The Lifers' Club

by Francis Pryor

  He could read the church’s ancient stonework like a book. It had a fine Saxon tower, with distinctive long-and-short work, probably built in the earlier eleventh century. The nave, chancel and both transepts had been largely rebuilt in the earlier fifteenth century, at about the same time the vast tower of the Stump was going up across the fen in Boston. Like Boston, most of the money used to build Guthlic’s probably came from the lucrative trade in wool and textiles that was then transforming so many churches in eastern England. His immediate practical concern, the new toilets, were to be housed in a small Victorian extension built onto the south side of the chancel.

  Behind him the gate into the churchyard creaked. Alan looked round sharply. He was feeling jumpy after the fire, but it was only the vicar, accompanied by another man. After they had shaken hands, the Reverend Hilary Anstruther-Purse introduced his companion, who was wearing smart, new, tweedy country clothes, but was clearly not used to them. The man removed a glove to shake hands, but couldn’t find an unbuttoned pocket to put it in. He was rather nervous.

  He introduced himself as Alistair Crutchley and offered a handshake so warm and enthusiastic that Alan thought it would take his arm off.

  ‘Good heavens,’ he said, unable to contain his enthusiasm any further, ‘I’m so glad to have met you, Mr Cadbury! I loved the show you did at Boston Haven. Wasn’t that ship extraordinary? And who would have guessed there’d have been a slaving connection at that early date? Amazing. Quite amazing.’

  Alan smiled weakly. He had thoroughly enjoyed the History Hunters excavation at this nearby site, where they had uncovered a seventeenth-century merchant ship. In fact, he would go as far as saying it was one of his favourites. But he really wasn’t in the mood for a star-struck local.

  ‘So you enjoyed it?’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ Alistair was smiling even more enthusiastically: ‘I’d say so. It was first-rate. Absolutely first-rate.’

  To Alan’s relief, the vicar brought conversation to a halt with the suggestion that perhaps they should look inside the church.

  ‘Most regrettably,’ he said as he opened the door, ‘we have to keep it locked at all times. We’ve had so much material stolen and we’re so terribly remote. How far’s the Hall, Alistair?’

  He pointed towards a large wood across two enormous flat fields, where Alan noted the oilseed rape had been severely checked both by the frosts and by tens of thousands of pigeons, who roosted safely at night in the woods.

  ‘It’s just behind those trees,’ Alistair said. ‘Sometimes we walk to church in summer and it must take a good twenty minutes, door to door.’

  ‘And of course the village is even further,’ the vicar added, ‘over a mile away.’

  Once inside, they paused, so that Alan could enjoy what lay before them. It was an astonishingly fine building – and in an area famous for its churches. Alan may have had no time or patience for religion, but he could still appreciate the magnificent architecture.

  They walked through the transept and into the chancel. The large perpendicular east window had been fitted with vividly-coloured Victorian stained glass. Along its base, ornate Gothic lettering proclaimed: This window has been restored to the Glory of God, anno 1885, by Arthur Alistair Crutchley.

  ‘My great-great-grandfather,’ Alistair said quietly, as they stared up at the window, through which the morning sunlight was now streaming.

  Around them were memorials to other squires of the village, including the late medieval Lords of the Manor of Scoby who had survived into the eighteenth century. This was when they had demolished the old manor house and erected the brand new Hall.

  ‘I know it’s still rather unfashionable, but I do like Victorian stained glass. Particularly when the sun shines through it, like that. It’s glorious, is it not?’ said the vicar.

  He pulled an envelope from his pocket, which he gave to Alan.

  ‘Here,’ he continued, ‘these are the church keys. Keep them safe, then return them to me or Alistair when the dig’s finished. They’re the second spare set, so we won’t be needing them in the meantime.’

  And with that he left by the small door on the south side of the chancel. They watched him go, then Alistair turned to Alan.

  ‘Funny thing,’ he said, ‘in my father’s day the vicar was never given a key to that door. That was reserved for his – for the squire’s family. He thought vicars must be kept in their place. Very old school.’

  ‘When did things change?’

  ‘Fifteen years ago, when father died and I inherited.’ He was more relaxed now. ‘Seemed all wrong somehow. I even handed the gift of the living to the diocese. I mean, why should we – the family – dictate who should be the next vicar, just because AAC said so.’

  Alan interrupted him.

  ‘I’m sorry, what’s AAC?’

  Alistair let out a small chuckle. ‘Not what, who.’

  Alistair pointed up at the window.

  ‘Him up there: Arthur Alistair Crutchley. As I was saying, just because AAC had made a fortune in London and had then bought the estate, and with it the living, that didn’t make him any better in the eyes of God. Quite the contrary, I’d have thought.’

  Alan was quietly astounded. He’d got this chap completely wrong. When they’d first met, although they were both about the same age, Alistair seemed like he belonged to an earlier generation entirely. He would have expected him to take deference for granted. Yet again, an example of the cultural prejudice that we all carry with us, he thought. As with Alistair, so with Ali – it was just a different set of preconceptions, that’s all.

  * * *

  Back in his office, Alan stacked his rescued books on his shelves. They still smelled strongly of smoke, but he had been assured it would eventually go away. He stood back. It was good, comforting even, to have them back with him.

  Alan knew he had a decision to make. He hadn’t started teaching the A-level course yet. All it would take would be a simple phone call to Grant. He could plead pressure of work, goddamit he could even plead the emotional trauma of the fire. But as he stood there, studying the remnants of his library he realised that he would do no such thing. Grant had informed him that twelve Lifers had signed up. The list of student names would be sent over to him in the next couple of days. Twelve men, locked away in that hellhole, wanted to learn and no matter whether Ali was amongst them or not, Alan wouldn’t, couldn’t, let them down. He had stiffened his resolve. He didn’t know it, but lurking behind this altruistic motive was another, a purely self-centred one: Alan wouldn’t stand for bullying. Never had, never would. If the fire had been arson, and if Ali was indeed behind it, then Alan would make sure he was called to account somehow. No matter their past history at Flax Hole; no matter the boy Ali had once been.

  He scanned his shelves, searching out inspiration. One of the volumes was the standard work on the Anglo-Saxon settlement of south Lincolnshire, which he removed and took to his desk, where he unpacked his own laptop and opened his A-level lecture files. He worked away for about ten minutes, while munching on a chocolate bar – his lunch that day. He needed more information about Early Saxon cemeteries in the southern Fens, as he thought this could make a good special project for some of his students. Sadly, the book was no real help. Nor was the internet. He got up and knocked on Harriet’s door.

  He fully expected Harriet to send him packing, considering her looming deadlines, so he was surprised by her friendly greeting.

  ‘I’m glad you came, Alan. I was getting so fed up. All I’m doing is ordering database entries by date, size, type and so on. It’s driving me mad.’

  Alan also hated that side of their work. But sadly it was part of the digital life. This time other, more archaeological, things were on his mind.

  ‘Funny you should say that,’ he began, ‘because that chapter you gave me is having the opposite effect. It’s making me thi
nk about all sorts of things, like the demise of the Classis Britannica and the start of a new, I suppose we’d call it privatised, marine and coastal economy in Late Antiquity. No wonder there was so much traffic across the Channel and the North Sea.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I was starting to think…’

  Alan continued – he had the bit between his teeth. ‘I’d always thought that contact was concentrated around the western approaches – places like Tintagel. But no, just as much, maybe even more was happening over here. It’s just that the historical sources don’t discuss it.’

  ‘And they don’t cover places like Guthlic’s either. No, I’m convinced that site could make a real contribution to the debate…’

  ‘So can I read the next chapter too? I’m dead keen to see what the osteological evidence tells us about the Anglo-Saxon invasions.’

  ‘Possibly,’ she smiled, ‘but you’ve also got to suggest a twenty per cent cut in the words.’

  ‘Great’ he said, ‘I’ll do that, but one good turn deserves another.’

  ‘Yees…’ she answered with mock doubt.

  ‘I need to pick your brains. I want some basic info about recent Early Saxon cemetery sites in the Fens and East Midlands.’

  ‘That’s outside your normal period, isn’t it? I thought the Bronze Age was more your field?’

  ‘Yes, it is. But I’m trying to find some interesting special subjects for an A-level course I’m about to start teaching.’

  At this point there was a knock at her door. Paul entered before Harriet had a chance to respond.

  ‘Harriet, about your budgetary concerns. St Guthlic’s is a relatively minor project as far as PFC is concerned and as such–’

  He stopped short when he saw Alan.

  ‘I see you’ve brought in reinforcements.’

  Alan stepped in, eager to clear up any misunderstanding. If Paul had any residual issues with him, it wasn’t fair for Harriet to get drawn into it.

  ‘Not at all. I was trying to chase up some information on Pagan Anglo-Saxon burials…’

  ‘A bit outside your normal field, aren’t they?’ Paul asked.

  ‘Not in this instance. I’m teaching a part-time A-level course.’

  ‘Oh really, a WEA evening class?’

  Sod it, thought Alan. Now’s as good a time as any.

  ‘No. At Blackfen Prison, as it happens.’

  They both looked at him. Those two words weren’t often spoken at Priory Farm.

  ‘A course for the warders?’ Harriet asked, breaking the silence.

  ‘No, it’s for a group of prisoners. They call themselves “The Lifers’ Club”.’

  Harriet was astonished.

  ‘Are you saying they’re all serving life sentences?’

  ‘I imagine so,’ Alan replied, ‘but we don’t get to find out about each individual prisoner. We’re not permitted to discuss their criminal records. Our job is to reach the men who are there, whatever they’ve done. We take them as we find them.’

  ‘How very noble of you,’ said Paul. ‘So long as it doesn’t interfere with your work schedule here I suppose I can allow it. Now if you’ll excuse us…’

  Paul waved the budget papers at Alan, shooing him out of the door.

  * * *

  Half an hour later Alan was still staring at his computer screen. The title ‘Lecture One’ stared back at him, followed by a page of blank space. There was a knock at the door. It was Harriet.

  ‘What on earth was that all about with Paul?’ she asked.

  ‘I think he suspects we’re ganging up on him,’ said Alan. ‘I forgot he can be a bit paranoid like that.’

  ‘It’s not such a bad idea,’ said Harriet. ‘We could lock him up with the maggots in the BCA until he gives us a radiocarbon dating budget that is actually connected to reality.’

  Alan shared a conspiratorial grin.

  Harriet stepped forward and placed a folder on his desk.

  ‘Anyway, I had a quick look through some old papers. Will this do for your A-level students?’

  Alan liked the fact that she was so straightforward about it. They wanted to learn, and so as far as she was concerned, they were just students. Not criminals.

  Alan opened the folder. It was just what he wanted: concise and to the point and everything tabulated: DNA estimates for Saxon incursions, evidence for new burial rites. The lot. As he flicked through he noticed that Harriet was sniffing the air and frowning.

  ‘Alan, you old rogue, have you been having a crafty cigarette?’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘Well, there’s a distinct smell of burning.’

  ‘I know. It’s the books. My house burnt down on Friday afternoon. These are the only ones that made it out alive.’

  Harriet was astonished. She stood there, like a caricature, eyes round and mouth open.

  ‘But Alan, that’s terrible!’

  ‘It was an electrical fault, happens all the time apparently.’

  ‘And are you insured?’

  ‘Yes, thank heavens, I am.’

  ‘And are they being difficult?’

  ‘No, they’re not. Actually they’re being very helpful.’

  ‘And where are you staying now?’

  ‘At the pub next door. It’s fine.’

  She listened to this at first anxiously, then with a look of exasperation.

  ‘Alan,’ she said in a tone of absolute authority, ‘don’t be so utterly ridiculous. You can’t possibly co-direct an important dig from a room above a pub. The idea’s quite absurd. No, I have a perfectly good spare room at my place in Mavis Startby. You will come and stay with me.’

  And that was that.

  Alan spent the rest of the day assembling Harriet’s research file into a coherent lecture, adding his own personal touches here and there. The last thing he wanted to do was come across as lazy or fake. Just as he was clearing his desk, there was the familiar ping of a new email arriving. He went to his inbox: it was from Blackfen Prison. Student register. He opened the attachment. And there it was, staring out at him from the grid of the spreadsheet: Student number 8. Prisoner number 2957. Kabul, Ali.

  Eleven

  Harriet led Alan around her nineteenth-century two-bed house with the enthusiasm and efficiency of a professional archaeologist on a pre-dig recce. They had covered the lounge and kitchen. She explained that her only extravagance had been a reconditioned oil-fired Aga, which kept the downstairs rooms wonderfully snug in winter. Now they were doing the upstairs tour.

  ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t run to an en suite, so we’ll have to share the bathroom…’

  She opened the door and Alan glanced in. There were bottles and jars, coloured tissues in profusion, but no dangling underwear. It was feminine, but not oppressively so.

  ‘And this will be your room. I think of it as the Fen room, as it looks across Dawyck Fen.’

  ‘Which makes yours, I suppose, the Wolds room.’

  ‘Yes, I hadn’t thought of it like that. It’s just my room, that’s all. Anyhow, you’ve a basin. And do look out, you’re near the immersion heater and the water can run scalding hot very quickly. I often hear guests yell in pain when doing their teeth.’

  Alan gazed out of the window. The spectacular view had been swallowed by the night. Harriet was reflected in the darkened glass, standing a couple of feet behind him, smiling.

  They’d only known each other a short time and here she was, opening up her home to him. He’d offered to pay rent but she wouldn’t even consider it. He should be overjoyed but he wasn’t. He was worried. Very worried indeed.

  What if his worst fears were correct? What if he had been the victim of an arson attack? What horrors and dangers was he potentially bringing to Harriet’s door? He’d been unbelievably selfish to even consider it.

&n
bsp; ‘Harry, I’ve been thinking…’

  ‘Sounds ominous.’

  ‘I’m not sure this is such a good idea.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘You know, mixing the professional and the personal…’

  Even as the words passed his lips Alan regretted it. He saw a flicker of embarrassment pass across Harriet’s face, quickly followed by pure anger.

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself, Alan.’

  ‘I didn’t mean…’

  Harriet cut him short.

  ‘I’m a concerned colleague, offering you support at a time of need. That’s all. If you find that too… compromising then feel free to book yourself in at the Travelodge down the road.’

  She slammed the spare keys down on the bedside table and stormed out of the room.

  Alan was furious with himself. Now he had two options: stay and endanger Harriet. Leave and create an unbearable tension between them at work and possibly undermine the whole project. Not just the St Guthlic’s project, but Paul, Ali, Flax Hole, everything that he’d been working so hard to get closer to.

  He sighed deeply and sat on the edge of the bed, staring into the mirror on the room’s neat little chest of drawers. Then it came to him. He might not be able to protect Harriet, but he knew exactly who could. But it would require him to be absolutely truthful, to tell him everything he knew, or currently suspected, only then could Richard advise him whether he, or more importantly, Harriet was in any danger. So he took a deep breath and rang Lane’s home number, fully expecting Mary to answer, then after several rings the answerphone cut in. He left a simple message for Richard to call him back. But he didn’t add: and please, please ring soon. But by now he was getting very anxious.