The Bone Jar

by S W Kane

  ‘Funny bloke, your husband,’ said the Opus man. ‘He said just to carry on.’ He was looking at her more carefully now, as though registering the age gap between her and Palmer and wondering if he’d put his foot in it. ‘Okay with you, Mrs Palmer?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sure,’ said Connie. ‘Just do whatever he told you.’

  She walked quickly down the drive before he could ask her any more questions, and turned right on to Battersea Fields Drive, narrowly missing a man who’d just crossed the road. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered, dodging past. He looked vaguely familiar.

  As she walked, she thought about the drawings. What she should do was call Kirby. Or she could do what any urbex worth their salt would do – go and investigate. The tunnels might not even exist. In fact, it would be a minor miracle if they did, as she’d never once heard mention of them. How could something like that stay hidden for so long?

  When she reached the junction with Daylesford Road she paused, even pulling out her phone and bringing up Kirby’s number. But the thought of discovering a disused secret tunnel was intoxicating, and instead she slipped the phone back into her pocket and turned right towards the river.

  Connie had read about asylums that had secret entrances for the wealthy to come and go discreetly, but never something on this scale. It was, simply, too good an opportunity to miss. There was, however, one small problem: she first had to get into Blackwater, and there was only one person who could help her do that.

  Raymond Sweet.

  CHAPTER 38

  ‘About bloody time,’ said Charles Palmer. ‘I’ve been here over an hour, and no one is telling me anything. I thought I was just here to help answer a few questions.’ Today he was clean-shaven and didn’t look like someone who’d been out all night, but the worry lines were still evident.

  ‘Sorry about the wait. I know that you have things to do this morning,’ said Kirby, dropping a file on the table and sitting down opposite. ‘Has anyone offered you a drink – tea, coffee? I’m afraid it won’t be up to your standards.’

  ‘I’d rather get this done and back to the house.’

  ‘Of course.’ Kirby opened the file in front of him and took out a photograph. He placed it in front of Palmer. ‘Marsh House.’

  Palmer looked at the photograph and then at Kirby, as though it were some kind of trick. ‘What about it?’

  ‘It’s been in your family for a number of years.’

  He hesitated. ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘You don’t seem sure.’

  ‘Yes, I am sure. Look, what’s this about? I thought this was to do with next door?’

  ‘We’ll get to that in a moment. First, though, perhaps you could tell me about your childhood,’ said Kirby. ‘Your adoption.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘You told me that Helen Linehan adopted you. But she didn’t, did she?’

  Palmer stared at him.

  ‘You see, this morning I went to Mitcham. Not the greatest way to spend a Monday morning, driving to Mitcham. But it turned out to be worth it, because I found this.’ He took a photocopied sheet out of the folder and handed it to Palmer. ‘Take a look.’

  Palmer took the sheet, and Kirby watched his eyes as they darted across the text. ‘But . . .’ he began. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Towards the end, Baby C . . .’

  Kirby watched carefully as Palmer read, his eyes coming to a sudden halt and the colour draining from his face. ‘You mean . . . ?’ He looked up, confused.

  Kirby nodded. ‘That’s right. I think you’re Baby C.’

  Palmer looked stunned. ‘Where did you get this?’ he finally managed to ask.

  ‘The House of Nazarene care home, formerly the House of Nazarene orphanage.’ Kirby paused. ‘Just to be clear, you are Ian Carswell?’ Something shifted inside the man in front of him – almost indiscernibly, but it was there.

  ‘I was born Ian Carswell, if that’s what you mean. But when I told you yesterday, down by the river, that he was never part of my life, I was telling the truth. Ian Carswell died a long time ago.’ Palmer put the sheet down as though it were contaminated.

  ‘Tell me what happened.’

  Palmer was quiet for a few moments, and when he spoke, he seemed to choose his words carefully. ‘I was orphaned. My mother died during childbirth – I never knew her – and my father was nowhere to be seen. As there was no one to look after me, I was sent to an orphanage, the House of Nazarene. And then . . . then, I was sent away.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Kirby.

  ‘I was almost three. All I remember being told was that I was going to a farm.’ Palmer’s fingers scratched at the surface of the table, as though trying to pick off an invisible piece of dried-on food. ‘I loved animals, so it sounded like paradise.’ His hand swept the imaginary bits off the table, and he sat back in his chair. ‘It wasn’t.’

  Kirby didn’t say anything, just waited for Palmer to continue.

  ‘I was sent to a farm school. Harsh doesn’t begin to cover it, not to mention the other stuff. There was no love or attention, and as soon as I was strong enough to work I was sent out on the land. To put it bluntly, I lost my childhood and any sense of hope. That’s when Ian Carswell died. Out there on that stinking farm.’

  ‘And who do you blame for what happened to you?’

  ‘Blame?’ Palmer snorted and shook his head. ‘It’s not about blame. It was government policy – who can I blame for that?’

  ‘How about Ena Massey?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I told you, I don’t know her.’

  Kirby tapped the sheet of paper in front of him. ‘Take another look.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘At the end, the person who signed Baby C’s declaration of fitness to travel,’ said Kirby.

  Palmer slid the sheet nearer with the tip of his finger and glanced at it before pushing it away, sending it fluttering off the table on to the floor. Kirby could hear him breathing – deep, controlled breaths – as he stared at his hands, flat on the table.

  ‘Mr Palmer?’ he said after a few moments. ‘Did you see the name?’

  Palmer looked up slowly. ‘I don’t need to see the damned name. It’s Ena Massey.’

  CHAPTER 39

  ‘The Creeper is as real as you and me,’ said Connie, as Raymond finally unlocked the gate. ‘Ghosts don’t kill people, that’s why the Creeper has to be a real person. Who else killed Ed and Ena?’

  ‘Yes . . . but if it is the Creeper, what do they want with us? Why aren’t we dead?’ he asked, relocking the gate.

  It was a good question – unless, of course, no one had been into either of their homes, and they’d both imagined it all. Goodness knows she’d been distracted enough these past few days, and as for Raymond, who knew how reliable he was? Then something occurred to her: what if the Creeper and the murderer were two different people? The more she thought about it, the more sense it made. She and Raymond had nothing to do with Ena Massey and her dodgy past – not directly, at any rate.

  ‘Those drawings you showed me,’ said Raymond, as they began walking into the grounds. ‘There’s something that’s not there.’

  ‘What do you mean, something that’s not there?’

  He stopped and looked at her as though she were stupid. ‘There’s something missing. Something that’s not on the drawings.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘You’ll see,’ he said, grinning. ‘And it’s a lot more exciting than the tunnels.’

  Connie’s head buzzed with excitement as she followed him through the asylum grounds. For such a shambolic figure, Raymond moved with surprising dexterity; once in a while, indicating places for her to avoid. It wasn’t until they were down by the lake, Keats Ward looming above them, that Raymond stopped.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, following his sightline. He was looking up at the first-floor window that she and Kirby had looked out of the week before, and for a brief moment she thought she s
aw someone move behind the glass.

  ‘That’s where the real ghosts are,’ Raymond whispered, before resuming the walk.

  ‘What do you mean, the real ghosts?’ Connie asked, hurrying to catch up. Was he alluding to the Narcosis Room that she’d told Kirby about?

  Raymond either didn’t hear her or ignored her, skirting the lake and leading her into an area so overgrown that Connie could see no way through. There was actually a path, but so vague that if you didn’t know it was there, you’d miss it. No snow lay on the ground here – protected as it was by the canopy above – but after a few minutes they emerged into a small area that was marginally less overgrown. Here, some snow had penetrated the twisted branches and the tangle of weeds, frosting the ground with fine flakes like crystals.

  ‘We’re here,’ said Raymond, pointing. Ahead was some kind of structure covered in moss and algae; ivy clung to its walls and knotweed sprung from every crevice. It looked like an old pillbox, or bunker. ‘Promise me you won’t tell Mr Calder I showed you here.’

  ‘Course I won’t. We’d both be in trouble then,’ she said.

  Raymond went in first. It was a small space, no more than ten feet square, and on entering she felt slightly disappointed. She’d been expecting something bigger, maybe Tardis-like, on the inside. Certainly something more exciting, because this was no more than a glorified shed judging by the old pitchfork propped against the wall. ‘This is it, the place not marked on the drawing?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Raymond, bending down and removing what looked like a small piece of wood from the floor. ‘That’s down here.’

  She immediately saw that there was a latch for a trapdoor, and watched as Raymond heaved it open to reveal a narrow flight of steps. This was more like it, she thought. An overpowering smell of damp and decay hit her nostrils, smells she was familiar with from years of exploring forgotten places, but there was another layer, something metallic.

  Raymond shone his torch into the hole and began making his way down. ‘Are you coming?’ he asked, when he reached the bottom.

  Just for a second, she hesitated. Was she being really stupid? Maybe, but how many opportunities like this came along? Fuck it, she wasn’t turning back now, and she went down the steps after him.

  ‘This way,’ he said.

  They were in a narrow brick tunnel, and as she followed him she tried to work out which way they were walking. Now they were below ground, her sense of direction was distorted. They should be heading towards Marsh House, surely, which was to their right, but the tunnel appeared to veer towards the river. The smell that had hit her when Raymond lifted the hatch was getting stronger and more pungent. It was like the river, only ten times more potent. The brickwork, although in good condition, was riddled with damp, and there were large areas of calcification. It wasn’t unlike some of the sewers that she’d explored, except the smell down here wasn’t sewage. Connie also had the sensation that they were walking downhill, as if they were being pulled into the earth’s very core. It was warmer than above ground, also like the sewers, and she realised she was sweating beneath her layers – she could also feel a headache coming on, as if pressure were building in her head.

  After a minute or so, the beam of Raymond’s torch hit something ahead – a door. It was made of cast iron with huge studs across the top and bottom, rusted around the edges, lending it a subterranean feel, and looking down she saw that the ground was much damper here than by the steps. The metal door wasn’t locked, and Raymond pushed it open easily. Beyond lay a darkness so utterly black it was as though the torch beam were trying to push through treacle. Raymond took a few steps in and disappeared.

  Connie’s eyes were unable to focus on anything, the darkness was so absolute – not to mention the silence, which was so intense that it was like drums banging on her eardrums. She stifled a brief wave of panic.

  ‘Raymond?’ The darkness seemed to suck the words from her throat, and she had the crazy notion that he couldn’t hear her, although in truth he couldn’t be more than a few feet away.

  All of a sudden, pinpricks of light appeared in the darkness like distant stars, and for a brief second she was transported back to a school trip to the London Planetarium. She blinked a few times in case she was imagining it, then heard a loud click before a second set of lights came on, much brighter.

  ‘My God!’ she whispered, not quite sure what she was looking at.

  ‘This is it,’ said Raymond, reappearing. ‘The place that’s not on the drawing. I call it the bone jar.’

  Connie’s first thought was that they had somehow – impossible, she knew – come up into an old greenhouse or palm room, because they were standing under some kind of giant, circular glass dome. Metal ribs, streaked with rust, fanned out from the apex above, arching down to the floor. Puddles of water reflected the lights, and the effect was like some weird sci-fi movie set.

  ‘What is this place?’ she asked, taking a few tentative steps into the room, which felt more like a spaceship than a room. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Under the lake.’

  ‘Under the lake?’

  Raymond nodded towards the edge of the room. ‘That’s water out there.’ His voice fell flat in the strange circular space – it should have echoed but didn’t, as though something contained it. The air felt strange too – humid, the atmosphere dank with an overpowering smell of what she now recognised as algae and rust.

  ‘It’s incredible,’ she said, wandering over to the edge of the room, where she ran a hand over one of the metal ribs. How on earth was something like this built – and more’s the point, how come no one knew about it? When she touched the cast-iron work, the metallic smell was almost overpowering and it left a brown mark on her skin. She laid her palm flat on one of the glass panels, and half expected to feel a heartbeat, because that’s what it felt like: being in the belly of some large, underwater beast. It was beyond her wildest dreams to have found a place like this, and for the briefest moment she forgot why they were there.

  ‘No one knows about it apart from me,’ said Raymond. ‘Or that’s what I thought.’

  Connie turned to look at him. ‘You mean the Creeper?’

  Raymond nodded. ‘He’s been down here.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ she asked, wondering if she actually wanted to know the answer. Her throat felt dry and nerves tickled her insides, the reality of why they were here suddenly kicking in.

  Raymond walked over to the edge of the strange room, where Connie now noticed a cabinet. It was about half a metre in height and ran the periphery. Raymond slid open one of its doors, but the inside was so dark that she couldn’t make out what it was he was showing her, until he switched on his torch and shone its beam inside. It was full of what looked like some kind of canisters, and she went over for a closer look, picking one up. The canister itself appeared to be copper with a label on the front – the paper brittle and cracked – which read Blackwater Asylum London. Above, a name had been typed, followed by a number. She was about to ask him what they were when a distant memory began pushing its way back. She’d read of something similar in an old American psychiatric institution, but never in the UK.

  ‘They’re unclaimed ashes?’

  Raymond nodded. ‘I started coming to look after them, only now I’m evacuating them before Mr Calder and that site manager, Mr Catapult, get here.’

  ‘Mr Catapult?’

  Raymond tapped his head as though trying to dislodge the name. ‘Mr Kaplinsky,’ he said, after a few seconds. ‘But I call him Catapult. Anyway, I keep them in order – see?’ He gestured towards the canisters, which Connie could now see were more or less in alphabetical order. ‘But when I came here the other day, Gregory Boothe – he was my best friend – was next to Alardice. That’s not where I left them.’

  Her first thought was that Raymond had imagined it. Why on earth would anyone want to move them? Then she thought about the strange goings-on in Raymond’s house and her own place
– the missing cellar key, the locked cat flap, the switched-off boiler – and changed her mind. It was almost as if someone were making their presence known in the subtlest of ways, and she shivered at the thought.

  ‘How do they get in and out?’ she asked. ‘Where’s the other tunnel, the one that leads off the asylum?’

  Raymond moved to the opposite side of the room, and suddenly another light came on over a door that she hadn’t noticed, identical to the one they’d entered through. ‘Here,’ he said.

  She put the canister back in the cabinet and went over for a closer look. ‘Is it locked?’

  ‘It used to be,’ said Raymond, glancing at her. ‘But it isn’t anymore.’ He made no move to open the door and instead took a step back. For a moment they both stared at the door, saying nothing.

  She had to take a look; it was why she was here, after all. Tentatively she took hold of the handle. She expected it to be stiff with age, so was surprised when it moved easily, as if recently oiled. More blackness greeted her as she let the door swing open, and for all she knew, she could have been looking into a black hole, or a small cell, it was so dark.

  ‘There’s a light switch,’ said Raymond, sticking his arm out to the side of the door. A series of bulkhead lights flickered on. They were placed at regular intervals along a narrow, elliptical tunnel. Unlike the tunnel they’d come in through, this one was metal, streaked with years of rust.

  She looked at Raymond. ‘Have you been down there?’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s always been locked.’

  ‘But you know where it goes?’

  He nodded, silently.

  Her heart was thumping in her chest, part fear, part thrill; this was by far the most incredible place she’d ever been to on an explore. The truly extraordinary part was that no one knew about it. Blackwater had been the Holy Grail for urban explorers for years, and yet she’d never heard a whisper of a room under the lake.