the third heir to the Dry estate," the bass voice
replies, carrying eerily over the water. "But yes – find
it, you certainly may – Sarah Bellum."
A cloud moves across the
moon, and I can no longer make out the water, or the direction of the
speaker. Cold-skinned zombie fingers grasp my own, tugging me to
follow again.
"How did he know my
name?" I want to know, but the zombie says nothing, leading me
away from the tree-roots. "And what third heir? I thought it was
just Crispin and Homer?"
At last, the terrain
starts to head upwards, becomes less like rough ground, and more
even, like broad steps. They narrow progressively, until we are on
what is essentially a spiral staircase, like the inside of a
church-tower.
After a few minutes of
climbing, a studded iron door marks the end of our route. It is
unlocked by a nautical-style wheel, and we push it inwards.
It is some sort of
storage facility – or laboratory – or study – but
far older than Crispin's, in the bunker under the stairs. Instead of
a smart garage, armoury, hi-tech computers and sterile refrigerated
quarantine sections, this is all yellowing papers and pickled things
in jars, under what could be a century of dust.
An ancient, empty leather
chair is in front of a desk, where a misty magnifying glass and an
old pair of wire spectacles lie abandoned, on an open diary.
I shine my torch onto the
handwritten page.
TO CATCH A COMET'S
TAIL … it says – and
then just a sequence of odd, Leonardo da Vinci -style
diagrams.
"My preciousss ,"
the zombie calls me, and I turn, to see him opening a small white
door in the corner, half-hidden behind a pile of old books.
I go to look, and it's
the last room I was expecting to see hidden away underground.
It's a baby's nursery.
A wooden painted mobile
hangs above a white wooden crib, and a jolly-looking chicken fresco
is painted around the walls. There are no photographs.
I know, as I step through
the doorway, behind the strange zombie, that I'm entering a shrine.
" Precioussss …"
moans the zombie, pointing.
I gaze into the crib.
"Yes," I agree,
as the beam of torchlight reflects off the surface of the six-litre
pickle jar. So peaceful-looking. "Isn't he just?"
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN :
NECROMANCING THE
BONES
" H ow
did you know this room was even here?" I ask the strange zombie,
as it tears its one remaining eye off the sight of the pickled baby
in the crib, and starts to fluff pillows and blankets around it, in a
proprietary fashion. "I mean, surely Crispin would be down here
all the time, looking for clues – if HE knew about it…"
At the name 'Crispin' the
zombie moans, sympathetically. I look at him more carefully, in the
torchlight.
There does appear to be a
family resemblance…
"Do I have the
pleasure of guessing correctly that you are Mr. Dry, Senior?" I
say at last.
The zombie nods, patting
and polishing the jar a little.
"No wonder," I
breathe. "But why the Body Farm tag? Is it the equivalent of a
summer festival pass, to a zombie? An excuse to lie around in the
open air at weekends, meet laid-back girls, catch a few flies –
nobody bothering you…?"
The zombie shrugs and
nods again, waggling his hands in the universal gesture meaning 'Pretty much, yeah.'
No wonder they know so
much about me already, I realise, blushing fiercely. Eavesdropping on
my private one-sided conversations, no doubt, with Mr. Wheelie-Bin
under the silver birch tree…
"So who was…
is this?" I ask, more gently. The baby's thumb is in its mouth,
a forelock of blonde hair waving slowly in the suspension fluid.
The zombie points to the
head of the crib, where an engraved brass name plaque becomes
obvious.
"Higham Dry," I
ponder, and the zombie nods again. "The youngest?"
The Zombie shakes his
head, and holds his hand up above his head, as if measuring.
"The eldest?" I
whisper, shocked, and am rewarded with another nod. "I'm not
surprised that Crispin and Homer felt they failed expectations, then…
having a
replies, carrying eerily over the water. "But yes – find
it, you certainly may – Sarah Bellum."
A cloud moves across the
moon, and I can no longer make out the water, or the direction of the
speaker. Cold-skinned zombie fingers grasp my own, tugging me to
follow again.
"How did he know my
name?" I want to know, but the zombie says nothing, leading me
away from the tree-roots. "And what third heir? I thought it was
just Crispin and Homer?"
At last, the terrain
starts to head upwards, becomes less like rough ground, and more
even, like broad steps. They narrow progressively, until we are on
what is essentially a spiral staircase, like the inside of a
church-tower.
After a few minutes of
climbing, a studded iron door marks the end of our route. It is
unlocked by a nautical-style wheel, and we push it inwards.
It is some sort of
storage facility – or laboratory – or study – but
far older than Crispin's, in the bunker under the stairs. Instead of
a smart garage, armoury, hi-tech computers and sterile refrigerated
quarantine sections, this is all yellowing papers and pickled things
in jars, under what could be a century of dust.
An ancient, empty leather
chair is in front of a desk, where a misty magnifying glass and an
old pair of wire spectacles lie abandoned, on an open diary.
I shine my torch onto the
handwritten page.
TO CATCH A COMET'S
TAIL … it says – and
then just a sequence of odd, Leonardo da Vinci -style
diagrams.
"My preciousss ,"
the zombie calls me, and I turn, to see him opening a small white
door in the corner, half-hidden behind a pile of old books.
I go to look, and it's
the last room I was expecting to see hidden away underground.
It's a baby's nursery.
A wooden painted mobile
hangs above a white wooden crib, and a jolly-looking chicken fresco
is painted around the walls. There are no photographs.
I know, as I step through
the doorway, behind the strange zombie, that I'm entering a shrine.
" Precioussss …"
moans the zombie, pointing.
I gaze into the crib.
"Yes," I agree,
as the beam of torchlight reflects off the surface of the six-litre
pickle jar. So peaceful-looking. "Isn't he just?"
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN :
NECROMANCING THE
BONES
" H ow
did you know this room was even here?" I ask the strange zombie,
as it tears its one remaining eye off the sight of the pickled baby
in the crib, and starts to fluff pillows and blankets around it, in a
proprietary fashion. "I mean, surely Crispin would be down here
all the time, looking for clues – if HE knew about it…"
At the name 'Crispin' the
zombie moans, sympathetically. I look at him more carefully, in the
torchlight.
There does appear to be a
family resemblance…
"Do I have the
pleasure of guessing correctly that you are Mr. Dry, Senior?" I
say at last.
The zombie nods, patting
and polishing the jar a little.
"No wonder," I
breathe. "But why the Body Farm tag? Is it the equivalent of a
summer festival pass, to a zombie? An excuse to lie around in the
open air at weekends, meet laid-back girls, catch a few flies –
nobody bothering you…?"
The zombie shrugs and
nods again, waggling his hands in the universal gesture meaning 'Pretty much, yeah.'
No wonder they know so
much about me already, I realise, blushing fiercely. Eavesdropping on
my private one-sided conversations, no doubt, with Mr. Wheelie-Bin
under the silver birch tree…
"So who was…
is this?" I ask, more gently. The baby's thumb is in its mouth,
a forelock of blonde hair waving slowly in the suspension fluid.
The zombie points to the
head of the crib, where an engraved brass name plaque becomes
obvious.
"Higham Dry," I
ponder, and the zombie nods again. "The youngest?"
The Zombie shakes his
head, and holds his hand up above his head, as if measuring.
"The eldest?" I
whisper, shocked, and am rewarded with another nod. "I'm not
surprised that Crispin and Homer felt they failed expectations, then…
having a
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