by S E England
“I can assure you sir, that I will in no way be vociferous or violent.”
“Good. Now please remove your clothing.”
“Sir?”
“Take off your dress. And underwear.”
My face blazes. Of course, he is a doctor and wishes to examine my physical fitness for a trip into society, but there is something about the way his tongue licks those worm red lips, something about the dilation of his pupils, the slackening of his jaw.
What choice do I have? And besides, what cause does my poor, beaten body give any man for lust? Thus it is with shame and misery that I let the grey serge dress slip from my shoulders, exposing a carcass of jutting ribs and protruding hip bones.
He nods at my underwear – this must come off too - and as it slides to the floor I can hardly bear to look at my reflection in the window behind his head – at the cadaver that stands before him.
“Walk around the room.”
No, no, no….
His voice is now thick and syrupy. “I said walk around. Let me see all of you.”
There is no fight left in me. The hags who normally torment me but whose presence would be preferable at this moment, are absent. The house is quiet as a tomb. What does he want to see? What he has reduced me to, as a woman, as a human being?
“Good. Now get dressed.”
Scrambling into my clothes in a blur of shock and confusion, it occurs to me that he is not writing anything down. Nor is he reaching for the glass jar. Fear lumps solidly inside my chest. He is the puppet master. He is the one. This is the danger which has at last fully taken form. And it is the doctor himself.
Fumbling with shaking fingers to fasten my dress, I feel his eyes upon me, willing me to look up.
I do not wish to, but the pull is magnetic and our eyes lock.
Recognition passes between us. And in that instant the veneer of his pious respectability falls away.
Without doubt, this is Diane’s devil.
***
Chapter Seventeen
Isobel
Present Day, Blackmarsh
The morning was still dark when she locked the door and stepped onto the drive. The Black Mountains were obscured by cloud, the lane which led towards them damp with drizzle and mist. From what she could remember it divided into three - the most direct route through the mountains being Drovers Pass, a gorge frequently flooded and shrouded on both sides by forest. The lane to the left was spookily named The Hill of Loss, which was rather off-putting considering the state of mind she was in today. No, it would be best to stick to the one on the right – the track rutted with tyre tracks and signs of human life, which led to the mines and had a clear public right of way.
As she tramped along in the mist, the fields either side squelched and squeaked as if populated by a thousand mud skippers. It seemed strange for the deserted countryside to be so active, yet also comforting. It was good to be in life again.
Soon the lane began to steepen sharply however, and it wasn’t long before, despite a nip of snow in the air, she was out of breath and getting hot. Enveloped in wet cloud it was no longer possible to see more than a few inches ahead and with each step she began to question the wisdom of climbing further. But she’d come this far and the place was so magical and intriguing, it was worth at least giving it a go. Besides, the weather might clear up. She stopped for a breather and another look at the map. Copa Hill should lead up to the old copper mine, and although it had long since been abandoned there were photographs on Wikipedia of a tiny chapel clinging to the side of a precipice, which she had to see.
The incline was tough going though, far more than anticipated, the track becoming narrower, the edge crumbling away on one side into a deep ravine. The sound of her own panting sounded loud in the muffled morning air. Her hair was matted and it was sweaty underneath the waxed jacket, especially with all the thick woollens layered underneath.
It took an hour. But just as her hamstrings were about to give out, the path began to level and a weather-beaten footpath sign loomed out of the fog, beneath it a large boulder etched with, ‘Copa Hill Farm.’ The arrow pointed to an overgrown stile leading across boggy fields. She narrowed her eyes. In the distance the faint outline of a farm building squatted darkly, the open path exposed to the elements.
She frowned. The map showed a track circumventing two farms – one Copa Hill, the other Redmoor, which if the public right of way was followed, should skirt the edge of one and pass straight through the yard of the other, before looping back to the mine and where she was heading anyway.
Sounds like my friend from Copa Hill….No one likes an incomer round here…
Now that was a thought! Wasn’t that where Branwen said Rhys the-bearded-road-hog lived? Well, if there was a red pick-up truck parked in the yard it definitely was. Perhaps it would be as well to know? No one was going to see her on a morning like this and besides, it was only ten minutes out of her way…
At the far end of the field lay a dry-stone wall. But with no further signs, boulders or styles it was hard to see how the path continued. She scanned the entire length but there was nothing. Right, so they’d blocked off the right of way, then? What to do? She looked around. Visibility was still little more than a few feet and every foothold sank ankle deep into the mud. From somewhere in the distance the sound of lambs bleating travelled across the valley. Oh, what the hell? The place was pretty deserted.
She made the decision and clambered over.
Not that she need have worried - Copa Hill Farm looked as if it had been uninhabited for a very long time. Foggy drizzle and relentlessly damp weather had rendered the slate roof and stone walls to a miserable skeleton coated with moss and lichen, the splintered bones of its tinder framework jutting through the stones. No one, it seemed, had lived here in quite a while.
So it was not the owners of Copa Hill Farm who had opposed tourism in the village or tried to scare her the other day. She glanced over her shoulder at the way she’d come, at the sodden fields swallowed in fog, then back to the other farm. The footpath was marked as passing through their yard before looping around to a track leading back to Copa Hill mine. That would be on firmer ground. And not above a few minutes.
The outline of Redmoor Farm appeared moments after scrambling over the next wall. And this one was definitely lived in. Tentatively she crept forwards, peering through the fog, looking for the yard, when suddenly shouts went up.
She stopped dead, breath caught in her chest.
Someone was running out of the house towards her…a woman…An engine fired up…and headlights flashed into her eyes.
***
Chapter Eighteen
For a split second Isobel stood dazzled in the lights, before quickly realising she was in the middle of the farmyard. About to hold up her hands to indicate she was harmless, the driver, however, began to accelerate towards her at speed.
Flaming hell! Was that a gun shot?
She plunged almost headlong into the woodland at the side of the driveway, stumbled over a wire-topped fence and scrambled up the hill.
“Get off our property!” A woman yelled. “Clear off or I’ll set the dogs on you!”
The vehicle with its headlights on was roaring down the lane full throttle and another gunshot cracked out, propelling a flock of screeching crows into the air.
Terror kicked her in the ribs, as with feet slipping and sliding in the mud she grabbed at branches to get up the bank. For God’s sake, she was just a woman on her own, unarmed and in retreat.
Another shot fired, the sound ricocheting around the trees. Blind with panic now and utterly without bearings, instinctively she kept climbing. Dense undergrowth twisted round her feet, thorns ripped her palms and twigs snapped into her face as sharp as elastic bands. Pray to God the men weren’t in pursuit because they would rapidly close the gap, knowing the terrain so much better than she. Maybe Rhys, whatever his name was, had sons? And what if there were animal traps? There wasn’t time to feel
the way carefully…Fuck, fuck, fuck…and she hadn’t told a single person where she was going. No one would know she was missing…and these people were nasty, on the edge…
Time blurred. On and on she ran. Stitch burned her side and her lungs were fit to burst. Any moment now a hand would grab her shoulder and slam her to the ground. What then? A basement? Slow torture or a clean shot? Oh God, this was horrible…
Then quite suddenly the forest came to an abrupt end, giving way to a sheer drop of several hundred feet - the quarry, and the very top of it too. There was nothing beyond this but wilderness.
So this was it, then? She could run no more. Sinking to her knees she glanced around, defeated and miserable, flinching with the expectation of there being at least one assailant, probably more.
There was, however, no one there.
Instead, the woods were eerily still, soft mist curling around the tree trunks in a blue haze.
Doubled over and gasping for every breath, she checked her watch. That had been full pelt for the best part of fifteen minutes - most of it uphill with a rucksack on her back. She’d never been one for keep-fit or strenuous exercise. The pain in her legs and chest was off the scale. Nor would it be wise to assume safety yet. They would know of short cuts and likely had quad bikes. Oh yes…bikes…motorbikes or off-roaders…
She strained her ears, but the morning was absolutely silent. Just the steady drip-drip-drip of sopping trees.
Still, it would not be wise to linger.
The track back down Copa Hill was not an option. And the disused quarry had no way across. The weak morning light had lifted the mist a little, and on the opposite side of the ravine the outline of a tiny chapel had emerged. Clinging to the side of the rock face, several hundred tiny steps led up to it from the bottom with as many again to the top. It looked, she thought, like a ghost town, and sounded like one too with the wind moaning through it. Why build a chapel there? Were the miners not allowed to use the one in the village? Perhaps they lived up here as well as worked? She closed her eyes, seeing at once a scene resembling a refugee camp - hundreds of wooden huts, of lanterns in the mine and the chapel windows in the dark…this was a place of grief and loss…and rage too. There had been a lot of deaths here, explosions, men with blackened faces, stretchers being carried up those steep, narrow steps to the chapel. The smell of fires, the sound of children crying, of…yes a kind of camp situated where she was sitting now…
A full range of emotions passed through her. That tiny building held the pain of trapped souls. Little wonder local people didn’t want the place opening up for tourism if their relatives met their deaths here. Who owned it? Or had owned it? There was a residue of deep anger, of despair and bitterness. Again came that feeling of layers…layers and layers of lies.
She shivered as the sweat dried on her skin. Time to get moving. At least they weren’t coming after her, thank God. Hurriedly she unfastened her rucksack and drank half a flask of coffee while scanning the map. Not yet lunchtime but already fatigue was setting in, and the weather up here could change in a heartbeat. The problem was avoiding Copa Hill. So that left one option - crossing the moor in order to circumvent the mine, and track back down the forest on the other side, the path she’d originally shunned because of its name – The Hill of Loss.
Acutely aware of the cold seeping into her back, she swung the rucksack on and forced herself to stand up again. It was going to be a long day with miles to go yet. This had been a stupid idea, although to be fair no one could have predicted being shot at. At least, she consoled herself, it had taken her mind off the bloody ghosts for a while.
The rest of the climb was rocky and steep. And the higher the altitude the denser the cloud, until eventually sparse woodland gave way to a blast of barren heathland. A veil of rain was slanting across a boggy plateau rippling with pools of water as black as tar, and resolutely she put her head down against the freezing onslaught. As she walked, eerie creaks and moans carried on the wind, echoing like the dinosaur groans of collapsing metal and whinnying horses…It must be, she rationalised, just the whistling wind - how it swept off the mountains and whipped around the plain. Yes, just the wind…
All the same, it would be good to get off the mountain.
It wasn’t easy to quicken the pace. Underfoot the mud squelched and pulled at her boots and the further in she ventured, the harder it became to extract each foot. The imprints were now several inches deep and her legs ached with the effort. Exhausted, and still only a third of the way across, she stopped to look back at the path she’d left, to what now seemed like a distant shore of comparative safety. But the cloud had closed in so completely there was nothing to be seen, and on turning back again it was with a stab of alarm she realised she could no longer see ahead either. Had in fact, no idea in which direction she was now facing. Indeed it could be straight for the ebony lake, to where folklore had it many a man and his horse had been lured to a terrifying death.
That brief pause had been a mistake for another reason too – her feet had sunk by at least six maybe seven inches and it was now impossible to lift them out again.
Oh, God…
A fresh blast of wind lashed at her face and tears burned her eyes. How many others had met their fate out here? Caught out by fog rolling in so thick and fast they found themselves going around in circles until the quagmire took its prey…or the lake did.
In the distance, a tiny light hovered over the bog and now it came to her notice there were more and more of them…dancing fairy lights…the strange electric charges often glimpsed over marshland, known as willo’ the wisp or corpse candles. Easy to see why local people would think of them as the villainous fae luring a weary traveller to their death. Nevertheless it gave her direction – in that she should take the opposite one.
The rain had set in now and gasping at its ferocity, she sank to her knees and pulled out her wellies, put them back on and resumed the trek, praying it was in the right direction this time. Albeit covered in mud.
It took another hour. But at long last the shape of a forest loomed out of the drizzle, exactly where the map said it would be. She almost cried with relief. This then, would be The Hill of Loss.
The Hill of Loss. What a strange and desolate name for a mountain pass.
Strange and desolate indeed.
The entrance to the forest was through a five-barred gate, once used for horses and carts, but now hanging from its hinges. Either side of the gate standing as guardians, were two ancient thorns, and thus it was with a sense of awe that she passed into the silent balm of the woods. Instantly the wind dropped and fire flamed into her cheeks. God, what a morning! She could have died. Twice.
Okay, well the thing to do now was to get back in one piece. After drinking the rest of the coffee she hurried downhill, almost running. The path had long since become overgrown but there was running water nearby, rushing downstream, so all she had to do was follow it. According to the map this should come out at the fields behind Lavinia House. Oh, who cared if she ran into bloody Lorna snooty boots, as long as it was nowhere near those bloody savages with guns.
Half an hour of rapid stumbling downhill and the path began to level out, quite suddenly opening up to a wide track ahead, with a T-junction and a large boulder. She squinted at the etching. Lavinia House was indicated with an arrow - one and a half miles to the right. This at least resembled a proper track, one that had probably been used for carriages taking people to the house, and gladly, she took it. On the flat and on the way back. Hurray. It had stopped raining too, mist hovering among spiky winter branches in skeins of soft white silk. Occasionally the wintry light picked out the glint of a silvery cobweb or the dazzle of a raindrop, the smell of fresh earth and budding foliage pungent with new growth. A buoyant mood lifted her heart and it felt, for the most fleeting of moments, like coming home. As if she had been here before and taken this path many times.
That elation however, was swiftly followed by the same oddly familiar s
ensation first felt on seeing Branwen’s creepy paintings…dank moss, dripping stones, and the sickly sensation of vertigo. And without any warning there came another vision - the image of a smart carriage led by three horses trotting by, and a small white face at the window. Then, just as quickly as it had arisen, it was gone.
She grabbed the nearest tree trunk and swallowed down the nausea until the feeling passed.
These visions were becoming more frequent – several times a day now. They didn’t mean anything though, so what was the use? Perhaps it was a footprint of emotions, of energy, from long ago? Something that for some reason she could tap into? But how to control it or make sense of it? Better still to not have it at all! Every time it left her drained, a little more depleted, as if her life force was ebbing away.
Desperate now to get back to the house, she walked briskly along the path in the surety it would soon lead to the estate drive, when it came to an abrupt end, a dry-stone wall covered in ivy barring the way. How odd for it just to stop like that! She scanned the length of the wall in both directions looking for a way through. Maybe this was the boundary to the estate and they’d decided to block off the legal right of way, just like the thugs up at Redmoor Farm?
Oh, sod it. She was climbing over. There wasn’t a chance of backtracking – she was tired, muddy and starving. So suck it up, Lorna Snotty-Drawers!
One or two stones dislodged and toppled as she scrambled over but once on the other side there was no longer a path of any description. In fact it looked as though someone had gone to great pains to destroy all evidence of there ever having been one.
For a second or two she hesitated. Something had changed. The whole atmosphere…It was impossible at first to say what it was but the forest here was so hushed as to seem devoid of all life. It seemed to hum with static. Not a single rustling creature or ruffle of leaves. And the longer she stood there the more it seemed as if time had stopped.
