Read Online The Undertakers Gift by Trevor Baxendale - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Trevor Baxendale
Ads: Link
sorry for him. But she found herself grinning at him from under her beanie regardless, and he smiled back at her, not in the least bit embarrassed.
‘So,’ Ray said when the bus had left and they were alone. ‘Where is this Black House, anyway?’
‘This way.’ Wynnie stepped over a gutterful of brown water and crossed the road. Ray hurried after him, following his brightly coloured rucksack. They passed some dilapidated houses with scrubby front lawns and no one home. They looked deserted, maybe even ready for demolition.
‘Hey, I think I do recognise this area,’ Ray said after a while. They were trudging along the side of a small park or something, surrounded by old, bent railings scabbed over with rust. ‘From when I was lost after the party. It’s around here that I saw the church and the cortège, I’m sure of it.’
‘Makes sense, I suppose.’ Wynnie located a gap in long row of railings where the metal spurs were missing. He ducked through and, after a moment’s hesitation, Ray followed.
‘I feel like a kid again,’ she said. ‘I used to sneak out of school at dinner time for chips. There was a gap in the railings there too.’
‘Watch your step here,’ Wynnie advised, pointing down. ‘It’s a bit overgrown.’
The undergrowth was thick and tangled, full of discarded rubbish. Ray now realised that Wynnie was dressed perfectly for the occasion: waterproof anorak, cargoes, heavy boots. He probably had a torch and first-aid kit in that stupid rucksack. But what had she come in? Trainers, skinny jeans and a denim jacket. Her only concession to the bad weather was one of Wynnie’s Kasabian beanies and a pair of fingerless woollen gloves. Wonderful. Way to go, Ray.
She followed him across a patch of waste ground, stumbling over an uneven surface littered with stones, weeds and big grey puddles. Up ahead there was a gang of dark, leafless trees waiting for them. Beyond the trees was a wide expanse of nothing but overgrown thistles and stiff, razor-sharp grass.
And then there was the church.
It was old, cold and forgotten. The windows were empty, there was no roof, and the walls were cracked and sprouting weeds.
‘This used to be the cemetery,’ explained Wynnie. There was evidence of where the cemetery walls had once stood – sections of low, crumbling black brickwork at various angles.
‘What did they do with the graves?’
‘They probably moved the recent ones. They can do that, with the right permissions and so on. That would’ve been back in the 1960s anyway. Ancient history.’
‘And the older ones?’
Wynnie shrugged. ‘Too deep, probably. Too decayed. They used to dig a lot deeper than six feet in the olden days, you know. And then there’s subsidence, where the ground moves and squashes everything. Wooden coffins will have rotted and split. What’s left of the bodies will have putrefied.’
‘There is such a thing as too much information, you know.’
As they wandered through the trees, Ray’s foot hit a large, square stone. Pushing back the undergrowth, she found what could have been part of an old gravestone. She was walking over someone else’s grave – so why did it feel like someone was walking over hers?
The rain had stopped and there was a thin mist rising up from the ground. Ray headed for the remains of the church. ‘So that’s the Black House, is it?’
‘What’s left of it, anyway.’
The sense of neglect was almost overwhelming, like a physical force. It made Ray want to run away and never come back.
‘It’s. . . horrid.’
Wynnie nodded wisely. ‘It’s no beauty spot. Small wonder no developer has ever bought the land. Who’d want it?’
Ray began to walk around the remains of the walls, tracing the perimeter of the building. ‘There’s no life here. Nothing. Look – even the weeds are dead.’
It was weirdly quiet, too; no traffic or birdsong or anything. Just the quiet whisper of the rain and the sound of her trainers as she picked
‘So,’ Ray said when the bus had left and they were alone. ‘Where is this Black House, anyway?’
‘This way.’ Wynnie stepped over a gutterful of brown water and crossed the road. Ray hurried after him, following his brightly coloured rucksack. They passed some dilapidated houses with scrubby front lawns and no one home. They looked deserted, maybe even ready for demolition.
‘Hey, I think I do recognise this area,’ Ray said after a while. They were trudging along the side of a small park or something, surrounded by old, bent railings scabbed over with rust. ‘From when I was lost after the party. It’s around here that I saw the church and the cortège, I’m sure of it.’
‘Makes sense, I suppose.’ Wynnie located a gap in long row of railings where the metal spurs were missing. He ducked through and, after a moment’s hesitation, Ray followed.
‘I feel like a kid again,’ she said. ‘I used to sneak out of school at dinner time for chips. There was a gap in the railings there too.’
‘Watch your step here,’ Wynnie advised, pointing down. ‘It’s a bit overgrown.’
The undergrowth was thick and tangled, full of discarded rubbish. Ray now realised that Wynnie was dressed perfectly for the occasion: waterproof anorak, cargoes, heavy boots. He probably had a torch and first-aid kit in that stupid rucksack. But what had she come in? Trainers, skinny jeans and a denim jacket. Her only concession to the bad weather was one of Wynnie’s Kasabian beanies and a pair of fingerless woollen gloves. Wonderful. Way to go, Ray.
She followed him across a patch of waste ground, stumbling over an uneven surface littered with stones, weeds and big grey puddles. Up ahead there was a gang of dark, leafless trees waiting for them. Beyond the trees was a wide expanse of nothing but overgrown thistles and stiff, razor-sharp grass.
And then there was the church.
It was old, cold and forgotten. The windows were empty, there was no roof, and the walls were cracked and sprouting weeds.
‘This used to be the cemetery,’ explained Wynnie. There was evidence of where the cemetery walls had once stood – sections of low, crumbling black brickwork at various angles.
‘What did they do with the graves?’
‘They probably moved the recent ones. They can do that, with the right permissions and so on. That would’ve been back in the 1960s anyway. Ancient history.’
‘And the older ones?’
Wynnie shrugged. ‘Too deep, probably. Too decayed. They used to dig a lot deeper than six feet in the olden days, you know. And then there’s subsidence, where the ground moves and squashes everything. Wooden coffins will have rotted and split. What’s left of the bodies will have putrefied.’
‘There is such a thing as too much information, you know.’
As they wandered through the trees, Ray’s foot hit a large, square stone. Pushing back the undergrowth, she found what could have been part of an old gravestone. She was walking over someone else’s grave – so why did it feel like someone was walking over hers?
The rain had stopped and there was a thin mist rising up from the ground. Ray headed for the remains of the church. ‘So that’s the Black House, is it?’
‘What’s left of it, anyway.’
The sense of neglect was almost overwhelming, like a physical force. It made Ray want to run away and never come back.
‘It’s. . . horrid.’
Wynnie nodded wisely. ‘It’s no beauty spot. Small wonder no developer has ever bought the land. Who’d want it?’
Ray began to walk around the remains of the walls, tracing the perimeter of the building. ‘There’s no life here. Nothing. Look – even the weeds are dead.’
It was weirdly quiet, too; no traffic or birdsong or anything. Just the quiet whisper of the rain and the sound of her trainers as she picked
Similar Books
