The Memory of Blood(91)

‘Next Sunday the Punch and Judy man was gone. He never came back. Well, somebody had to become Mr Punch. Life kicks you in the teeth and the only way you can win is by kicking it back. There, I’ve only told one other person that story in my entire life.’

He stopped and looked up into the rafters. It sounded like a pigeon scuffling. Something was moving about among the beams. Dust sifted down, glittering in the candlelight.

‘Now I think you’d better tell me what you want. Before you’re arrested, I mean. The detectives who interviewed us after the party, they seem to have put a tracker on my car. I bought this little device at the spy shop in Park Lane that tells you whether there are any abnormal electromagnetic pulses near you, quite useful. They should be here very shortly.’

‘Why did you come?’ sang the voice.

‘Why? I would have thought it was obvious. I want to know why you would go to so much trouble as you have, but not try to hurt me.’

‘I want you to admit your guilt.’

‘For what?’

The sound above Kramer grew suddenly louder. Wood cracked. A fresh flurry of dust and cobwebs fell. Something heavy dropped down, a large dark shape that barely missed his head.

It slammed onto the plywood sheets at his feet.

He found himself looking at the body of a woman. For a moment his breath froze inside him, but he took a step closer and the brief spasm of fear melted. The dummy had cracked open, spilling a mixture of what appeared to be dried red beans and sawdust. The effect was unnerving, like an eviscerated corpse.

‘Do you understand now?’ asked the voice.

Kramer laughed. ‘Is that was this is about? You drag me all the way out from bloody London to stage this? Christ, it’s a good job you never tried for a career in the theatre—sorry, I forgot—you did, didn’t you? I think I’m going to have to fire you now, though. I don’t think our working relationship will be able to survive this.’

Kramer walked closer to the dummy and knelt to examine it. ‘Ella will be very upset when she finds you’ve stolen one of her dummies. She would never have dressed it up in this tacky outfit. Do you want to tell me what your connection is with this creature? Or do I have to guess? Were you two having an affair?’ He rose to his feet, angry now. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake you can come down now and ditch the am-dram. I knew I should have hired a decent director. You should have stuck with telly, Russell, it’s where you belong. You know your problem? You’re the director but you just can’t get the right reaction from your audience.’

The pitchfork seemed to have no-one behind it. It came out of nowhere, thrown in anger, but found its mark. One of the tines pierced Kramer’s throat, and the one below it entered his chest very close to his heart. The third tine only grazed his armpit, but the damage had been done.

Kramer gave a small gasp of surprise and fell forward onto the fork, punching it deeper into his throat. His expensive new handmade shoes had slipped away from him on the plywood floor.

He hovered there in a fulcrum, then toppled to the side. He was dead before the PCU officers managed to open the barn door.





Jack Renfield had run the London Marathon four times, but he had been lighter in those days. He had seen the figure burst from the back of the barn, and had taken off after him. But he didn’t know the terrain and couldn’t see where he was going. He knew he might break his ankle at any moment as they charged across the roughly ploughed, rock-strewn field. There were drops and ditches all around.

He fell once, then again, and wished there was someone other than Bryant and May with him. Looking up he could still see the figure hopping and flailing over the earth trenches, heading for the cover of tall trees. If he reached them there would be no chance of finding him.

Renfield lifted his aching legs higher and jumped over the deepening ridges. The figure he was pursuing looked like a scarecrow come to life, presumably because of the greatcoat that flapped about him. Perhaps it was a woman—a girl, even—the figure was light and had immense agility. The chase was played out in total silence, with only the rain and the wind talking in the trees. A large bird beat past him, knocking him back. Renfield was not easily stopped, and climbed up on his feet again, now caked in reeking mud.

But there, just ahead, was an insurmountable problem. A black, wide line crossed the field—a deep-sided brook too wide to jump. He knew he was likely to break a leg if he threw himself in, and would not be able to get up the sheer earth bank of the other side. He watched helplessly as the hopping figure reached the treeline and vanished inside it.



‘Don’t stand any closer or I’ll brain you,’ said Dan Banbury. The CSM had been on his way home to Croydon when he received the call, and was quickly able to divert his route. Bryant had been about to walk on the plywood boards, but thought better of it. Instead he was forced to lean forward from behind Banbury’s tape line.