Tormentor Read Online Free Page B

drunk enough, I’ll be comatose myself and long past being capable of listening.”
    He grinned.
    “As if that would stop me.”
    We shook hands, and he went back to his musty files and land registry history. I turned away to head for my car—and realized I was being watched.
    They were over in the far corner of the car park again—the old woman and her son, just standing, staring at me. Back in London I’d have got in the car and driven off, feeling slightly intimidated, if not even fearful, but I’d come up here to be master of my own destiny. After such a pleasant lunch, I wasn’t in the mood to have the afternoon ruined by any bullshit.
    I walked over, slowly, half expecting them to back off, hoping to embarrass them into silence. It didn’t work—but at least the old lady had lost her belligerence from our earlier encounter in the bar.
    “You should leave, son,” she said softly. “You’re not safe here.”
    “Is that a threat?”
    She smiled, and suddenly looked much younger.
    “Don’t be daft, laddie. I’m trying to help you. No good will come of staying in that place. It drove my old pal mad in the end, trying to keep them out.”
    “Keep who out? Speak sense, will you?”
    “If you don’t know yet, you will soon,” she said. “They don’t stay down for long.”
    I was so stunned to hear those words, I only stood, mouth flapping, and watched the man lead his mother away.
    What had been merely a niggle had quickly come back as a fully-fledged worry.
    * * *
    I considered getting the truth out of Alan once and for all, but when I turned and looked in the Bean and Sons’ office window, he was at his desk, head down in paperwork.
    I got in the car and drove, not paying much attention to the scenery on the way back. My mind was full of a tangle of words and images—the finger-writing on the wall, the old lady with her false teeth loose in her gums as she gave me a warning, and Alan’s ready smile as he told me there was nothing to worry about.
    On reaching the house, I went straight to the kitchen, fetched a pail of water and a sponge and went out to the ruined cottage, intending to wash the offending words away, as if that would cleanse them from my mind. I pushed open the old door, walked into the empty room, and stared, openmouthed again, at four blank walls. The soot and ash was still there, and the room still looked like it had been scoured, but there was no writing, and no sign there had ever been any.
    I studied the wall from every possible angle, even putting my cheek against it and sighting along its length, but to no avail—all I got was a sooty spot on my face, and more of it on my fingers when I tried to rub it away.
    I backed away to the door and tried to create a different shadow inside the room by opening and closing it, but there was still no writing. In the end I threw the pail of water at the wall anyway, standing there as it left dark running streaks pooling in even darker puddles on the floor. I slammed the door as I left—not quite enough to break it off its hinges, but enough that it hung there precariously, creaking in the breeze behind me like mocking laughter.
    * * *
    I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I went back inside; a long streak of soot ran down my left cheek, from just below the eye socket to my chin. It looked like a thin finger had drawn it there.
    It took me several minutes to wash it off—the soot and ash felt sticky, almost oily to the touch and resisted first a facecloth and then enough soap to wash a family before finally being defeated. The facecloth in particular came off second best. It had been white when I picked it up, but was now a flat gray, mottled with darker spots as if a fungal disease had taken hold on the surface.
    I tossed the cloth into the washing machine and headed for the booze, skipping the intermediary beer and going straight for Scotch. I stood at the patio doors, looking over towards the ruined cottage. It was still just