[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
isn't likely to. Just a long walk home in the dark, you'll have done your bit
then, Turning so that her back was to that psychedelic fighting, having to
wait for her eyes to stop flashing blue, green and yellow before she could
make out the hands of the clock on the wall. 11.25. Thelma Brown's stomach
seemed to flip then consolidated into a hard ball, brought with it a fleeting
sensation of dizziness. This is it, you're on your way, girl!
The calves of her legs felt spongy as she pushed her way through the jiving
mass of bodies, heading towards the door marked 'ladies'. A sickening smell of
strong mixed perfumes and urine as she scraped the door back, shut it again.
That sheepskin coat, the real McCoy, one that Andy Dark had bought her for ...
for an engagement present.
Just a shade too big across the shoulders but that didn't matter.
Some graffiti on the wall, an almost illegible scribble in pencil by some
dirty slut, probably one of those motorbike guys' girls - 'do you masturbate?'
Thelma found herself blushing, swallowing, a direct question that seemed to
leap off the peeling emulsion at her. Mind your own bloody business.
She felt a forest of eyes on her as she made her way towards the exit.
Everybody's watching you. So what? They're probably wondering why Andy isn't
here, wondering if they can make some gossip out of it.
Outside the sky was beginning to cloud over, the moon fast becoming buried but
fighting hard to shine through the gathering formation. For a second or two it
was clear and if you looked at it hard enough there was a face up there just
like they used to tell you when you were a kid. Frowning. You shouldn't be
walking home on your own tonight, Thelma Brown (sorry, Carol Embleton), But if
you must, don't go by Droy Wood. Strange things happen to people who get
caught up when the mists roll across.
I must.
The wind was getting up, scattering early fallen leaves, blowing them along
the road as though some invisible giant was sweeping them with a broom. There
was a hint of drizzle in the atmosphere and Thelma turned up her collar, began
to walk quickly. It shouldn't take all that long, and anyway the Mini will
pick you up soon. You're not supposed to know about the Mini.
A row of cottages on either side of the road, again that feeling of being
watched although most of them were in darkness. Faces pressed against window
panes, fogging up the glass. See, there she goes. That's Carol Embleton on her
last walk. She won't be seen again. Ever.
A sudden squall of cold autumn rain had Thelma wanting to break into a run.
Don't go by Droy Wood. It's not too late, you can chuck it in now, tell that
CID man that it was too much for you. They can't make you do it.
I will do it, I'm not turning back, and I'm going along by Droy Wood, as far
as the stile in the hedge and then I'll cut back across the fields. Half an
hour and I'll be home.
The village was behind her now, just wet tarmac glinting in the struggling
moonlight and hedges that bent over in the wind, tall wispy hawthorn that had
not been trimmed for two or three seasons. Driving rain smacked the back of
her legs as though whipping her forward. Hurry, it's too late to turn back
now. You'll have to pass Droy Wood.
And then she heard the car coming. Walk in the road in case he doesn't see you
and passes you by. If that happens you'll have to pass the wood on your own.
The driver was taking his time, idling like he was kerb-crawling. His lights
hadn't reached her yet. She experienced uneasiness bordering on fear. This was
how it had been for Carol (me), just not knowing for sure who was driving that
car. Suppose it wasn't the policeman; he hadn't left the village yet. Somebody
else. Jump in, darling, it's nice and dry in here.
Then the beams of the headlights hit her, overtook her, bounced back at her
with dazzling brightness off the wall of low-lying mist which had rolled in
across the road ahead of her. The car was going faster now, catching her up.
Braking, a squeal of rubber on wet tarmac, the Mini level with her, the
passenger door swinging open.
'Jump in, darling, out of the wet.'
She hesitated, the urge strong to run. No, I'm not getting in because that's
what happened to Carol. Holding on to the door, trying to make out the shadowy
figure inside. Just a silhouette, a cardboard outline, it could have been
anybody.
'C'mon, you're getting soaked.' She detected a slight impatience in the
other's voice. Don't keep me waiting because ... It was the 'because' that
worried her. Nevertheless she slid into the seat, pulled the door shut.
'And what brings you out on a night like this, darling?'
She thought she detected a faint whiff of peppermint. Chewing gum probably
because policemen weren't allowed to smoke on duty.
'I. . . I'm walking home.' Well, that was bloody obvious enough. 'My boyfriend
didn't go to the disco tonight so I went on my own. I didn't enjoy it,
though.' True.
'Damn this fog.' Her companion swung the car hard over to the left, dipped his
lights and focused the nearside beam on the verge. 'You have to be prepared
for low-lying pockets of fog this time of the year, particularly alongside
marshy places. I expect we'll run out of it in a minute or two.'
'Probably.' Once we're dear of Droy Wood. 'What's your name?' She sensed him
glancing quickly at her. He knew, he had to; but it was an act, all the way
through.
Thel . . . Carol Embleton.' In for a penny, in for a pound, act the whole
thing through. This was getting eerie though, the fog thickening now, swirling
around the slow-moving car as if it was trying to get to the occupants.
'You live round here?'
'Yes.' You know bloody well I do. 'You can drop me off a bit further up the
road . . . past the wood. There's a stile in the hedge there. It'll only take
me a few minutes to get home from there.'
But, of course, he wouldn't be dropping her off by the stile. They would be
turning into that rutted lay-by alongside the wood. What then, did they turn
round and go home? Surely they would, there wouldn't be much gained by sitting
out there half the night, Thelma thought.
Silence as he attempted to negotiate the dense fog, down to 15 mph now. She
stole a glance at him, saw his features reflected in the light from the facia.
No more than thirty, handsome in a rugged kind of way. Tough. She couldn't
make out exactly what he was wearing but in all probability they were the
clothes belonging to that man James Foster.
Revulsion at the thought, how could he? Because he was a policeman and got
paid for doing unpleasant things that other people didn't like doing. Thelma
found herself edging away from him, pressing herself against the door. This
was what it had been like for Carol, in the car with a sex-killer. But this
man's a policeman. Are you sure? How do you know he's a policeman? He has to
be. No, he doesn't.
And then he was swinging the car across the road, driving through a wafting
sea of fog, all landmarks obscured, the vapour swirling across the windscreen.
Thelma clutched at her seat, almost screamed. 'God, you can't possibly see
where you're going. We'll go off the road, crash, overturn.'
But they didn't. The Mini bumped across ruts, slewed in thick mud, and came to
a standstill on the lay-by adjacent to Droy Wood. A few seconds pause and then
the headlights were switched off, the engine seeming to take an age to die, [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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isn't likely to. Just a long walk home in the dark, you'll have done your bit
then, Turning so that her back was to that psychedelic fighting, having to
wait for her eyes to stop flashing blue, green and yellow before she could
make out the hands of the clock on the wall. 11.25. Thelma Brown's stomach
seemed to flip then consolidated into a hard ball, brought with it a fleeting
sensation of dizziness. This is it, you're on your way, girl!
The calves of her legs felt spongy as she pushed her way through the jiving
mass of bodies, heading towards the door marked 'ladies'. A sickening smell of
strong mixed perfumes and urine as she scraped the door back, shut it again.
That sheepskin coat, the real McCoy, one that Andy Dark had bought her for ...
for an engagement present.
Just a shade too big across the shoulders but that didn't matter.
Some graffiti on the wall, an almost illegible scribble in pencil by some
dirty slut, probably one of those motorbike guys' girls - 'do you masturbate?'
Thelma found herself blushing, swallowing, a direct question that seemed to
leap off the peeling emulsion at her. Mind your own bloody business.
She felt a forest of eyes on her as she made her way towards the exit.
Everybody's watching you. So what? They're probably wondering why Andy isn't
here, wondering if they can make some gossip out of it.
Outside the sky was beginning to cloud over, the moon fast becoming buried but
fighting hard to shine through the gathering formation. For a second or two it
was clear and if you looked at it hard enough there was a face up there just
like they used to tell you when you were a kid. Frowning. You shouldn't be
walking home on your own tonight, Thelma Brown (sorry, Carol Embleton), But if
you must, don't go by Droy Wood. Strange things happen to people who get
caught up when the mists roll across.
I must.
The wind was getting up, scattering early fallen leaves, blowing them along
the road as though some invisible giant was sweeping them with a broom. There
was a hint of drizzle in the atmosphere and Thelma turned up her collar, began
to walk quickly. It shouldn't take all that long, and anyway the Mini will
pick you up soon. You're not supposed to know about the Mini.
A row of cottages on either side of the road, again that feeling of being
watched although most of them were in darkness. Faces pressed against window
panes, fogging up the glass. See, there she goes. That's Carol Embleton on her
last walk. She won't be seen again. Ever.
A sudden squall of cold autumn rain had Thelma wanting to break into a run.
Don't go by Droy Wood. It's not too late, you can chuck it in now, tell that
CID man that it was too much for you. They can't make you do it.
I will do it, I'm not turning back, and I'm going along by Droy Wood, as far
as the stile in the hedge and then I'll cut back across the fields. Half an
hour and I'll be home.
The village was behind her now, just wet tarmac glinting in the struggling
moonlight and hedges that bent over in the wind, tall wispy hawthorn that had
not been trimmed for two or three seasons. Driving rain smacked the back of
her legs as though whipping her forward. Hurry, it's too late to turn back
now. You'll have to pass Droy Wood.
And then she heard the car coming. Walk in the road in case he doesn't see you
and passes you by. If that happens you'll have to pass the wood on your own.
The driver was taking his time, idling like he was kerb-crawling. His lights
hadn't reached her yet. She experienced uneasiness bordering on fear. This was
how it had been for Carol (me), just not knowing for sure who was driving that
car. Suppose it wasn't the policeman; he hadn't left the village yet. Somebody
else. Jump in, darling, it's nice and dry in here.
Then the beams of the headlights hit her, overtook her, bounced back at her
with dazzling brightness off the wall of low-lying mist which had rolled in
across the road ahead of her. The car was going faster now, catching her up.
Braking, a squeal of rubber on wet tarmac, the Mini level with her, the
passenger door swinging open.
'Jump in, darling, out of the wet.'
She hesitated, the urge strong to run. No, I'm not getting in because that's
what happened to Carol. Holding on to the door, trying to make out the shadowy
figure inside. Just a silhouette, a cardboard outline, it could have been
anybody.
'C'mon, you're getting soaked.' She detected a slight impatience in the
other's voice. Don't keep me waiting because ... It was the 'because' that
worried her. Nevertheless she slid into the seat, pulled the door shut.
'And what brings you out on a night like this, darling?'
She thought she detected a faint whiff of peppermint. Chewing gum probably
because policemen weren't allowed to smoke on duty.
'I. . . I'm walking home.' Well, that was bloody obvious enough. 'My boyfriend
didn't go to the disco tonight so I went on my own. I didn't enjoy it,
though.' True.
'Damn this fog.' Her companion swung the car hard over to the left, dipped his
lights and focused the nearside beam on the verge. 'You have to be prepared
for low-lying pockets of fog this time of the year, particularly alongside
marshy places. I expect we'll run out of it in a minute or two.'
'Probably.' Once we're dear of Droy Wood. 'What's your name?' She sensed him
glancing quickly at her. He knew, he had to; but it was an act, all the way
through.
Thel . . . Carol Embleton.' In for a penny, in for a pound, act the whole
thing through. This was getting eerie though, the fog thickening now, swirling
around the slow-moving car as if it was trying to get to the occupants.
'You live round here?'
'Yes.' You know bloody well I do. 'You can drop me off a bit further up the
road . . . past the wood. There's a stile in the hedge there. It'll only take
me a few minutes to get home from there.'
But, of course, he wouldn't be dropping her off by the stile. They would be
turning into that rutted lay-by alongside the wood. What then, did they turn
round and go home? Surely they would, there wouldn't be much gained by sitting
out there half the night, Thelma thought.
Silence as he attempted to negotiate the dense fog, down to 15 mph now. She
stole a glance at him, saw his features reflected in the light from the facia.
No more than thirty, handsome in a rugged kind of way. Tough. She couldn't
make out exactly what he was wearing but in all probability they were the
clothes belonging to that man James Foster.
Revulsion at the thought, how could he? Because he was a policeman and got
paid for doing unpleasant things that other people didn't like doing. Thelma
found herself edging away from him, pressing herself against the door. This
was what it had been like for Carol, in the car with a sex-killer. But this
man's a policeman. Are you sure? How do you know he's a policeman? He has to
be. No, he doesn't.
And then he was swinging the car across the road, driving through a wafting
sea of fog, all landmarks obscured, the vapour swirling across the windscreen.
Thelma clutched at her seat, almost screamed. 'God, you can't possibly see
where you're going. We'll go off the road, crash, overturn.'
But they didn't. The Mini bumped across ruts, slewed in thick mud, and came to
a standstill on the lay-by adjacent to Droy Wood. A few seconds pause and then
the headlights were switched off, the engine seeming to take an age to die, [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]