Tok
Paul Finch

Copyright

Published by Avon

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

This ebook edition published by HarperCollins Publishers 2016

First published in paperback in The Eighth Black Book of Horror by Mortbury Press, 2008

Copyright © Paul Finch 2016

Cover design © Debbie Clement 2016

Paul Finch asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Ebook Edition © January 2016 ISBN: 9780008173722

Version: 2018-07-24

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Tok

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

After they’d hacked and slashed the two bodies for several minutes, they danced on them. The firelight of a dozen torches glittered on their wild, rolling eyes, on their upraised blades, on the blood spattered liberally across the carpet of smoothly mown grass. Their shouts of delight filled the seething night. But when the little girl came out and stood on the veranda, there was a silence like a thunderclap. For a moment she seemed too pure to be in the midst of such mayhem, too angelic – a white-as-snow cherub, who, for all her tears and soiled nightclothes, brought a chill to the muggy forest by her mere presence, brought a hush to the yammering insects, brought the frenzied rage out of her captors like poison from a wound.

If it wasn’t the little girl herself, it was the thing she held by her side.

The thing they knew about by instinct.

The thing they’d seen only in nightmares.

*

It was late afternoon when Don and Berni drove onto the estate. Not surprisingly, there were police everywhere: patrol cars parked on the street corners, uniformed officers traipsing door-to-door with clipboards. Don’s blue Nissan Micra was subjected to a stop-and-check.

“Don Presswick,” he said, after powering his window down. “This is my wife, Bernadette. We’re visiting my mother for a couple of days. She lives at The Grove.”

The officer, who was young with fair hair, but wearing a grim expression, gave them a curt once-over. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any ID, Mr Presswick?”

Don didn’t have, but Berni rooted in her handbag and handed over a couple of credit cards. This seemed to satisfy the officer, though he still didn’t smile.

He passed the cards back. “You’re aware what’s been going on?”

“That’s why we’re here,” Don said. “To babysit Mum ’til it’s over.”

“Good idea.” The officer tapped the roof with his fingers. “Okay, that’s fine.”

“Listen …” Don adopted a confidential tone. “How’s it going? The investigation, I mean. Obviously it’s a concern, with my mum living on the estate.”

“Sorry Mr Presswick, there’s nothing I can tell you.”

“I’m ex-job. Don’t know if that makes any difference.”

The officer shrugged. “I can’t tell you anything because I don’t know anything. Enquiries are ongoing, as you’ll understand. We’ve a lot of bodies working on it.”

Don thanked him and drove on.

“Bloody woodentop,” he said.

“You were only a PC,” Berni reminded him.

“I had a lot more experience than him.”

“They all have to start somewhere.”

“Suppose so. Just wish it wasn’t on Mum’s estate, at this moment.”

It was only the third time Berni had visited The Grove since she’d married Don, but again she was reminded how lovely an old property it could be.

A large, five-bedroom detached, built well before the rest of the housing estate, it had been constructed in the Jacobean style – though it was actually Victorian – and was almost entirely clad with white plaster and black beams. Much of this was now weathered, the little you could see of it thanks to the high wall surrounding it, not to mention the tall trees in its front, rear and side gardens. Glimpsed through the red autumn foliage, the plaster had turned green and was flaking; the beams were covered in lichen, those sections that weren’t being eaten away by a shroud of crawling ivy. The roofs, which stood at numerous levels and angles, were also eroding: crabby with moss, their guttering packed with birds’ nests.

“Such a shame,” Berni said.

“All be yours someday,” Don replied, getting out to unlock the large timber gate.

“Assuming there’s anything left of it by then.”

Don eased the Micra through, climbed out again and closed the gate behind them. From here, the drive circled around the front garden to the rear of the house. Don only had a key for the back door, so that was where he usually parked. But before they’d driven more than a couple of yards, the front door opened and Helga, his mother’s cleaner and cook, emerged, wearing her mackintosh and brandishing her bag. Don applied the brakes, his tyres crunching gravel.

Helga was a burly woman with broad, heavy cheekbones. Her dark hair was shot with grey. Untidy straggles of it hung loose from the bun at the back of her large, square head. Not for the first time, Berni wondered why Don’s mother, Miriam, needed a cleaner at all. She lived here alone, in a house that was patently too large for her, and despite being wealthy, led a frugal existence. What there was for Helga to do all day, apart from cook the occasional meal, was a mystery. No doubt Helga didn’t complain, though it was understandable that she didn’t want to hang around at The Grove now it was getting dark. Don and Berni climbed from the car, Berni suggesting quietly that Don give Helga a ride to the bus stop on the edge of the estate.

“Thank Heaven!” Helga said brusquely.

She might be employed by Don’s mother as a domestic servant, but she never behaved that way. Quite the opposite. Her tone seemed to imply how ridiculous it was that they hadn’t been here several hours earlier, though they’d only been able to leave Stockport once Berni had finished for the day at the legal firm where she worked as a secretary, and in that respect had made good time.

“The heating’s on and there’s plenty of hot water,” Helga said. “I’m afraid I haven’t had time to prepare any tea for you.”

Don waved it away. “That’s fine, we’ll just …”

“I’m supposed to be in at nine tomorrow,” Helga interrupted. “Though I must tell you I’m not happy, the way things are.”

“So … you won’t be in tomorrow?”

She shrugged. “We’ll have to see how it goes.”

“Okay … if that’s what you want.”

“It’s hardly what I want.” Helga let that point hang; again, the implication seemed to be that if anyone was at fault here, it was Don. “Anyway, I must rush.”

She set off down the drive.

“I’m not sure it’s as bad as all this,” he called after her. She glanced back at him. “What I mean is … there are police officers all over the estate.”

“They haven’t done much good so far, have they, Mr Presswick?”

And that, Berni supposed, was true. Don had said what he’d said in an effort to suppress the woman’s anxiety. But it had been a little crass given that in the last three nights on this housing estate three different women had been murdered and their killer was still on the loose.

“They’ll catch him,” Don said, rather lamely.

Helga gave him a withering stare in which all the doubts she’d ever had about his knowing anything worthwhile were implicit, before saying, “I’ll call Mrs Presswick tomorrow.”

She continued down the drive, Don watching her broad back and large, sagging bottom until she’d vanished through the gate.

“I doubt she’s got much to worry about,” he said.

“At least one of the victims was middle-aged, wasn’t she?” Berni replied.

“Would you try and tackle Helga?”

“I don’t think it’s funny, Don.”

“Neither do I.” He climbed into the car and started the engine.

Berni climbed in too. “I thought you were going to drive her to the bus stop?”

“I never agreed to that.”

As they prowled around to the rear of the house, Berni said no more on the matter. Don had served as a policeman for the first twelve years of his working life, and as a security officer ever since. Now that he was in his late-thirties, he’d gone a little to seed, but he was still a rangy, raw-boned chap who stood six feet two inches tall. His hair and beard were greying, but he was handsome in a craggy, masculine sort of way. He regarded himself as a man’s man, which made it all the more galling for him to have to put up with Helga’s domineering manner. Not that this was an unusual experience for him. In many ways, Helga was an extension of his mother and, in that respect, petty victories, like refusing to offer her a ride when she was in a hurry, were the only ones he would ever really have over her.

They entered the house through the kitchen, which comprised dark wood panelling with a linoleum floor. Beyond the kitchen lay the dining room, the hall and the lounge. It was all very tidy, but the furnishing and decor throughout was sombre and old-fashioned. The rooms were tall with elaborate, hand-painted cornicing around their ceilings, but there were heavy curtains drawn everywhere, which made the interior dim to the point where it was almost difficult to find one’s way around. Carpets and rugs, many threadbare and frayed, muffled all sound as Don and Berni entered the lounge. There was scarcely a peep from the outside world. The windows, which were double-glazed, were presumably closed and locked. The walls of this house were very thick, and then of course there was the tree-filled garden encircling it, and the high wall surrounding the garden.

Thanks to the radiator in each room, the house was warm, as Helga had said, but it felt stuffy and lived-in. The air smelled stale. Berni gazed at her reflection in the large mirror hanging over the stone fireplace; because of its deeply tarnished glass, only a fogged spectre gazed back. When she ran a fingertip along the top of the mantel, it drew a visible trail. Don made no comment when she mentioned this. Instead, he grabbed their two holdalls – his blue/grey in colour, hers covered with pink flower patterns – and took them up the steep, creaking staircase to the first floor.

Berni glanced around, irritated as always by the steady process of neglect that continued to reduce her husband’s nest egg to a pathetic shadow of what it once must have been. Upstairs, she heard the strident tones of Don’s mother as she berated him for not getting here sooner.

Miriam Presswick had not always lived like a hermit in her own home. When The Grove had been the sole dwelling on this broad green Lancashire hillside, with only a clutch of trees to shelter it from the heather-scented breeze of the Pennines, she had, for a time, come out of the mental exile she’d endured since returning to England from Africa, and enjoyed life again. Even after her husband’s premature death, she’d made an effort to remain in the real world. Inevitably though, the nearest town – Layburn, once three miles away – had continued to expand, and by the mid-1980s one of its multiple new housing estates, ‘the Bannerwood’, had engulfed the one-time country house. The Bannerwood wasn’t by any means a problem housing estate, being privately owned and suburban in character. But it was vast and sprawling, and on first being built it was occupied mainly by young families, which soon meant there were lots of children running around – so many children, as Miriam Presswick would complain. Children in gangs, children running, children shouting, children screaming – and children encroaching, always encroaching, finding ever more reasons to trespass on her property: in summer chasing footballs or playing hide and seek among her trees, in autumn trick-or-treating or throwing fireworks onto her lawn.

Berni didn’t know whether such persecutions had actually taken place or were purely imaginary, but given Miriam’s personal history it was no surprise that her sense of embattlement had finally become so acute that she’d had the outer wall erected, cutting herself off completely from the busy world that had suddenly encircled her. Despite that, but not atypically of psychological breakdown (not to mention advancing senility), even this security measure had in due course proved insufficient. In the last year alone, Miriam had contacted her son on average once a week to complain that people were trying to climb over the wall, were scratching on her doors, tapping on her windows. Nonsense, of course. Utter nonsense. Though Don had not admitted that. He would never have the guts to be so abrupt with his mother. He’d tried to calm her, tried to reassure her that she was imagining it – to no avail.

And then, this last week, the murders had started.

Berni only knew what she’d read in the papers, but on three consecutive nights an unknown assailant had entered homes on the Bannerwood estate and had strangled a woman to death in each one. It was pretty difficult to take Miriam’s fears with a pinch of salt under those circumstances.

Don now came downstairs. As always after a meeting with his mother, he looked chastised.

“She okay?” Berni asked.

“She’s fine.”

“Happy?”

“Happier.” Though he didn’t look as if he was being entirely truthful with that. “Don’t suppose you fancy popping to the chippie and bringing us something for tea?”

“Sure.” Berni had taken her coat off, but now pulled it back on.

“Hang on.” He raised a hand. “You’d better not go. I’ll go.”

“It’s okay. It’s not even dark yet.”

“It’s getting dark.”

“Don, there are coppers all over the estate.”

“Yeah, and like Helga said, what bloody good have they been?”

Berni took her coat off again. She wasn’t usually so quick to follow her husband’s orders. A born and bred Scouser, ‘toughness’ and ‘independence’ were her two middle names. But there was something about visiting The Grove that she found oppressive. Its brooding aura, not to mention the aura of its queenly owner, always seemed to sap her energy to resist. She wondered if this was the spell the aristocracy had woven in olden times, when an awed peasantry made them superior simply by believing that they were. Miriam was no aristocrat of course, but she had been raised among the colonial classes.

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