THE KILLER OF THE DARKNESS

EPISODE FORTY-TWO

FORTY-TWO

Peering into the distance, I could just make out the thin dark spike of the Onehouse church sticking up through the mist. As I walked, it resolved itself, and followed the road past it, and its misty graveyard and into the village beyond. I came to a slight rise at the edge of the village, affording me one of my favourite views of the community.

       Streetlights stood at irregular intervals along the snow-covered street. Although early morning, they glowed pallidly in the mist. This is the main street through Onehouse.

       Half-way along, the Onehouse Arms, its sign swinging gently in the breeze. At the far end of the village, the school, with a field fenced off beside it.

       A short way in front of me, a front door to one of the small-terraced houses opened. Standing in the doorway stood an old woman. Sylvia Swale, a small, almost shrivelled old woman, wrapped up against the cold. Her breath an uneven, thin trail of steam, that mingle with the vague mist, swirling into the air almost at once.

       As I watched, another door opened. Then another. And another. All along the street, people were stepping out on to the threshold of their houses, standing quiet and still as they looked along the street. But they were not looking at me, they were facing the other way, looking past the pub towards the remote school.

       I stepped to the side of the road and selected a narrow alleyway between two of the houses and I stood in the entrance, waiting to see what would happen.

       As I waited, I looked at the villagers standing silent in their doorways. Like Sylvia Swale, they were dressed for the cold; their heavy, dark coats, augmented here and there by mufflers and shawls, swept nearly to the ground. Something struck me as odd, and it took me a minute to realize what it could be.

       Past Sylvia Swale I could see a younger couple, in their thirties, Peter and Helen Smith. And after that Geoffrey House. A whole group emerged from the Onehouse Arms and were standing, some with drinks in their hands, watching a house on the opposite side of the road. Amongst the group I could see, Joanne mingling with a couple of other women.

       A mixed set of people, men, and women, young and old. Except...

       Children.

       There were no children.

       This was something not for a child's eyes.

       Another door opened. The door, a front door to the house opposite the pub. Quite a way down the street from where I stood, and the remnants of the freezing fog made it more difficult to discern what appeared to be happening. A group of people emerged from a house.

       The group were nothing like the crowd that emerged out of the pub. There appeared to be order to this.

       A funeral.

       Even as the realization hit me, the distant figures were carrying large box on their shoulders. Two men either side of it. A casket. The pallbearers walked to the end of the small front garden of the house, then turned into the narrow street, starting towards where I stood.

       I turned to look at the church behind me.

       A figure stood at the gate to the churchyard. A parish-priest, his white surplice almost glowing in the diffused light, a comparison to the dark and dull clothing of those in the procession and the other villagers. In his late middle age, grey and balding, his face lined but friendly, despite the grim expression. His hands were clasped in front of him, holding a book, a prayer book or Bible.

       He looked up as I turned, and for a moment caught her eye. No surprise, no inquiry, no alteration of expression in his face, just a slow nod in my direction, before averting his gaze to the approaching mourners.

       The procession moved at a slow pace, the pallbearers taking one footstep at a time, the casket rocked back and forth with every stride. They made their way up the street, followed by a small group of mourners. Two by two. A woman in full-length black dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. An older man had his arm around her shoulder.

       Behind them were two young men. One stared at the ground, while the other looked with fierce intent, at the coffin. Along the street, heads turned in time with the slow speed of the processions progress.

       Joanne broke from the procession, hugging and kissing me first and then holding my hand as I stiffened at the approach of the coffin. But as I turned my head a little, I stopped and scrutinized beyond the mourners.

       My attention became fixed on a narrow passageway on the opposite side of the street, further down from the one where we were standing.

       At first, I could see nothing. Just the dark avenue, the shadows from the houses either side and the faint gleam of a streetlamp, muted through the misty daylight to give an otherworldly glow to the scene.

       But as I stared, I could see someone standing there, in the dimness. A tall, thin, silhouetted figure. Black against dark grey. Only when the figure moved, turning as it too without the procession, that I could see it at all.

       As the procession passed between me and the figure, I lost sight of it.

       The priest turned to lead the way along the churchyard path. Joanne and me both took an instinctive, respectful step backwards as the coffin passed by.

       Then the second of the two pallbearers on our side lost his balance. I saw it happen, as if in slow motion. His shoulder dipped slightly as his shoe slipped on the compact ice that lay on the rounded cobbles. He adjusted his grip, seemed to regain his poise, stood upright again. But the sudden, the change in weight distribution, caused him to slip again, this time with more severity.

       The man collapsed suddenly, his feet slipping from under him. With inevitable alarming certainty, the coffin tilted, falling into the space left by the man's departure. The other pallbearers tried to compensate, tried to strengthen their failing grips on the coffin. The young man with the intent stare ran forwards, seeing what was about to happen.

       But he did not make it.

       The coffin continued to tilt, sliding out of the grip of the other men, crashing to the snow-covered ground. It bounced on the compacted ice, followed by a sound of splintered wood as the coffin landed on its edges. Then the lid lifted, jarred open by the impact, and slid sideways.

       Joanne stood right beside this unfortunate event. The streetlight cast its pallid light directly into the gap, illuminating the past white face of the corpse.

       Dee Williams' face looked contorted, in terror and agony, her lips pulled back over her dentures in an obscene grin. Her forehead lined and the eyes, bulging forwards as if straining to be free of the dead sockets of the skull. The pupils were wide, dilated, dark against pale irises.

       With the lid put back in place, Joanne's view was cut off, in no time at all. Instead, she found herself staring at the man from the procession. He glared at her, his eyes a fierce contrast to the empty gaze of the corpse.

       He continued to stare at her as the pallbearers lifted the coffin up again but stopped when I put my arm round her shivering shoulder and drew her close to me.

       The procession continued its melancholy way and the last of mourners entered the churchyard. The remaining villagers withdrew in silence and respect into their houses, closing the doors behind them. The gathering from the pub made their solemn way back inside, and Dee Williams husband turned away from us and followed the cortège up the street and into the churchyard.