The Midnight Hour by Neil Davies Page A

your face. All those people dead by my hand and not one had come back to haunt me. Ghosts did not exist.”
    “And now?”
    The wry smile returned to his tight lips.
    “Oh, they exist now all right. And they’re not happy.”
    With an empty road in front and behind he eased the car off onto a flat, muddy pathway leading to a rusted five-bar gate. As he bumped to a stop he turned off the engine and shuffled in his seat so he faced towards the reporter.
    “Have you ever killed anyone Jennifer?”
    Resisting the urge to lean backwards, away from him, Jennifer shook her head.
    “Do you think you could? If you had to? Self defence maybe?”
    “No.” She found her voice, cleared her throat to rid it of the nervous crackle she heard in her own head. “No, I could never take another human life.”
    “It’s not hard you know. In fact, it’s surprisingly easy. One you’ve done the first couple, you don’t even see them as human anymore.”
    Uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was taking, and that her interviewee was turning into the interviewer, she searched for a way to take control once more.
    “Why have we stopped here?”
    “I killed people all over the place, but I needed a safe location to bury the evidence.” He turned and looked out the windscreen once more. “This is it. I was burying bodies here when you had to drive across fields to get here. In fact, this road was built on my work.”
    Jennifer shuddered involuntarily and was startled when he pushed open the door.
    “Where are you going?” She felt suddenly very vulnerable, very frightened. She was with a contract killer at his secret burial ground. How hard would it be for him to add one more body to those already interred here?
    He stopped with one leg out of the door and turned, smiling, to her.
    “I’ve brought you to meet them.”
    “Who?”
    “The ghosts.”
           
    The cold soaked through her coat, making her unsure how much was the night and how much the fear that made her knees tremble. Her arms were folded, hands tucked into her armpits.
    She stood in front of the car, in the narrow light thrown by the headlamps. The night was quiet, unusually so she thought. Not even the sound of traffic on the motorway. Had they driven further than she thought? Or was it the deep blackness that pressed against the light from the car, smothering all sound as surely as it had smothered Harry the moment he stepped away from her.
    “Harry?” Her teeth chattered as she spoke. “Why don’t you come back here and carry on with the interview?” Like at this moment I care about the damn interview! “I’m cold Harry. Let’s get back in the car and talk.”
    She tried to see into the darkness, anything that might tell her where he was. He could be sneaking up on her right now. He could kill her before she even knew he was there. Maybe he’d changed his mind? Maybe he’d decided not to give the interview, and couldn’t risk leaving her alive with what she already knew about him? Childhood fears of the dark and the very adult fear of being murdered crowded for space in her brain, forcing the rational reporter to the sidelines. She could no longer think coherently. She just knew she had to escape from this alive… somehow.
    She turned quickly, first one way, then the other, staring down the beam of the headlights, trying to see beyond where they penetrated. Trying to see Harry. Wondering which way to run, where to hide.
    “Sorry.”
    His voice came from her left and she jumped, letting loose a small scream that she was immediately ashamed of.
    Harry smiled as he stepped into the light.
    “Didn’t mean to frighten you. Just wanted to make sure everywhere was clear. I have to be careful.”
    “Of ghosts?” She tried to smile, to show she was not afraid, but she could not stop the trembling in her muscles, or the shakiness of her voice. It was all she could do to hold back the tears that filled her eyes and threatened to spill down