Read Online The Grieving Stones by Gary McMahon - Free Book Online Page A

by a bad man who’d shown no remorse when he was arrested for his crimes. The case had even made the national news.
    “I see her sometimes, you know.”
    She went rigid. Every muscle in her body seemed to go tense.
    “When I’m in that weird state between being asleep and awake…you know, late at night or early in the morning. I see her drift into the room. She waves at me but she never speaks.”
    Alice had no way of responding, so she just let him talk.
    “Oh, I know it isn’t real… of course I know that. She’s dead. But it’s nice to pretend. I like to imagine she’s been away on holiday or something, and that she’s just come back. It’s lovely… lovely to see her again.”
    Alice drained her glass. Jake’s hand had strayed onto her thigh, the fingers dancing across her denim-clad skin.
    “I… I’m off to bed. Night, Jake…” She stood quickly, pushing him sideways only half accidentally: she wanted him to realise that he was overstepping the mark, that his attention was unwelcome, without actually saying something. He slid sideways across the back of the sofa, spilling his wine. “Whoops,” she said, stepping away.
    “Ah… fuck.” He started to brush at his crotch, not making the mess any better. He was making it worse, in fact. “I’m such a dick.” When he looked up at her, he seemed small, childlike. For a moment, she felt sorry for him. A huge and heavy sense of pity pressed down upon her and she struggled to breathe. It lasted only a few seconds, but the feeling was intense and unnerving.
    “Are you okay?” She made no move towards him.
    “Yeah… yeah, I’m fine. You just go to bed. I’ll finish this bottle first… maybe Clive will stay up and chat.” He smiled, showing his teeth in the gloom.
    Alice turned and left the room without saying another word. For a moment, she thought she’d seen the crude outline of a figure standing behind the sofa, its arms upraised, head thrown back. It wasn’t real of course, just a trick of the drink and the poor light, or perhaps Clive had returned from the bathroom… but nonetheless, it was a powerful image on which to end the evening.
    Walking along the narrow corridor to the stairs, she had the impression that someone small and crouched was shuffling behind her, keeping pace with her slow footsteps. She fought the urge to turn around and climbed the steps, coming up into the loft room. Moira had left a lamp on; its low light created shadows along the base of the walls.
    Alice moved slowly across the room, towards the bed, trying not to make any noise. This room had been tidied, too. She wondered when they’d had the chance to do it. Her gaze was drawn to the punch dummy. She was certain it had been moved, probably when the others had been busy. When she’d first seen the dummy, it had been standing close to the wall, close to the lower part of the sloped ceiling, its head almost touching the ceiling panels, but now it was positioned a few feet nearer the centre of the room.
    No, she thought. Don’t be so stupid. It hasn’t moved on its own. They shifted it when they were tidying.
    She did her best not to look at the dummy: the weird truncated torso, its smooth, blank face. When she reached the bed she undressed and slipped into an old, long t-shirt. She left the lamp on; it was better that way in case she or Moira needed to get up and go downstairs to the bathroom in the middle of the night.
    A breeze rattled in the eaves. Something large and airborne flitted by outside the window, brushing momentarily against the roof tiles. She climbed into bed and let her head sink into the surprisingly soft pillows. The mattress was hard but not unpleasantly so. She closed her eyes and tried to drift off, but now she was up here she no longer felt tired. She kept her eyes shut for a little while longer, trying to summon sleep, but it was no good. Her brain was too active to allow her to fall into the comforting darkness.
    When she opened her eyes