Читать книгу The Boneyard: A gripping serial killer crime thriller - Mark Sennen, Mark Sennen - Страница 11

He’s driven out onto the moor so he can be alone in the darkness. Experience the isolation of the wild country. Perhaps find a solution to his problem.

The problem is that things are wrong. He thought the return would change things, make him see the issues in a different light. Starting over didn’t mean having to go back to the way things were, did it? Surely it was possible to move on from the past?

He parks the car in the middle of nowhere and climbs out. He sets off along a stony track. The night excites him. He enjoys the coolness of the air, the peaty odour which emanates from the ancient bogs, the wind caressing his face. Nothing moving. Not another living human within miles.

Only the dead.

The dead, yes. They’re not far away. A short walk along the track. The coolness. The peaty odour. The wind. Nothing moving. Not a soul. Nobody but the dead.

But the dead are the problem!

They won’t keep quiet. They keep talking to him. Calling his name. He mutters to himself as he walks along, trying to drown out their voices.

The track is a grey thread curling into the distance as the route follows a contour line round the side of a hill and then forges across a flat plain. He pads along, noting the bogs either side of the track, the smell of the marsh gas like decomposing flesh, the pools of water like mirrors, reflecting a sombre sky where the moon plays hide and seek with the clouds.

In the distance a glow hugs the horizon almost as if the sun is about to rise. But the glow doesn’t belong to the sun, the light comes from the city where people bustle back and forth living their insignificant lives. He thinks about the thousands of morons sitting in their living rooms, their eyes glued to a rectangular screen with flickering pixels, absorbing the drivel pumped out for them to lap up. Others are clustered in pubs and bars, talking rubbish to friends, to colleagues, to any fucking idiot who will listen. And then there are those who interest him. Not the morons stuck in front of their televisions. Not the wasters out on the piss. The others. The quiet ones. Demure and lying still in their beds. Hands by their sides, legs together, eyes tightly shut. Almost as if they were dead.

He knows he’s not right in the head. Who walks the moorland after dark? Who stalks graveyards, delighting in the quietness of the stones, aroused by the presence of those who have passed beyond the physical? Nobody normal, that’s for sure.

Fuck it!

He clenches his fists in anger for a moment but then relaxes. He’s close now. Close to where he can get relief. Close to where they lie waiting for him. Where they’ve lain for all these years. He walks on and arrives at the gate. He pulls a key from his pocket and fits it into the padlock. Unlocks it and removes the heavy chain. He pushes the gate open and slips through. Shadows loom like welcoming friends. They’re here. All around him. He steps up to where a silver lake glistens in the moonlight. He begins to undress, stripping off his clothes until he stands naked. He bends to the water and takes a handful. He splashes the cool liquid on his chest, the chill shocking him, exciting him. And then he thinks of the girls. His girls. His heart beats faster and his breath rushes in and out. Yes, he cries in the dark. Yes! Yes! Yes!

He stands there, spent. His breathing slows, his heart calms and now he is disgusted with himself. Disgusted it took such a fetish to turn him on. He shakes his head. What’s done is done. He reaches for his clothes and dresses hurriedly. He tries to reconcile what has happened. What harm is there in it? None. Not this time. But tomorrow? Next week? Next month?

He plods down to the gate, goes through and refastens the chain. The harm is safely in his head, he thinks. His darkest thoughts nothing but swirls in his imagination. Soon, however, he knows the desire will build to a level where he can no longer be satiated by mere fantasy. He needs the exquisite feeling of flesh against his naked body. Flesh which is soft and cool and quite, quite dead.