Read Online The Fetch by Robert Holdstock - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Holdstock
Tags: Science-Fiction
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attached. The metal seemed to have been
chopped
, cleanly cut from the whole as if by a guillotine.
Bronze.
Blooded.
The fragment of haft, of clean, smoothed alder, was not yet stained by time. It was bright wood, fresh wood, seasoned but newly carved to fit the blade.
Richard’s hands shook as he stared at this weapon shard. He could visualize clearly two identical spearheads, both in the museums where he had recently worked, and where there were authentic replicas of the ancient weapons on display for the sort of ‘touch and feel’ experience that schools were beginning to demand these days.
He was aware suddenly thatSusan was beside him, staring at the sharp-edged piece of metal.
‘Is that what cut him?’
Richard fingered the blood on the edge and nodded. ‘A replica, but a good one. The edge is razor-sharp.’
Susan closed her eyes and stifled panic. ‘It’s starting again,’ she whispered. ‘Oh God, she’s starting on us again. I thought she’d gone away.’
‘It’s not his mother. Sue, calm down. It’s not his mother.’
But Susan started to cry softly. Richard put his free arm around her.
‘She’s evil. She’s terrifying … Oh God, Rick. I can’t stand this …’
Richard kissed the top of her head, staring into the middle distance while Michael lay quiet in his arm. ‘It’s not her, Sue. It’s not his mother. It never was. Not her. Not the house. Not a poltergeist. Not any sort of ghost in the outside world.’
She drew back and looked at him, her face white, her dark hair dishevelled and falling over tear-stained eyes. Her lips trembled.
‘What then?’
‘Michael himself. It’s in Michael himself. It’s the boy who’s doing this.’
There was a long silence. Gwen and Doug stood holding each other, a few yards distant, watching and waiting.
Then Susan said, ‘And if I asked you why you said that? How you know?’
‘I’d have to say I don’t. I just feel it. I think I’ve known it from the day of his christening. He’s doing it himself. He’s haunted
inside
…’
‘And if that’s right,’ Susan murmured, her body beginning to shake so badly that Richard reached out to steady her. ‘If that’s right … where do we go from here?
What do we do?Who can help us?’
Richard said nothing. He led the way back to the car in silence, while Doug returned to the earthworks to gather up the scattered picnic.
EIGHT
He returnedto Ruckinghurst the next day, shortly after dawn, driving past Eastwell House to an access road that led to the field and the disused quarry. Here he unloaded from the car the tools he would need for the excavation: sheets of polythene, a trowel and scraper, two sieves and several light, wooden boxes. He carried this simple equipment across the field and round into the L-shaped pit, to the pile of earth by the high, far wall that he had systematically tipped into the quarry a year and a half ago. He laid his bits and pieces out in an orderly and careful way, then returned to the car for a table, notebooks, pens, pencils, specimen bags and labels. And of course, his lunch box.
‘Should have done this before,’ he muttered to himself as he began to trowel through the soil. ‘Should have damned well thought about this before!’
It was not exactly an excavation. There was no point in recording the position of objects, or their relation to each other, or in plotting levels. This was a sieve-through, and as such could progress fast. But like every sieve-through of the waste soil of excavations, the point was to find the
tiny
objects, not just the large.
Trowel by trowel, he searched the damp earth.
By midday he had processed half the soil, which now was piled on the several sheets of polythene. His back ached and his right arm was sorefrom the repetitive operation of scraping a kitchen spatula across the wire-mesh sieves.
As he stopped for a large, cold beer from his cool-box, he surveyed the results of the search so far. He had exhumed nearly
chopped
, cleanly cut from the whole as if by a guillotine.
Bronze.
Blooded.
The fragment of haft, of clean, smoothed alder, was not yet stained by time. It was bright wood, fresh wood, seasoned but newly carved to fit the blade.
Richard’s hands shook as he stared at this weapon shard. He could visualize clearly two identical spearheads, both in the museums where he had recently worked, and where there were authentic replicas of the ancient weapons on display for the sort of ‘touch and feel’ experience that schools were beginning to demand these days.
He was aware suddenly thatSusan was beside him, staring at the sharp-edged piece of metal.
‘Is that what cut him?’
Richard fingered the blood on the edge and nodded. ‘A replica, but a good one. The edge is razor-sharp.’
Susan closed her eyes and stifled panic. ‘It’s starting again,’ she whispered. ‘Oh God, she’s starting on us again. I thought she’d gone away.’
‘It’s not his mother. Sue, calm down. It’s not his mother.’
But Susan started to cry softly. Richard put his free arm around her.
‘She’s evil. She’s terrifying … Oh God, Rick. I can’t stand this …’
Richard kissed the top of her head, staring into the middle distance while Michael lay quiet in his arm. ‘It’s not her, Sue. It’s not his mother. It never was. Not her. Not the house. Not a poltergeist. Not any sort of ghost in the outside world.’
She drew back and looked at him, her face white, her dark hair dishevelled and falling over tear-stained eyes. Her lips trembled.
‘What then?’
‘Michael himself. It’s in Michael himself. It’s the boy who’s doing this.’
There was a long silence. Gwen and Doug stood holding each other, a few yards distant, watching and waiting.
Then Susan said, ‘And if I asked you why you said that? How you know?’
‘I’d have to say I don’t. I just feel it. I think I’ve known it from the day of his christening. He’s doing it himself. He’s haunted
inside
…’
‘And if that’s right,’ Susan murmured, her body beginning to shake so badly that Richard reached out to steady her. ‘If that’s right … where do we go from here?
What do we do?Who can help us?’
Richard said nothing. He led the way back to the car in silence, while Doug returned to the earthworks to gather up the scattered picnic.
EIGHT
He returnedto Ruckinghurst the next day, shortly after dawn, driving past Eastwell House to an access road that led to the field and the disused quarry. Here he unloaded from the car the tools he would need for the excavation: sheets of polythene, a trowel and scraper, two sieves and several light, wooden boxes. He carried this simple equipment across the field and round into the L-shaped pit, to the pile of earth by the high, far wall that he had systematically tipped into the quarry a year and a half ago. He laid his bits and pieces out in an orderly and careful way, then returned to the car for a table, notebooks, pens, pencils, specimen bags and labels. And of course, his lunch box.
‘Should have done this before,’ he muttered to himself as he began to trowel through the soil. ‘Should have damned well thought about this before!’
It was not exactly an excavation. There was no point in recording the position of objects, or their relation to each other, or in plotting levels. This was a sieve-through, and as such could progress fast. But like every sieve-through of the waste soil of excavations, the point was to find the
tiny
objects, not just the large.
Trowel by trowel, he searched the damp earth.
By midday he had processed half the soil, which now was piled on the several sheets of polythene. His back ached and his right arm was sorefrom the repetitive operation of scraping a kitchen spatula across the wire-mesh sieves.
As he stopped for a large, cold beer from his cool-box, he surveyed the results of the search so far. He had exhumed nearly
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