Blind to the Bones. Stephen Booth

got to be up early in the morning, anyway,’ said Neil.

      Alton nodded. ‘Do you remember, the year before last –?’

      But Neil held up a hand before Alton could finish his question.

      ‘I don’t even want to think about it,’ he said. ‘Two years ago, Emma should have been there.’

      ‘Of course. I’m sorry.’

      ‘It’s all right. I suppose it seems a long time ago now, for most people. I don’t expect everybody to remember.’

      ‘But I do remember,’ said Alton. ‘And there are her parents, of course.’

      ‘Oh, her parents remember,’ said Neil.

      Because of the failing light, Alton could see little beyond the wall of the churchyard now, except the streetlights in Withens. He was sure it wasn’t Caroline’s voice he had heard in the village earlier. Perhaps it had been Fran Oxley, or even Lorraine, or one of the other members of the Oxley family.

      But it definitely wasn’t Caroline – she would never laugh like that, or shout so loudly in public. At this moment, Caroline would be walking past the Old Rectory, averting her eyes from the house and garden until she could turn into the crescent and reach their bungalow.

      Somewhere in the darkness beyond the streetlights was Waterloo Terrace, where the Oxleys lived. Alton could picture the eight brick cottages, tightly packed like a row of soldiers, standing shoulder to shoulder against the larger stone buildings that clustered around them.

      Derek Alton and Neil Granger stood in the church porch a few moments longer, listening to the noises from the village. The screaming faded, then grew louder again.

      ‘Does that sound like a rat to you?’ said Neil.

      ‘Yes, it does.’

      Neil nodded. ‘OK, then.’

      He rubbed at his face as he began to walk away down the flagged path. His clothes rustled like the sound of the blackbird in the dead leaves. Alton lifted his head for a second to look towards the village. And when he turned back, he found that Neil had already disappeared into the darkness beyond the yew trees.

      Later, Derek Alton would have a lot to regret. He would be sorry that he hadn’t watched Neil Granger leave, and hadn’t observed the moment when the young man passed out of his sight. Perhaps he could have called Neil back and said something that might have changed his mind. But he hadn’t. Alton had been too distracted by the noise coming from the village, and too absorbed in his own concerns. He would feel guilty for that, too.

      But most of all, Derek Alton would regret not saying goodbye.

      There were ten more dead bodies to collect that night. Others had probably died underground, or had been trapped deep in the spaces between the stone arches and the hillside behind them. But Sandy Norton wasn’t satisfied.

      ‘We’re going to have to put more poison down,’ he said. ‘The buggers are breeding like, well –’

      ‘Rats?’

      ‘Yeah.’

      Norton shone his torch into the mouth of the middle portal. It was one of the nineteenth-century tunnels, the old westbound line, which wasn’t used for anything these days. The railway track had long since been ripped up, and the tunnel abandoned. The arched walls glistened with water, and a small stream ran into a stone conduit near his feet. Just beyond the limit of his torch beam, there were shadowy, scurrying movements on the dirt floor.

      ‘It makes you wonder what they find to eat,’ said his mate, Jeff Cade, as he took off his rubber gloves and put them away in a pocket of his overalls. ‘I mean, aren’t they supposed to live near people? You’re never more than six feet away from a rat, and all that? But there are no houses around here any more.’

      Norton laughed. ‘That’s no problem. Look up there, where the old station and platforms used to be. You see that car park and the picnic area, right? Well, that’s like a drive-in McDonald’s as far as these little buggers are concerned. Just think – there’s all the food that people leave on the grass when they’ve been having their picnics, and all the bits of sandwiches and chocolate bars, and God knows what, that they chuck out of their car windows. There’s thousands of people coming past here, especially at the weekend, ever since they turned the old railway line into a footpath.’

      ‘It’s called the Longdendale Trail. I know.’

      ‘And then there’s the road up there – the A628. Have you ever seen how much stuff lorry drivers bung out of their cabs? You can’t walk along the roadside up there without getting splattered with lumps of flying pork pie and pasties. It’s disgusting. Particularly when they have tomato sauce. I hate tomato sauce. But it means there’s waste food lying all along the roadside. Not to mention the cafés in the lay-bys. The bins are overflowing with rubbish up there sometimes.’

      ‘I suppose you’re right.’

      ‘No, there might not be people living here any more. But the whole world comes by to feed the rats in Longdendale.’

      ‘It’s a good job they can’t get to the cables in the other tunnel. They can gnaw their way through anything, given time, can rats.’

      ‘We need some more poison, anyway,’ said Norton.

      A few yards away, in the old eastbound tunnel, a pair of four hundred thousand volt cables ran through a concrete trough. The cables entered the tunnel three miles away at Dunford Bridge, carrying a section of the National Grid between Yorkshire and Manchester. As they emerged again at Woodhead, they ran past a relay room, then up into a series of giant pylons that marched down the valley towards Manchester. The abandoned Woodhead tunnels had saved the moors from being covered in pylons for those three miles.

      Sandy Norton had often admired the quality of the stonework in the tunnel arches, which had survived in good condition for more than a hundred and fifty years. But their present use was one the navvies who built the tunnels couldn’t have imagined as they hacked their way through the hill with their pickaxes and gunpowder.

      In fact, those navvies wouldn’t even have been able to imagine the newer two-track tunnel to the south, which had been cut in the 1950s and accommodated the country’s first electrified rail line. That tunnel was empty, too, now. Apart from the little battery-powered locomotive that ran on the maintenance track in the National Grid cableway, the last trains had run through the Woodhead tunnels over twenty years ago.

      Norton and Cade were packing up to leave the site when a car slowed and stopped on the road overhead. They heard it pull on to the bare concrete pad where a house had once stood above the tunnel entrances, but which was now no more than a pull-in for a good view down the valley. After a few moments, the car started up again and drove off.

      ‘That was an old Volkswagen Beetle,’ said Norton.

      ‘How do you know that?’

      ‘I recognize the sound of the engine. It’s distinctive – air-cooled, you know. I used to have a Beetle myself years ago, when I was a lad.’

      ‘Have we finished with these rats, then?’

      ‘For now,’ said Norton. He turned off his torch. ‘You know, I wouldn’t like to walk through this tunnel in the dark.’

      Cade shuddered. ‘Me neither. Three miles in the dark? No thanks. It’d be bad enough, even without the rats.’

      He turned back towards their van. But Norton didn’t follow him immediately. He was looking up at the stones over the arch of the tunnel mouth. He’d once been told that the navvies who built the old tunnels had been very superstitious men. They were convinced that their tunnelling had disturbed something deep in the hill, which had been the cause of all the disasters that happened to them – the tragedies that had earned Woodhead the nickname ‘Railwaymen’s Graveyard’. Norton had heard that when the navvies had finished tunnelling, their final act had