Enter the Dead: A Supernatural Thriller (9 page)

Confused,
Sam hurried back to his mother’s house, occasionally looking back over his
shoulder even though he knew there was nobody there. He settled on a simple
explanation: it was dark and he was tired. Sleep deprivation could play all manner
of tricks on people, and his emotional state was fragile to say the least. It
was hardly surprising he was seeing things given the pressure he was under. He should
never have entered that graveyard in the first place.

Even so, as he reached
the house and fumbled in his pockets for the front door key, he couldn’t stop
thinking about the dark figure standing by his father’s gravestone. Fine, so
maybe it
was
a trick of the light, one which his mind had clearly
twisted, but it had seemed real enough at the time. Trick or no trick, it had
certainly rattled him. He’d always found visiting his sister’s grave to be a
calming experience, comforting even, but back there…back there he’d felt
something different. Something cold. He planned to return later that day with
some flowers – he’d made a promise to Lucy that he intended to keep – but this
time he would go in daylight.

He cursed as he
struggled to locate the front door key. Fortunately for him his mother was on
hand to let him in. She opened the door, standing in her dressing gown with a
face like thunder, her second cigarette of the day dangling from her cracked
lips. Sam eyed her sheepishly, like a teenager skulking home drunk in the early
hours of the morning. He sensed what was coming.

‘Where on earth have
you been?’ she asked, poking her head out the door and checking the neighbours’
windows to see if any nosy busybodies were watching them. In a small community like
Cranston, everybody knew everybody else’s business. ‘Come on in before you
catch your death,’ she said, ushering him inside and closing the door behind
them.

‘I’ve been for a walk,’
Sam said, glad to be out of the cold. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’

‘I almost called the police,’
she said. ‘I was worried you might have done something silly.’

‘Sorry.’

‘So you should be. You
could have at least left a note or taken your phone with you.’

‘I know. I wasn’t
thinking.’

‘Hmm, I’ve heard that
one before. Take those wet boots off and sit down by the fire. I’ll make some
coffee. Dear me…when will you ever learn?’

Sam did as he was told,
placing his sodden boots and socks next to the radiator and draping his coat
over the bannister. By the time he’d entered the kitchen and slumped into a
chair, Janice was already buttering some toast and spooning ground coffee into
a
glass cafetière
that she only used
when Sam came to visit. He’d bought her the
cafetière
a few Christmases ago in the hope that she might
learn to appreciate the taste of proper coffee, but his modern, cosmopolitan ways
were wasted on her. She was quite happy with a jar of ‘instant’, thank you very
much.

‘Where did you get to,
anyway?’ she asked, placing his toast and coffee on a small table beside him.

‘I went to see Lucy.’

‘What, at five o’clock
in the morning?’

‘I wasn’t planning to.
It just happened that way. I needed some fresh air so I went for a walk. When I
reached the end of Alston Road I saw the church and…well…I had a sudden urge to
go and see her.’

‘But it’s pitch black
out there. You could have tripped over and hurt yourself.’

‘Stop fretting, will
you? I’m not a baby anymore.’ He poured himself some coffee and took a sip,
wincing at the strength. ‘Did you empty the whole damn packet in there?’ he
said, shaking his head. ‘It’s as thick as treacle!’

‘Well, I don’t know how
many spoons of that awful stuff you like to put in there, do I? I’ll make
another one if you want.’

‘No, it’s fine,
honestly. Anyway, I need something to perk me up.’ He took another sip as if to
prove it was palatable. ‘I saw a nice bunch of flowers by her grave. Yours, I
take it?’

‘Yes. I like to take
her a fresh bunch every week.’

‘That’s more than I can
say for some people. Have you seen the state of some of those graves? The place
is going to rack and ruin.’

‘I know. I must have
mentioned it a thousand times to the vicar, but he doesn’t seem to care. I even
called the council and asked them why they’re not cutting the grass. Do you
know what they told me?’

‘What?’

‘They told me that due
to staff shortages they need to focus their resources on keeping the main park
in order. I told them I could understand that, but that surely it wouldn’t take
long to whip a strimmer around the cemetery. It would make such a difference, I
told them. They promised me they’d get round to it as soon as they could. Anyway,
that was three months ago. I’ve a good mind to make a formal complaint to
Councillor Groves. It seems to be the only way you can get anything to happen
around here. It’s a disgrace, an absolute disgrace. Not to mention
disrespectful to the deceased. By the way,’ she said, ‘your phone was buzzing earlier,
at least I think it was your phone. Sounded like a text.’

‘Really? Who’d be
sending me a text this early?’ The answer came to him immediately. He stood up
and walked across to the sideboard where he’d left his phone. He took a deep
breath and checked the name. It was Sarah.

Can
we talk?

His first instinct was
to run upstairs to the privacy of his room and call her. He missed hearing her
voice, but more than anything else he wanted to see her, to hold her and have
her explain to him that Tom was a huge mistake and that she would never be
unfaithful to him again. He missed Max, too; in some ways more than he missed
Sarah. As much as Sam loved his mother, right now all he wanted was to be back
home again with his wife and son, laughing and talking together like they used
to. Maybe he
could
forgive her. Maybe, in time, he would be able to put
this whole nightmare behind him. Either way, he knew he couldn’t stay here any
longer. He needed to sort this out. Hanging around his mother’s house drinking
awful coffee and feeling sorry for himself wouldn’t help him.

It was time to go home.

‘Are
you sure this is wise?’ Janice asked, pulling into a parking bay at Durham
train station. ‘Wouldn’t it better to stay here a few days? Take some time to
think things through.’

Sam smiled at his
mother. He loved her very much, and in any other circumstance he would have
gladly stayed for longer, but right now he was like a homing pigeon. He needed
to get back to London.

‘Don’t worry, mum,’ he
said, opening the car door and checking his pocket for his wallet. ‘I know what
I’m doing. And if things don’t work out…well…I might be back sooner than planned.’

‘Fair enough, but you
know you’ll always be welcome here.’

‘I know.’ He leaned
across the armrest and kissed her cheek. ‘Thanks mum. For everything.’

‘Get off,’ she said,
shunning his attention but secretly enjoying it. ‘Hurry up or you’ll miss your
train.’

‘Okay,’ he said,
climbing out of the car. As he was about to close the door, he bent down and
looked at her. ‘By the way,’ he said, his tone now lower and more serious. ‘You
haven’t noticed anything unusual going on at the churchyard, have you? Anything
strange?’

Her smile faded. ‘What
do you mean?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s
nothing. It’s just…when I was walking out of the churchyard this morning, I had
this weird feeling I wasn’t alone. It felt like someone was watching me. I
can’t be sure because it was so dark, but I thought I saw a man standing by
dad’s grave.’

‘I’m sorry, Sam,’ Janice
said, shaking her head but unwilling to make eye contact. ‘I’m afraid I’ve no
idea what you mean.’

Sam noticed her
knuckles whitening as she gripped the steering wheel far tighter than was
necessary. ‘Mum?’ He reached over and placed his hand on her arm. ‘Are you
alright? You don’t look well.’

‘I’m fine,’ she said, mustering
an unconvincing smile. ‘I don’t know what came over me. I must be more upset
than I thought about you and Sarah. Now, what were you saying about ghosts and
cemeteries? You don’t believe in any of that nonsense, do you?’

‘I didn’t mention
anything about ghosts. I was just saying that-’

‘Of course I haven’t
felt anything strange. Your mind must be playing tricks on you. Hardly
surprising really. I think what you need, my boy, is a good night’s sleep.’

Sam frowned. ‘Maybe
you’re right.’

‘There’s no
maybe
about it. Now hurry up or you’ll miss your train.’

‘Yes ma’am,’ he said,
winking at her as he closed the door. She shooed him away with the back of her
hand as he bent down and blew her a kiss before walking towards the ticket
office.

When she was certain he
wasn’t coming back, she sank down into her seat and cupped her hand over her
mouth. She knew exactly what he was talking about. She’d felt it too, although
only recently for the first time. The presence of somebody else in the churchyard.
Watching her. Following her. What upset her more than anything was that Sam had
also sensed it. If it had just been her, it would have been easier to pass off
as paranoia or old age, but it wasn’t just her. What if there
was
someone else?

She started the engine
and ramped up the heating, suddenly feeling cold and feverish. More than
anything else, however, she felt scared: scared of returning alone to the place
where her daughter was buried, and scared of seeing that dark figure again,
standing by the grave of her dead ex-husband.

As
the train pulled away from Durham Station and set off towards London, Sam
remembered his promise to go back to the cemetery with some flowers for Lucy.

‘Damn,’ he said,
furious with himself for forgetting. It wasn’t like him to break a promise, but
the fact that it was his sister made it ten times worse. It was too late to
turn back now. He would visit her again as soon as he could, but for now he
just hoped she would understand.

The train was
surprisingly quiet for a Saturday morning: apart from an old lady who was
sitting across the aisle from him, there couldn’t have been any more than six
other passengers scattered around his carriage. He removed a book from his
overnight bag to help pass the time, but it was no use; his eyes read the words
but his mind was elsewhere. He kept visualising Tom and Sarah in bed together,
groping and fucking and sucking each other like wild animals, lost in abandoned
throes of ecstasy. The image sickened him to the core, and he thought that if
anything would prevent Sarah and him from rescuing their marriage it would be
this…the physical, sordid act of sex with another man. Four years was a long
time, certainly long enough to learn about a partner’s sexual preferences and
fantasies. What manner of debauched activities had she and Tom got up to in
those fancy hotels and secret locations? And, at the end of the day, when she
had returned home and made love to Sam, had she still been soiled with the seed
of another man? Was she fantasising about Tom when Sam pushed himself inside
her? Whose face did she see? Whose body did she imagine? Who did she
really
want to be with?

 The timely arrival of
the buffet trolley clattering its way down the aisle succeeded in momentarily
distracting him. When the trolley reached him, the young woman pushing it
stopped and smiled.

‘Good morning, sir. Can
I interest you in any snacks, sandwiches or refreshments?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Would you like
something to eat or drink?’

‘Oh…erm…yes, why not?
I’ll have a black coffee please, and…erm…do you have any bacon sandwiches?’

‘Brown or white bread?’

‘Brown, please.’

‘Roll or sliced?’

‘Erm…roll, I think.’
From the corner of one eye he noticed that the old lady who was sitting across
the aisle was smiling at him. He returned the gesture. ‘So many choices,’ he
said to her, holding his hands up and shrugging his shoulders as if to
emphasise the point.

‘There certainly are,’
she replied, seemingly eager to strike up a conversation. ‘The last time I took
the train I wasn’t offered so much as a cup of tea. Mind you, that was over
thirty years ago.’

‘Thirty years? Seriously?’
Sam asked, handing over a five pound note to the trolley girl and receiving no
change.

‘1982. My son and I
travelled to York to see Charlie – that’s my grandson – graduate from
University. It seems like only yesterday. It was a lot busier then, I can tell
you.’

‘Yes, it does seem
quiet.’

‘Enjoy it while it
lasts,’ said the trolley girl. ‘Darlington are playing York today in the
Northern Football League semi-final. The staff have been notified that there’ll
be a load of half-drunk lads getting on at the next station. Don’t worry
though: they’ll only be on for one stop. Thirty or so minutes, then they’ll be
off again.’

‘Looks like I spoke too
soon,’ Sam said, rolling his eyes.

‘Looks like it,’
replied the old lady, returning her attention to a pink woollen hat she was
halfway through knitting.

Sure
enough, as the train pulled in to Darlington Station, Sam could see a mass of
black and white scarves and replica team shirts filling up the platform. Thirty
seconds later and a sea of men carrying rucksacks and six-packs came flooding
into the carriage, violently hurling themselves at empty seats as if they were
involved in a life-and-death game of musical chairs. Before long the carriage
was standing-room only and the doors closed, forcing those trapped inside up
against each other like tinned sardines. Sam buried his face into his book,
eager to avoid making eye contact. It was going to be a long thirty minutes to
York.

It was only a matter of
seconds before he was interrupted. ‘Oi, Shakespeare,’ came a voice from the
chair opposite him. ‘What’s that shit yer readin’?’

Sam looked up. Sitting
opposite him was a young kid who couldn’t have been much older than Max. Sam’s
eyes automatically went to the can of beer from which the boy was swigging. His
first reaction – wasn’t it always the first reaction for an alcoholic? – was what
he wouldn’t give to be able to have a can of beer himself right now. Once that
reaction was duly kicked into touch, he then wondered who was responsible for
the child, and why were they allowing him to drink alcohol when he was clearly
underage.

‘For Whom the Bell Tolls,’
he said, holding up the cover as if it would make a difference. ‘Ernest
Hemingway.’

‘Never heard of ‘im,’
the boy replied. ‘Any good?’

‘It’s okay.’

‘Where ya headin’?’

‘London.’

‘D’ya live there?’

‘Yep.’

‘D’ya like living
there?’

‘Most of the time.’

‘I heard it was full of
niggers,’ said the boy, smirking as his friends burst into laughter behind him.

Worried about where the
conversation was heading, Sam tried to placate the boy. ‘How old are you?’ he
asked.

‘What’s it to you? How
old are
you
?’

‘Thirty-nine.’

‘That’s fuckin’ ancient.’

‘Should you be drinking
that at your age?’ Sam asked, nodding to the can of beer.

The boy sneered and raised
the can to his lips, downing its contents in one swift movement. ‘Who d’ya
think you are…my fuckin’ dad? You’re not a copper are ya?’

‘No.’

‘Good. I fuckin’ hate
coppers.’

‘Do you mind not using
that language?’ Sam asked, pointing discreetly to the old lady across the
aisle. ‘At least until you get to York.’

‘Why? What are you gonna
do about it?’ The carriage fell silent as the gang waited to hear Sam’s response.
Like a pack of hyenas, they smelled blood. The first kill of the day was in
their sights.

Sensing the change in
atmosphere, Sam attempted to lighten the mood. ‘I’m not going to do anything about
it. All I’m asking is for you to consider the other passengers.’

Without taking his eyes
away from Sam, the boy reached into a carrier bag and pulled out another beer.
He had the upper hand and he knew it. Ordinarily that would be enough, but this
time he had an audience. To back down now would mean losing face. He wasn’t
about to do that.

‘Are you gay?’ asked
the boy.

‘What?’

‘Are you a fuckin’
queer? An ass-stokin’ fudge packer.’ More guffaws from the crowd.

‘What has that got to
do with anything?’

‘You look gay…with your
gay-boy book and your gay-boy jacket.’

Sam stared at the boy,
wondering where his parents were…if indeed he had any. Within five minutes of meeting
him, he had presented himself as being openly racist and homophobic. Along with
his so-called friends, the boy epitomised everything that right-wing
politicians and the older generation claimed was wrong with society: feral
youth, lack of respect, drunken aggression and loutish behaviour.

At that moment,
however, his credentials as a poster boy for modern Britain were of no concern
to Sam. He was frightened: frightened of being beaten up by an obnoxious kid
and his mates, and frightened of what they might do to the old lady across the
aisle. What unsettled him most, however, was the indisputable fact that his
fate lay entirely in their hands. Whatever they decided to do, he was powerless
to prevent it.

‘Look,’ he said, trying
to diffuse the situation. ‘I don’t want any trouble, okay? I’m just reading my
book and keeping myself to myself. Why don’t we leave it at that, eh?’

‘
OOOHH!’
said
the boy, impersonating Sam’s voice, ‘
I don’t want any trouble, okay? Please
leave me alone and let me read my gay-boy book. I promise I won’t make any
noise. PLLEEAASSE…
’

‘That’s enough!’ The crowd
turned to face the old lady who, embarrassingly for Sam, had put down her
knitting and decided that it was time to come to his defence. ‘Look at you,’
she said, glowering at them one-by-one. ‘You should be ashamed of yourselves,
harassing innocent people like that. You should know better.’

One of the gang started
to say something, but the old lady wasn’t done. ‘And you,’ she said, pointing
to the boy opposite Sam. ‘What’s a young, handsome lad like you doing drinking at
this time of day? Who’s looking after you? Where’s your father?’

Several sniggers were
directed towards the boy, who blushed with embarrassment. For several seconds
he sat paralysed in his seat, a chided bully unable to find the words to fight
back. The sniggers quickly gathered in momentum, until eventually the jeering
was almost entirely aimed at the boy. Tears began to form and he could feel
himself starting to cry. He was being forced to taste his own medicine and he
didn’t like it one iota.

At last he could stand
the humiliation no more. Like a wounded animal, he leapt to his feet and rounded
on the old lady. ‘You fuckin’ bitch!’ he screamed, stunning his friends into
silence. ‘Who do you fuckin’ think you are? I’ve got a good mind to smash your
saggy fuckin’ face in, you wrinkly old cunt!’

Screaming like a
lunatic, he scrambled to push his way through the crowd to get to the woman. Fortunately
for her, in spite of his frantic efforts there were too many people blocking
his path. He was forced back into his seat by the older members of the gang,
some of whom even apologised for his behaviour.

But the boy’s swearing
and animosity continued, aimed this time at the second most obvious target –
Sam – and this time his friends weren’t going to stop him. In their eyes the
old woman was off-limits, but Sam was fair game, and if the boy’s bruised ego
could be massaged by allowing him to vent his anger on the unlucky chump
sitting across the table from him then so be it. Sam knew what was coming, and
like a doomed man facing a firing squad, he braced himself for the pain.

Fortunately for him, his
luck was about to change. Just as his punishment was about to be administered
the carriage doors slid open and in walked the train guard. ‘Tickets please!’
he shouted, edging his way down the aisle.

‘Excuse me, sir.’ Once
again, it was the old woman who seized the initiative. ‘You need to help us.
That young man over there,’ she said, pointing to the boy. ‘That young man
verbally abused me and that gentleman sitting opposite him, and if somebody
doesn’t stop him there’s going to be serious trouble. He tried to attack me and
now he’s threatening to attack that man. It’s a good job you walked in when you
did.’

The guard looked at her
and then turned to Sam. ‘Is this true?’ he asked. There were several
half-hearted protestations of innocence from the boy’s friends, but the guard
paid them no attention. Instead, he kept his gaze firmly on Sam.

‘Yes,’ Sam said,
quietly but firmly. Then, louder this time: ‘He tried to attack her and he was
about to assault me. You need to do something about him.’

‘That’s not true!’
screamed the boy. ‘He’s lyin’…both of them are. I wasn’t doin’ anything wrong.
They
were bein’ out of order to
me
! They’re the ones in the wrong here, not
me!’

The guard raised an
eyebrow and folded his arms. ‘You expect me to believe the word of a drunken
kid over that of two grown adults? Come on, son, I wasn’t born yesterday.’

‘But it’s true!’ said
the boy, his tone of voice uneven as the alcohol began to wear off and it suddenly
dawned on him that he might be in serious trouble. He glanced around at his
so-called friends, who all of a sudden seemed less inclined to stand by him. ‘I’m
telling the truth, I swear. Aren’t I, lads?’

A series of embarrassed
frowns and shrugged shoulders told the guard everything he needed to know.
‘Come on,’ he said, beckoning the boy over. ‘You’re coming with me.’

‘But-’

‘Don’t argue with me.
If you don’t do as I say I’ll have no hesitation in calling the police. Is that
what you want?’

The boy began to cry,
and in spite of his earlier behaviour Sam almost felt sorry for him. ‘No,’ said
the boy. ‘Please…don’t call the police.’

‘Come with me and I
might not have to.’

Without saying a word,
the boy stood and shuffled his way over to the guard, who proceeded to usher
him through the crowd towards the doors of the carriage. As they were about to
leave, the guard turned and faced the others: ‘You see that there?’ he said,
pointing to a small, glass dome protruding from the ceiling. That’s a security
camera…a real one. If any of you lot so much as even think about stepping out
of line, I’ll make sure the police are on hand to welcome you at York. Do you understand
me?’