A Room Full of Bones: A Ruth Galloway Investigation

sneaked off to watch
Newsnight
.
    But suddenly there is a slight hiss and a little gold tree springs up in front of her. The tree spins, shedding gold and silver leaves. Bob laughs aloud and Cathbad performs a rudimentary, capering dance. Ruth smiles, despite herself. This sort of firework seems harmless enough, rather beautiful, in fact. A few more like that and she can put the kettle on.
    In fact, there are many many more. How can Bob’s little box hold so much? Fountains, stars, spinning wheels, shrieking rockets – Ruth watches them all from the back door. What is it, this desire to fill the night with noise and light? It goes back hundreds of years before poor old Guy Fawkes. Probably another attempt to stave off the horrors of the night and of winter, like cockerels crowing at dawn. And like the cockerel, there seems to be a certain element of macho posturing involved. Bob and Cathbad are determined not to come back indoors before every last touch paper has been lit. Ruth doesn’t know a single woman who really likes fireworks.
    But, finally, they do come back in, smelling of gunpowder and the sea.
    ‘How about that?’ says Cathbad triumphantly.
    ‘Amazing,’ says Ruth. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
    ‘I’d like something stronger.’
    ‘I might have some brandy left over from last Christmas.’
    ‘Perfect.’
    So they sit in front of the fire and drink brandy and talk about bonfires, paganism and Aboriginal smoke ceremonies. Ruth feels her eyelids drooping but she enjoys sitting there, listening to the ebb and flow of conversation. If only she didn’t keep thinking that Kate would wake up any minute. Surreptitiously, she looks at her watch. Eleven-thirty. Even at the most optimistic assessment Kate will be awake in six hours. Ruth stifles a yawn, feeling her jaw lengthening.
    ‘We should go,’ says Bob. ‘Ruth has to be up in the morning.’
    ‘Oh, Ruth’s a night owl,’ says Cathbad, pouring more brandy.
    ‘I used to be,’ says Ruth. ‘Now I’m a lark. A reluctant one, I grant you.’
    ‘Come on Cathbad.’ Bob stands up, turns to Ruth. ‘Thank you for a lovely evening.’
    ‘Thank you for the fireworks.’
    Bob grins. ‘Well, the sun god needs his sacrifice. Isn’t that right, Cathbad?’
    ‘Undoubtedly.’
    ‘Can I give you a lift?’ It hadn’t occurred to Ruth that Cathbad didn’t bring his car. He rarely drives. He has a car but it is the oldest vehicle that Ruth has ever seen. Erik used to speculate that it dated from the Bronze Age.
    ‘No, I’m fine. I like walking at night.’
    ‘I’ll give you a lift as far as Snettisham.’
    ‘OK.’
    Ruth watches them go. The Saltmarsh is dark and silent, the Gods of night still reigning. As Bob’s tail lights disappear into the blackness, Ruth goes back inside and bolts her door.

CHAPTER 12
     
    The Necromancer is cantering along the all-weather track. He is going uphill, neck arched against the bit, powerful quarters pushing him onwards in a series of huge, bounding leaps. When he takes the turn at the top of the hill, his great round hooves strike sparks from the churned earth. He rises in the air, eyes red, mane and tail ablaze. He flies over the house. The Milky Way is his race track, the stars his hurdles. The asteroid belt writhes and twists beneath his feet. It is a snake that falls, hissing, to earth. It is a snake that is bigger than the sky, bigger than the earth. It is a snake that is small enough to whisper in his ear: ‘You are going to die.’
    Danforth Smith wakes with a sudden lurch of the heart. He can hear his breathing reverberating around the empty room. His duvet is drenched with sweat. He reaches out for his water but touches a dead hand. He is lying beside the bishop’s corpse, the ghastly skeletal face turned to his. He tries to scream but his voice has been stolen. With horror, he watches as a snake emerges from the skeleton’s rib cage. The creature, green as death, weaves itself inand out of the protruding bones. Smith knows that it has come for him, but with equal certainty he knows that he will not be able to move, not even to stretch out a hand as the dryly slithering body presses itself against his.
    Will it come for him, the black coach with its six horses, the headless coachman? He hears Niamh’s voice, her sweet Irish voice, clear as a bell. ‘When it stops at your door, there’s no escape. Your time has come.’ The sky is alight with gold and silver stars, the black horse gallops