the wall of the open grave, watching the life and death struggle before him. Paralyzed with fear he saw Lambert jump back, his hand groping behind him to the lip of the hole.

    His hand closed around the spade.

    The living dead thing raised both arms and launched itself once more, but this time at Kirby, who, in his dazed condition, went down under the rush.

    Eyes wide with horrified revulsion, Lambert saw the thing throttling the doctor, pressing its vile body against him in a manner which made Lambert want to vomit.

    With a shriek of rage he swung the spade and slammed its edge into the spinal area just above the pelvis. There was a loud snapping sound, like a branch being broken, and the thing stepped back. Moaning in agony, it stepped away from Kirby, both hands elapsed to the rent in its back. Lambert lashed out again, the powerful stroke catching Emma Reece just below the chin.

    The head, severed by the blow, rose on a fountain of dark blood and thudded to the ground several feet away. The living dead thing remained upright for a second, blood spurting madly from the severed arteries, then pitched forward into the coffin. The white satin rapidly turned vivid crimson.

    Lambert dropped the spade and crossed to Kirby who was slumped against one of the grave sides coughing. Even in the darkness, Lambert could see the savage cuts around the doctor's throat, bruises and lacerations that would have been normally credited to a garotte. He tried to speak but could only cough, a string-thin trickle of blood running down his chin. Lambert helped. him to his feet and then vaulted up out of the dark hole, taking Kirby's hands and pulling him up, supporting him when he was clear.

    The Inspector looked down and saw the head of Emma Reece lying nearby. He rolled it gently with his foot, upping it into the grave where it landed with a thud, the black, empty, eye sockets gazing up at the night sky. He shuddered and turned away, supporting Kirby until they reached the gravel drive. The doctor stood alone for a second then nodded that he was all right. His voice, when he spoke, was dry, like old parchment and every syllable brought a new wave of pain.

    'It looks like you were right,' he croaked, touching his throat. 'Drive me to my surgery.'

    Lambert nodded and the two of them made their way back to the waiting Datsun.

    Kirby collapsed into the passenger seat and gently touched his injured neck. He wound down the window and spat blood onto the road.

    'You need a hospital,' said Lambert.

    Kirby shook his head and extended his tongue to reveal a deep gash where he had bitten into it. That was the source of the blood, not his throat. Lambert had thought that he might be bleeding inside the throat itself but now he was reassured.

    As they drove, Lambert's face was set in an expression of grim resignation.

    'Like I said,' gasped Kirby, 'it looks as though you were right about where the bodies of Mackenzie and Brooks went.'

    Lambert nodded. 'This is one time I wish I'd been wrong. How the hell are we going to get anyone to believe this?'

    They drove the rest of the way in silence. Kirby concerned with his own pain, Lambert tormented by the obscene spectre of Emma Reece. His mind was not quite able to come to terms with the fact that he had just fought a woman who had already been dead for three weeks. He shuddered.

    

    

    The street lamps had gone out in a number of streets in Medworth that night. The local power station had been inundated with complaints and every caller had been assured that everything was being done to rectify the fault.

    Not everyone complained though.

    The darkness was a welcome companion to some who walked that night.

    To two men in particular.

    Emma Reece had been destroyed, true enough. But there were others abroad that night more powerful.

    It was eight-twenty. A long time before dawn. There was nothing but darkness.

    Darkness.

    Bob Shaw peered out into the blackness of the night and tried to make out the shape of his Suzuki 750 parked in the road outside.

    'All the bloody street lights are out,' he muttered.

    He tried one last time to catch a glimpse of his motorbike but gave it up to the all enveloping darkness. Christ, he hoped no bastard pinched it. It had taken him nearly two years to pay for it, fifteen quid a month until he'd paid the five hundred. Still, it was worth it. He was the envy of all the blokes he hung around with. He laughed as he thought of them puttering around on their poxy little 250's. At nineteen, with a stable job as a garage attendant and, most importantly, the bike of his dreams, he was reasonably content.

    There was one thing which bugged him.

    She was lying on the sofa now. One leg drawn up provocatively, revealed by the split in her skirt.

    Kelly Vincent was a month or two younger than Bob. She'd made quite a name for herself within the confines of Bob's little circle. Most of his mates had shafted her at one time or another.

    Bob seemed to be the only one who hadn't. She hung around with them, she said, because she liked the motorbikes. Bob and his mates liked to think it was for other reasons. After all, as the others had told him, she was a right little nympho. She'd do anything. Even take it in the mouth.

    Just the thought made Bob break into a sweat. He stood behind the sofa for a moment, watching her, running his eyes up and down her body: the long, curly hair and full lips, eye make-up which looked as though it had been applied with a trowel. She wore a tight fitting red blouse, undone to the third button. Just far enough to stretch the imagination and whet the appetite. She wore no stockings but her legs were smooth and shapely. As he watched, she scratched the inside of her thigh, revealing just a hint of white knicker.

    She looked up and saw him standing there.

    'Are you going to stand there all bloody night?' she said.

    Bob shook his head and hurried round to join her. She raised her head so that he could sit, then she rested it in his lap. He felt a warm thrill run through him and tried to control the erection which threatened to run riot at any minute. Bob glanced up at the TV screen. There was some crap on about the war. Kelly's old man was always on about the war. Boring old bastard. That was all he ever talked about. Bob hated coming round when he knew Kelly's parents were going to be there. But tonight was different. They were out, possibly for the night. They never moved out of the house usually, that was why it had taken Bob so long to get round to this. His own parents went down the local boozer but he couldn't take Kelly back to his place because his little brothers were always in. Little bastards. He could imagine the cries of derision from them if he arrived home with a girl. They took the piss out of him now which was as much as he could stand. He didn't fancy having one of them walking in while he was shagging Kelly.

    But tonight it was going to be different. Her parents had gone to a party. Something like that, he couldn't remember exactly what it was. All that concerned him was, they would be out of the way for a few hours.