by Guy N Smith
He couldn't wait. Her fingernails bit deep into the palms of her hands as his thickness entered her, went all the way in, began to thrust, slowly at first but building up to an unbelievable speed.
Susan knew she couldn't hold on any longer. She wanted to wait for him so that they could explode together but it was physically impossible. An eruption of every nerve in her body, legs kicking wildly, still at full stretch, fists pummelling the quilt on either side of her. Spinning wildly, airborne.
A slow descent, alighting gently on the bed, sobbing softly. She opened her eyes, saw that David was gone. That was OK, she would make no demands on any man who screwed her.
Stark reality filtered back like waking after an erotic dream. It had been wonderful but she wouldn't get herself pregnant that way.
Please give me a baby, Sucking Pit!
And in one flash of awful inspiration she knew how she could have a baby. The shock, the realisation, hammered her like a physical blow. Terrible to contemplate, wicked to even think such thoughts, but the moment it occurred to her she knew that she would go through with it. There was a baby in the adjoining room - all she had to do was to pick it up and walk out of the house with it! Thomas would be hers, they would never find her. He wouldn't mind, he liked her. They would be very happy together.
One last glance at herself in the mirror. She would keep the nightdress on, leave her own clothes here. It seemed fitting. In all probability Mrs Whitmore had got herself a baby whilst wearing it and Susan Taplow would do the same.
Thomas stirred, murmured some unintelligible infant sleep talk through his dummy but did not wake up as she lifted him out of his cot. Barefooted, cradling him to her, she went downstairs and let herself out through the backdoor.
The moon was too bright; she slunk back into the shadows. A lot of noise, most of it coming from the hall. Mexican Girl, scratchy as though it was a recording but she recognised Carl Wickers' voice.
She peered out into the road: it was deserted except for parked cars. Everybody was in the hall. A glance down, pulling the cot blanket over Thomas's head, then hugging him to her she began to walk fast. Nobody was going to stop her, she wouldn't let them; she had her baby and nobody was going to take him from her.
A fleeting white shadow, Sheila Whitmore's nightdress billowing, padding bare feet on the pavement, turning up into Church Drive. Stones gouged the soles of her feet but she did not notice the pain. Once she reached the wood they would never find her, a sanctuary for a desperate mother.
Her nightdress tore on the barbed wire, a fragment left fluttering. The wood, she inhaled the smell of the pines gratefully; it would be as it had always been, it couldn't be anything else, tall trees casting dark welcoming shadows; hiding her.
She followed the narrow path, more relaxed now, a feeling that she was not alone but that did not worry her. Her friends were here, nobody would harm her. They would protect her. Hurrying again, she didn't know why, an instinctive calling.
Bursting out of the trees, seeing the Sucking Pit thirty yards or so in front of her, a stretch of beautiful black water. Holding Thomas to her breast she began to walk towards it.
A movement, shapes materialising out of the darkness. Susan gave a little cry, almost turned to run but some strange invisible force checked her, held her. You cannot leave now you are here!
Silhouettes but she recognised them as surely as though she could see their features. Romanies!
A half-circle of horse-drawn caravans, untethered animals cropping the lush grass noisily, men and women in bulky attire, heads swathed in scarves, standing in a silent group by the waterside. Watching her.
She caught her breath, clutched her baby to her, felt their eyes boring into her, hostile stares that sent a shiver down her back. An old woman reclined on a litter, pointing with a crooked finger, toothless mouth moving in a mute order to the huge man who stood by her side.
He stepped forward, a lumbering giant with a single gold earring in one ear, the moonlight glinting on it as it swung gently. Long deliberate paces, coming towards her.
Flee! She tried to turn and run but her limbs refused to move. She wanted to scream but it was as though her jaws were locked by tetanus. A yard or so from her he halted, stretched out both hands, his arms a human cradle.
‘Give me the little one. We have been waiting for him.’
No! I will die first.
‘You will die anyway, as surely as we all have died once; have been entombed and now are risen again. The Sucking Pit demands human life, death in exchange for our freedom as it always was. It is the Romany law and Roon demands that we carry it out! An innocent babe first, followed by those who have been commanded to come here tonight!’
Susan Taplow's arms moved against her will. Her crazed frightened brain tried to fight. No, I won't hand over my baby. But she did, extended the still sleeping Thomas at full stretch, lowered him gently into the big gypsy's arms.
‘So it shall be.’ His swarthy features creased into a smile of sheer malevolence. ‘He shall not suffer, that I promise you. The others shall, but not the babe.’
She watched in a state of mind-blown terror as the other turned, those same calculated slow motion strides, back to where the old crone lay. A cradle, Susan hadn't noticed it earlier, a crude structure made from woven dried reeds. Transfixed, she watched as the baby was lowered into it.
‘Do not delay, Cornelius.’ A cracked voice, that hooked finger wagging its instructions once more. ‘The waters are impatient.’
Cornelius lifted the cradle, carried it to the edge, a gentle giant whose main concern might have been not to wake the sleeping infant. Lowering it, releasing it. The water rippled slightly, began to swirl as though some forgotten current had suddenly come to life; took the cradle, floated it out towards the centre, spinning slowly.
And that was when Susan Taplow's limbs came back to life: she staggered, tried to run, almost fell. Sheer desperation fired her efforts, dragging her feet out of the sucking marsh grass. No longer had she eyes for the watching assembly, only for that floating box, saw how it was sinking slowly below the dark surface.
‘My baby. My baby's drowning!’
She heard the chanting, a tuneless crooning, growing in volume. The Romanies made no move to intercept her, their funeral hymn mocking her, an age-old ritual which they had not forgotten. Life to death, so that the spirit lives on and will rise again. Thunder rolled like some accompanying organ in the heavens.
Susan did not understand, heard only the cries of the awakened Thomas, saw a tiny white hand stretched upwards. Without hesitation she plunged into the water, tore her feet from the sucking quagmire, heard the mud gurgling its own contribution to these macabre death rites.
It was deeper now, deep enough to swim, forcing her arms and legs to strike out in spite of the numbing cold which threatened instant cramp. The cradle was sinking fast; infantile cries urged her to even greater efforts.
Almost there, and then just as she reached out to grab the crib it sank from view, left her grasping foul water, swallowing some, choking. Diving. She had only once tried to dive in the baths and it had been a terrifying experience but she gave no thought to her own safety now.
Total darkness, groping blindly. Her hand touched something, that waterlogged cradle; searching inside it with her fingers. Empty!
Suddenly she saw Thomas floating a yard or so from her, still swathed in that white cot blanket. A desperate lunge but he seemed to float away. Deliberately. Going after him again.
Then she saw his face, not the terrified bloated features of a drowning child but serene and smiling, the dummy gone, his lips moving, forming words beyond his ken, words which she heard!
‘Come with me, Susan.’
She followed, still trying to catch up with him but always he eluded her, his tiny limbs kicking the water, propelling him on. Downwards.
A dark silent world where eyes glowed like a myriad of stars on a frosty night and invisible hands caught her, pu
lled at her. And now she was not fighting them any longer, content to go where they led. Because she was with Thomas and he was happy; they would be together for evermore.
The Sucking Pit had granted her wish. Susan Taplow had the baby she craved, in a place where none could take it from her.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Lynette Grafton knew that her husband would not be returning to the big house, accepted the fact in the way one does when all possible reasonings have been eliminated. He had left, just walked out because his whole empire had crashed. Or else he had committed suicide.
Funny, she did not panic at the thought, her brain simply processing the idea, coming out with a few more ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’. Ralph wasn't the type, he was a survivor in most situations, in command of almost any crisis. Grafton (Properties) Ltd might go into liquidation at the end of the week but steps would have been taken to transfer most of the assets to another company before the Receiver was called in. It had all happened before; Grafton (Enterprises) Limited had gone bust owing nearly half a million, but Ralph had bounced back soon afterwards, smiling at his creditors like a hunting lion surveying its prey. He knew all the tricks, he wouldn't top himself.
In which case he still had to be around. Lynette lit her last cigarette, tossed the empty packet at the waste bin; it bounced, rolled across the kitchen floor. He was around somewhere, he never expended energy needlessly. But something decidedly odd was going on.
A glance at the window told her that it would soon be dusk, the deep golden rays of the setting sun making elongated patterns on the wall. She wondered if there was another woman involved. She didn't think so because her husband ‘wouldn't have time’, one of his favourite catch phrases. Women cost money, they weren't an investment. She was finding that out fast, ought to have come to terms with it a long time ago but she had stubbornly clung to the belief that Ralph was doing all this for her. He wasn't, she was just a showpiece like his new Range Rover, this house when it was renovated; something to show off, prestige. A millionaire's chattel. He was creating his own image and she was a part of it, nothing more. Which was why she was determined to walk out on him: not an instant decision, more one that had grown on her. She was independent, she didn't have to tag along behind anybody.
She ground her cigarette out in the ashtray viciously, shredding the filter tip with her long fingernails as though she bore it some personal malice. She would go and find Ralph, tell him the score. Now.
He would be down by that pool in the quarries, that was where she would find him. Her flesh tingled and for a second she experienced a sense of dizziness: too many cigarettes and no food since breakfast. The feeling passed and she went to the door, looked out. The sky was saffron, hazy, heavy; as if there might be a thunderstorm.
Outside, glancing at the Range Rover and the Mini, dismissing them, her feet already beginning to move as though her body was working ahead of her conscious thinking, knew exactly where it wanted to go. She saw that pool again, every detail, its starkness. Yet it had ... character. It was the sort of place you could sit and relax, absorb its atmosphere and it would sort out all your problems for you, put you in a more decisive frame of mind. Like leaving Ralph. You had toyed with an idea for weeks but suddenly you were thinking positively. Ralph might be down there now, in the stillness of dusk, trying to sort himself out.
She would go that way, take a look, and if he wasn't there then by the time she got back to the house he might have turned up. If he hadn't, she would leave a note. She had nothing to lose either way.
Darkness was coming fast, that build-up of cloud in the western sky was hastening nightfall. She ought to have brought the small pocket torch out of the car but it was too late to go back for it now. Anyway, she would probably be back before it got fully dark.
The quarries: God they were an eyesore. She stood on a ridge looking down on the maze of sand canyons. It seemed almost an impossibility to fill them in, level the ground. But modern machinery was mightier than Nature, one of Ralph's quips. It was immoral desecrating a tract of countryside like this. You had to pull a few strings, pay some hard cash to the right man to make such a violation possible. She winced: she was an accessory. Not any more, though. She didn't want any part of it. Ralph Grafton, you're on your own.
Funny, they hadn't felled and quarried this part of the wood. She came upon it suddenly, started at the towering trees, the dark shadows they cast as though night was already here. She did not remember seeing any trees before except those pines around the big house on her earlier exploration. But this was a big place, mounds like miniature mountains hiding tracts of land. She wondered for a moment if she had come to the right place, maybe she had better go back before she got lost. No, she was right, she just knew. Intuition.
A well-worn path led off through the trees, probably a favourite walk of the villagers, savouring the last of their heritage. An unexpected pang of pity brought tears to her eyes, misted up the gathering gloom. It was wrong, all bloody wrong. She wished there was some way she could give them back their woodlands, unblemished, the way it used to be. But that was impossible. At least, though, they would not have a housing estate overlooking them now. Not even Ralph Grafton's money could buy planning permission after what had happened. It would not be much of a consolation to the locals, though; stark crevasses left to grass over, the entire repair job passed on to Nature. She wouldn't hurry, a couple of generations maybe before there was greenery here again. The Green Belt, Lynette laughed softly to herself. Sheer hypocrisy. God, civilisation was bent on self-destruction.
The wind was getting up, rustling leaves, this place giving its own sigh of despair. Sadness. A more forceful gust; anger. A branch whipped across her arm and she gave a startled cry. Don't blame me, d'you hear me? I didn't do this to you, I didn't want it this way. I'm sorry. I'm sorry!
The silence was gone. Twigs snapped, either broken off by the wind or crushed by prowling nocturnal creatures. She cowered, choked back a cry of fear. She would go back, run all the way to the house, not even go inside it. Jump in her car, drive away from here, never come back. She would leave. Now.
Turning, peering into the blackness. The path, the one she stood on, branched off behind her into several directions.
Which way?
That way. No, that one. Right. No, left. Oh Christ!
It was growing darker, colder. Thunder rumbled somewhere, died away, and then the wind dropped so that that awful stillness rolled back.
Only one direct route: the path stretching on ahead of her, straight and well-trodden as though it knew where it was going.
She stepped forward, testing the ground in front of her with her foot before putting her full weight on it, arms outstretched to protect her face from slapping branches. Wanting to run but scared to. Please, I didn't do this to your wood, my husband did, and I'm going to leave him. I don't ever want to see him again.
It's too late, the damage is already done. Somebody must pay.
Not me, please! Please let me go.
The wind again, a roaring angry beast, branches flailing, so many of them, whipping at her with a fresh fury, stinging the arms which tried to ward them off. Forcing her to break into a run, a headlong flight, trees stepping out into her path. A blaze of multi-coloured lights before her eyes, her senses reeling, crawling now and still the victim of a bizarre flagellation. Her clothes torn, tattered and shredded, cruel briars securing a hold on the flapping material and ripping it from her body, exposing naked flesh so that it could be whipped even more painfully.
She would have given up, just lain there in the darkness, not caring whether she lived or died, except that they drove her on like a straying beast being mercilessly flogged back to its herd. Punished. Bumped from one tree to another until she was not sure whether she still followed the path, did not care.
She hit another tree, groaned, crawled to the right of it, bumped into another. Then she stopped, for a second or two impervious to the incessant lashing. It wasn't a tr
ee, not resistant enough. Nervously she stretched out a hand, felt at it. Material, some kind of cloth, something hard beneath it. A leg!
A moan of terror escaped her bleeding lips as she realised what had obstructed her. A leg … two. Looking up fearfully, just able to discern the silhouette of a man standing over her.
And then she screamed.
Ralph Grafton had slept deeply and as he stirred in the armchair he felt fully revitalised. The events of the past few hours came flooding back to him but gone was the shock and despair. Thinking clearly, planning.
Things had come to a head, which was better than having them dragging on for weeks. An unfortunate major subsidence of the land had put paid to all his plans for building. He would go bankrupt, or rather Grafton (Properties) Ltd would. The company was dispensable. He would form a new company, buy up the land for a song. Right now he wasn't quite sure what he would do with it but he would think of something. His only problem was how to avoid his involvement in what had happened here in this house. His fingerprints were all over the place, it would take the police about a couple of hours to nail him. We're charging you with murder, Ralph Grafton. You killed Claude and May Minworth. No, Claude killed May then tried to kill me. Self-defence, I had to kill him. Prove it.
Funny, he got to thinking about that Sucking Pit place again. Crazy. They wouldn't catch him there, like a refuge. Invincible. But you couldn't hide in a pool.
His mood changed. Whichever way you looked at it he was in the shit, a murder rap hanging in the background as threatening as those storm clouds which were filling the late evening sky. Form another company, buy Hopwas Wood for a pittance and get stuck with it. That didn't make sense and, anyway, he was fast running out of companies. He closed his eyes, tried to fight off the thought which was trying to bomb him like an angry mosquito. Take the easy way out, no problems. You've nothing left to live for; and there's some guy knocking your wife off as well!