by John Burke
“I can’t imagine that the opinions of others affect you very much, Mr. Hamilton.”
He considered this for a moment. In a strange way she was glad to sense the return of his intuitive arrogance: it suited him better and seemed more natural than his muted politeness. “I should like to be popular, I suppose,” he ruminated. “But in order to be popular one must conform to the standards dictated by convention, and I find that too high a price to pay. I have my own standards—and to those I conform.”
There was not really much she could reply to this. After a brief silence, Clive Hamilton smiled again.
“I’ve taken up enough of your time. I wonder . . . before I go, might I trouble you for a glass of water? I rode straight here when I heard the news, and . . .”
“Of course.” Sylvia turned towards the kitchen, then hesitated. His civility ought to be matched with civility. “Unless you’d prefer a glass of sherry?”
He bowed his acceptance, and she took the bottle of sherry from the sideboard.
Unexpectedly he said: “Do you believe in life after death, Miss Forbes?”
“That’s an odd question to ask a stranger.”
“I was hoping you no longer considered me a stranger.”
She had no intention of encouraging any such hopes in his mind. Brusquely she said: “Yes, I do believe in life after death. Don’t you?”
“I’m sure of it, Miss Forbes.”
He appeared to be smiling to himself as he drank.
Suddenly the stem of the wine-glass snapped, and the bowl fell to the floor. Both of them stooped to retrieve it. Their hands met for a moment, and Sylvia felt a sharp jab into the little finger of her right hand. She gasped with the jolt of pain. When she turned her hand over, blood dripped from a deep cut in the finger. Yet she was sure she had not touched the glass—and its edge had not been jagged enough to inflict such a gash.
“How careless of me!”
As Hamilton got up she saw that he wore a large signet ring with a twisted design in sharp relief. He held it out ruefully to show where the blame lay, and then took her arm and led her to the sideboard. She had put out another glass, and he held her finger over this and let the blood drip into it while he took a clean white handkerchief from his top pocket.
“It’s nothing.” She could not bear to have him fussing over her. “Only a scratch.”
“But we must take care of it. There—a safety pin will hold it.”
Sylvia went to the corner cupboard where Alice had kept her sewing and mending materials. She found a safety pin after rummaging in the shadows at the back of a shelf, and turned towards Hamilton with it. She would sooner have pinned the bandage up herself, but it was hard to manipulate a safety pin with her left hand only.
He completed the job neatly and efficiently and then went to the door.
They said formal goodbyes. Although there had been nothing out of the ordinary in the incident, Sylvia was overpoweringly glad that he had gone.
She took the pieces of the broken glass towards the kitchen and picked up the other glass on the way. It was not until she had put the empty glass on the draining-board that she saw how truly empty it was. There was only the faintest smear of blood in it; yet Clive Hamilton had held her finger over it until quite a few drops had fallen in.
It was absurd to read anything sinister into this. She put it out of her mind and went on with the housework, somewhat impeded by the bulky roll of handkerchief round her linger.
Every now and then she stole a glance at the closed door of the consulting-room. Earlier, two silent women of the village had come to lay Alice out in the coffin which had been delivered. Peter’s arrangements had been put into effect with a haste which would have been unseemly if it had not so pitifully indicated Peter’s own repugnance for the grim routine and his desire to have it finished and, as it were, obliterated. Sylvia had not looked at her old friend’s face since the old crones had been and gone. She wanted to, yet was afraid.
At last she surrendered. She opened the door and went in. The blinds were drawn and the room was in half darkness. The coffin lay across two sturdy trestles in the middle of the floor.
Sylvia looked down at Alice. The face was pale and lifeless. Yet in some disturbing way not as lifeless as the features of other corpses she had seen. Her father’s daughter, she was used to death and most of its manifestations. Alice’s color was not noticeably worse than it had been while she was alive.
She moved the shroud so that she could see the cut on Alice’s wrist. And it seemed that all at once there was a searing pain in her finger.
Shaking uncontrollably, she hurried out of the room.
She seemed to hear Clive Hamilton laughing. It was ridiculous, since she had never heard him laugh. But he was standing beside her—and then was in front of her, his lips drawn back from his teeth, as though to laugh in her face . . . or, grotesquely, to spit in her face.
He was there, too, when Alice was laid to rest. Sylvia tried to dismiss the fantasy but it kept recurring. The cut in her finger throbbed as though to remind her of Clive Hamilton’s existence.
“Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live . . .”
The vicar’s aged drone was like the creaking of a dry branch in the churchyard. The only mourners were Sir James, Peter, and Sylvia. A few villagers had watched men carry the coffin into the churchyard, but none of them had come to pay their last respects. They kept away as they might have kept away from a contagion.
Sylvia swayed. Peter gave her his arm. Together they stared mutely, dismally at the coffin in the black mouth of the earth. Soon the mouth would close and there would be no more, no trace of Alice.
She felt dizzy. Clive Hamilton’s face was as clear before her as though he had been standing respectfully on the other side of the grave. But there was no respect in his eyes—only a gloating calculation, a terrible possessiveness.
Pain snapped at her again. She looked down and saw that blood was trickling from beneath the bandage.
She refused to faint. She wasn’t going to give in. Alice had let the atmosphere of this place prey on her mind, but Sylvia was not going to succumb so easily. She had cut her finger and that was all: it was nothing to worry about.
Earth was scattered on the coffin. She forced herself to stoop and take up a handful of soil. The sound of it striking the wooden lid was dull and final.
They turned away from the graveside.
The vicar walked beside her father, murmuring his regrets. As the small group approached the churchyard gate, a couple of onlookers backed away and scuttled down an alley.
“A devilish business,” said the vicar.
“You may be closer to the truth than you think,” said Sir James. Sylvia, leaning on Peter’s arm, heard everything through a mounting wash of sound like the roar of the sea within a shell. “Vicar, I’d like to ask a favor of you.”
“Anything I can do to help.”
“I’d like the use of your library. I’m given to understand that you have a fine collection of books on a variety of subjects.”
“That is so.” The vicar preened himself.
“Do you have any concerning . . . witchcraft? Black magic?”
“You don’t imagine—”
“I’m a scientist,” said Sir James. “Imagination plays no part in my work.”
At last Sylvia’s legs betrayed her. She felt herself slumping to the ground. But Peter caught her and put his arm round her, and in a shuddering daze she was led across the square towards the house.
10
The creak of the front door opening jerked Peter awake. He had fallen into a fretful doze while waiting for Sir James to return, and was startled to find that the room was in darkness. He fumbled with the oil lamp as Sir James and the vicar groped their way in.
As soon as the flame licked up from the wick, Sir James said bluntly:
“Have you ever heard of Voodoo, Peter?”
“Some sort of Caribbean witchcraft.”
“The island of Haiti, to be precise. That’s its real home. Primitive . . . and disgusting.” Sir James glanced at the vicar. “Perhaps you can explain it better than I?”
The vicar shook his head vigorously.
“Very well.” Sir James sat down before Peter and leaned forward. “Sylvia told us that she saw something up on the moors with Alice. A man, and yet not a man. She described him . . . and her description was that of a walking corpse. Young Martinus also saw something on the moor. Something—or someone. He insists it was his brother. We know that his brother is dead. We also know that his brother is not lying snugly in his coffin, don’t we? What do you make of it, Peter?”
Peter groped for understanding. There was no explanation which wasn’t immediately absurd. “He must have been buried alive,” he said tentatively. “Somehow he freed himself and . . . and he’s out there.”
“But you saw him, didn’t you? You were his doctor. You know he was dead. And I saw him during that unpleasant incident as we arrived in the village square. He was as dead then as any corpse I’ve ever seen. No, that’s not the answer.”
Peter glanced at the vicar. “Then what is?”
“Someone in this village,” said Sir James, “is practising one of the most appalling forms of witchcraft. That corpse wandering the moor is an “undead”—a zombie.”
Peter thrust the mere idea of it away. The disease that had harrowed the village had been perplexing enough; he could not have it all attributed to a wild fancy of this kind.
“How can you, a scientist—”
“It’s because I’m a scientist that I accept irrefutable evidence when it’s put before me.”
Peter still did not believe. But whatever came out of all this, it must be possible, somehow, to establish peace in the community. Guesses and theories and fantasies—they must all somehow be resolved. He said:
“What ought we to do?”
“There’s nothing to be done about Martinus’s brother. Not right away.” Sir James hesitated, then said: “It’s Alice I’m worried about.”
“Alice?” He had endured enough. Alice was dead and buried. Peter was taut with grief, not ready to talk and not ready to contemplate . . . His thoughts became a shambles. Horror dawned on him. “You’re not suggesting . . . ?”
“I pray that I’m wrong, Peter; but we can take no chances. The vicar and I intend to stand watch over her grave until daybreak.”
“I’ll come too.”
“I’d rather you didn’t. I’d rather you stayed with Sylvia.”
“She’ll be all right. She’ll sleep till morning. I’ve seen to that.”
“Even so . . . If anything were to happen, I’d rather you weren’t there.”
“I’m coming with you,” said Peter stubbornly.
A low mist hung about the gravestones. The churchyard was grey apart from a few small splashes of color where flowers had been placed on graves. The brightest stain was the mound of fresh flowers on Alice’s new grave. At the head was a huge wreath which Peter did not recognize. He examined it, and found a card with a florid signature—Clive Hamilton.
That domineering swine. He allowed himself vicious thoughts about Hamilton now, not because Hamilton had ever done him or Alice any wrong that could be explained, but because his very presence was somehow unsettling and alien.
He thought of Hamilton, and of the village, and of Alice. No: he mustn’t think of Alice. And mustn’t think what Sir James had hinted at. No. He thought of the old woman in the cottage beyond the church who would need a visit from him in the morning; and the girl in the farm two miles away who was expecting a baby; and of how he would manage on his own.
No, he mustn’t think about that either. Must just keep going.
Sir James stretched, and a bone in his leg creaked. He grinned ruefully.
Their vigil was timeless. All three of them sank into a chill torpor. The church clock struck one o’clock, and then there was an eternity before it tolled two solemn beats.
Sir James edged closer to Peter. Neither of them took his eyes off the outline of the grave.
“Why don’t you slip back to the house and get warm?”
“I’d rather stay here,” said Peter.
Sir James nodded towards the vicar, who had sagged against a tree and was half asleep. He was too old for this kind of watch. Sir James reached out and tapped him on the shoulder. The vicar started, waved his arms, and stared wildly into the night.
“What . . . what is it?”
“It’s well past your bedtime, Vicar. I don’t think anything will happen now. You go home.”
The old man could not even summon the pretence of a protest. He looked relieved at the idea of quitting this cold, ghostly place.
“If you’re sure . . .”
“I’m sure. Doctor Tompson and I will stay a little longer.”
“Then goodnight, gentlemen. Should anything untoward happen, please don’t hesitate to call me.”
The vicar shuffled away round the side of the church to the path which led to the vicarage, set back from a row of cottages flanking the southern edge of the churchyard.
Sir James set his shoulders against a heavy monumental tombstone and wriggled into a more comfortable position.
There was a sudden cry. He pushed himself upright again. Peter looked up into the trees. A night bird? But when it came again there could be no doubt about it: it was the vicar calling out.
The two of them ran down the path, stumbling over the untrimmed grass verge, and hurried round the bulk of the church. There was no sign of the vicar between here and his own front door. They went out into the narrow cobbled lane and looked both ways. Nothing stirred. Sir James strode to one end of the lane and peered into the uncertainty of the road which skirted the village.
There was a sound of running feet, starting abruptly and just as abruptly cutting off.
Sir James began to run.
They found the vicar lying at the eastern end of the church, where the road curved in close to the wall. He moaned as they bent over him, and tried to sit up.
“He . . . set on me.”
“Who was it?”
“I didn’t get a look at his face. No time.”
Sir James signalled to Peter that they should lift the old man to his feet. When they had positioned him between them, Peter said: “We’d better take him home. Gently does it.”
“No,” said the vicar. He summoned up the strength to free himself and stood shakily on his own two feet. “I . . . I can manage now. But you must get back. It may be a trick.”
He walked resolutely away to show that he was in earnest.
Peter was torn by a ravaging panic. He hadn’t believed the mumbo-jumbo about Alice and the grave. But now, in this eerie light and dank mist, he knew a fear which was irrational and at the same time overwhelming.
They went back into the churchyard, round the building towards the grave.
A dark figure scurried suddenly across the path in front of them. Somebody snapped an order, and there was a rustle of feet.
Peter ran desperately on.
As he came to the massive yew, he saw their fears had been justified. Someone had worked fast while they were decoyed away. The grave had been outraged. Flowers were littered everywhere, half buried in earth which had been clumsily flung to either side. The coffin was out of the grave; and a man was bending over it, wrenching back the lid.
Peter shouted without knowing what he was shouting. He hurled himself forward.
The man straightened up. Shrouded in a dark silk cloak he was unrecognizable; yet there was something about his imperious fury even as he turned to flee that jarred on Peter. It was all over too quickly for him to be sure—the defiler of graves standing up, turning, running away—but Peter would have been prepared to swear that it was Clive Hamilton.
The coffin lay open before them as they approached the grave. Peter did not dare to look in. It was all right; it must be all right; they were in time,
no harm had been done, there was nothing to see but Alice’s dead face: yet still he could not look.
Sir James was made of hardier stuff. He stood over the coffin and stared down. Peter took a deep breath and walked resolutely up to him.
Alice’s face was set. Her hands were folded on her breast. Her eyes were closed.
And then they flickered open.
Peter gazed straight into those eyes and knew they were not his wife’s eyes. All her beauty had gone. The moment the features moved, beauty and tranquillity were gone. The bloated mask of death smirked up at Peter in a lecherous parody of the love he had known.
“Keep away—in God’s name, keep away!”
Sir James pushed Peter violently to one side so that he reeled against a craggy headstone.
Alice began to crawl out of her coffin.
She slid on to the ground like some giant, slimy insect. Her hands groped forward and hauled her along. As though emerging from a sticky chrysalis she tested every step, raised her head and twitched from side to side, and probed the soil with her fingertips. Then she steadied her head and looked straight at Peter. She smiled. He flattened himself against the massive headstone and watched, stricken, as she clawed towards it and began to pull herself up.
He could not move. If this writhing, blasphemous creature claimed him she must have him. Eyes without lustre, mouth without meaning, the serpentine drag of her movements—he had no courage to fight them off.
“Zombie!”
Sir James was rigid and accusing. There was nothing academic, nothing professorial, nothing detached about him any more. In a rage of terror he screamed the word.
“Zombie . . . !”
Alice turned to him. Her lascivious grin faded, and hatred flooded into her warped features.
The man who had run away had left a spade beside the grave. Sir James bent and picked it up. He took a step towards Alice as she writhed to her feet, and raised the spade above his head.
It was all so slow. Peter watched and could not believe. He wanted to shout, and found that the sound would not come. Slowly, as Alice thrust her head venomously towards Sir James, and Sir James swung the spade so heavily and languorously, he cried: “No . . . no . . .”