"Smith, Guy N - Sabat 01 - The Graveyard Vultures" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

THE CEMETERY had long been untended. A quarter of a century ago it had been the pride of the small village. Neat rows of white, marbled tombstones, bedecked regularly with fresh flowers according to the season, the grass trimmed so that it resembled strips of lush green lawn. Now the worst side of nature had taken over. Brambles which had hitherto been kept in check relishing the freedom to stretch their thorny tentacles, moss and dandelions obtaining a stranglehold on the grass and stifling it so that it grew long and brown and went to seed. The elements whipped the gravestones mercilessly, obliterating the lettering so that names and dates were indecipherable, and the dead passed into oblivion.

The small church, too, standing amid the tall scots pines had fallen into a state of disrepair. Slates had blown from the roof, smashed on the weed-covered path from the lichgate and had not been replaced, guttering rusted and overflowed during heavy rainfall because starlings regularly nested and roosted there, the big double doors fast conceding to the depredations of woodworm.

One weekly service on Sunday mornings was a last reminder that religion still clung to this decaying edifice, conducted by an ageing curate who was long past retirement. And when his time came, it was rumoured in the village, the Church Commissioners would concede defeat and allow yet another of their remote outposts to fall. Because nobody wanted the church; that much was apparent by the dwindling congregation which had now fallen below half-a-dozen, while the ranks of the godless were swelling.

The bishop, writing in his diocesan magazine, had referred to the possible closure of this once beautiful church. A word had been sprayed on the entrance doors with aerosol paint (he conveniently abstained from quoting the word or even mentioning that it had four letters), and a couple of graves had been 'interfered with'. That worthy man chose to remonstrate liberally in print with anonymous vandals although he blamed the villagers for this apparent lack of pride in their church. He did not mention what had become of the proceeds of a long-established Church Restoration Fund, much of which had been on deposit account at the bank for many years. Nor was it clear whether the Diocese had totally financed a hideously modern place of worship which was in the last stages of construction in one of the city suburbs. Bishop Wentnor wasn't one to go into scrupulous detail where church finances were concerned.

Only on moonlit nights was any of the former elegance of St Adrian's Church restored. The ethereal silvery glow accentuated the architecture while obscuring the missing slates and crumbling stonework in shadow. Even the churchyard took on some degree of respectability. And it was during these periods of a full moon that worshippers came in numbers. But not as Bishop Wentnor would have wished.

It was well after midnight before the full group was assembled in the old cemetery. They had arrived mostly in twos or singly, creeping stealthily through the straggling hedgerow which bordered a wood at the rear, talking only in whispers, then falling into a humble respectful silence when the tall man in flowing black robes, his face concealed by the dark shadows of a cowl, had arrived. Now they stood about awkwardly, teenagers who still remembered school discipline, shuffling plimsolled feet and discreetly extinguishing cigarettes which they had shielded in cupped hands.

The tall man addressed them in commanding tones, a long arm extended to single out a grave only yards away. This one had no headstone, just a wooden marker. A recent burial, the flowers barely starting to wilt. The aura of sadness which it had engendered by day had turned to a sinister atmosphere by night.

Two youths produced a spade and a pickaxe which they had brought with them. They received an approving nod from the man whose authority none disputed. There was no need for instructions and without further delay they began to dig.

The spadework was easy, fresh soil made soft by the recent grave digging so that the pick was not needed. The watchers moved in closer, eager as the mound of soft damp earth grew, spilling back in small showers until finally they heard stones thudding on the exposed coffin lid down below. Necks craned forward; two well-built youths in soiled denims stepped out of the group. Now the pick was needed, a cracking and splintering of seasoned wood. Two. standing in the open grave, others kneeling to assist in a cumbersome task, dragging the enshrouded corpse up from its last resting place. The tall man stood back with folded arms.

The full moon was almost at its zenith, its soft light showing up every detail as trembling hands tore at the shroud revealing dead white flesh.

Gasps, some of horror from those who had not experienced necromancy before. The corpse was naked now and there was no mistaking the beauty of the young girl. She could not have been more than eighteen, the mortician's make-up accentuating the darkness of her long hair, lips that were full and red even in death, breasts sagging but perfectly proportioned, the dark 'V of lower hair tantalising the watchers so that some became aroused.

'A young, dead virgin is the most powerful instrument of all.' The cowled man's long, slender fingers were stroking the cold flesh almost lovingly, dwelling for a second or two on the wide surgeon's scar which disfigured the flat abdomen even in the moonlight.

"Ow d'yer know 'er's a virgin?' There was open insolence in the tone of the one who still held the pickaxe.

'Hold your tongue!' The cowl had fallen back exposing a broad, cruel face, eyes too close together, the mouth a thin slit, nostrils dilated with fury. 'How dare you question my judgement. Sylvia had a stomach cancer at the age of thirteen. For five years she fought a battle against it, mostly in hospital. She had no boyfriends. Does that answer your question, Julian?'

The other nodded.

'But tonight,' the coven leader's voice became high-pitched, rose almost to a crescendo, 'that virginity will be lost!'

'Jesus!' a tall rangy youth backed away. 'You're not going to ... '

'Do not argue with me. Our Master has need of Sylvia and for this he will reward us richly. Lift her on to that tomb over there. Hurry, for we have work to do and the night is not without its dangers.'

Trembling hands lifted the dead girl and laid her face upwards on the flat, table-like tomb of a wealthy village family. She sagged, a leg fell and swung in grim lewdness causing several of the younger coven members to jump back in alarm.

'Now, Sheila, get undressed. Everybody get undressed for the Master abhors inhibitions.'

Clothes were shed, the tall man beginning a low incantation as he followed suit, revealing a middle-aged body that was already aroused. A slim, fair-haired girl was trembling violently, biting her lower lip as though trying to stem a flood of tears, folded arms shielding breasts which had yet to reach maturity. She'd never thought that they would go this far. Horace (maybe it wasn't even his real name) was some kind of sadist. Up until now it had all been a kind of sexy game and she hadn't minded the other guys having her. Horace had said that tonight was to be her 'initiation' and she'd thought that was just an excuse for another orgy. But digging up a dead girl who'd spent most of her life fighting against an incurable disease . . . ugh, it was horrible! She'd have no part in this.

'I... I want to go home,' her plea sounded pathetic and she knew she ought to have voiced her disapproval before she'd stripped off. They had dug up a grave on the last full moon but that had been a decrepit skeleton, a bit creepy but the guy had been dead for half a century and it wasn't doing him any harm. Anyway, they'd reburied him afterwards.

Horace paused, his intonation dying away. When he spoke again his voice was angry, his thin lips scarcely seeming to move. 'It's too late now I'm afraid, my dear. You've gone too far to back out. Now, go and lie alongside the lovely Sylvia and remember . . . it's the Master you're giving yourself to. Feel privileged, honoured, to share the sacrificial altar with a virgin \'

Sheila Dowson felt her senses reeling, thought for a moment that she was going to faint. Her instinct was to turn and run; maybe if she hadn't been naked she would have done just that. But somehow the thought of running nude through the village back to her home was an equally frightening thought.

'You can't make me do anything I don't want to do!' She had meant to sound firm and defiant but her voice trembled and suddenly the pent-up tears of terror came in a flood. Then she began to scream.