by Gwyn G B
The Villagers
Gwyn GB
Contents
The Villagers
Preface
1. Dorset, Summer 1994
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Thank You
Also by Gwyn GB
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
About the Author
The Villagers
This book tackles some tough subjects involving organised child abuse. Although completely fiction, with fictional characters, it was originally inspired by a true story told to me by a Vicar.
Please note: spellings used are British English.
Published in 2019 by Chalky Dog Publishing
Copyright © Gwyn GB 2019
Gwyn GB has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright holder.
All characters and their storylines, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to persons living, or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book will be available from the British Library
Preface
Dorset, Early Summer 1994
The two figures dressed in black hooded robes entered the dark fringe of the forest and melted into its heart. One was taller but slightly stooped and markedly slower, the other lithe and energetic.
The moon was waxing, that time between a new moon and a full one, the best time for casting spells to bring people to you. The day was Saturday when Saturn is governor and it was fast approaching the twenty-second hour.
As the pair walked on through the tall wooden pillars around them, the larger of the two was speaking. Quietly, almost reverently, the voice instructed its smaller companion.
‘To join us there must elapse a time of one year and one day from tonight. Then and only then can you undertake the initiation and become a full servant of our Lord Satan. For this year you shall be apprenticed to me and I shall teach you his ways. But to be accepted into his fold, you must bring with you another one who can be offered up to our King as a future apprentice. Fail to do so and you will not only incur his wrath, but you will be banned from his inner circle forever. Tonight we shall draw to us a suitable candidate. We are here. We must prepare the altar.’
The pair had followed a small footpath which led them to a clearing, a large round pool of white moonlight encased in the centre of the darkness. The area was barren, no bushes, no grass. It seemed that not a living thing dared brave the exposure of the sky. At its centre was a large flat white stone, defiant in its vulnerability and naked to the elements.
The large figure opened its robes, disgorging a black velvet bag from which it took a silk cloth as dark as the night around them. With this cloth they dressed the stone, protecting its innocence from what was about to take place. The large figure spoke again once the ears of the rock were covered.
‘Two black candles anointed in conjure oil.’ From out of the robe a wizened white hand placed the candles, one in each top corner. ‘A black devil candle anointed in Saturn oil.’ This was placed at the front on the left. ‘And a white candle anointed in bewitching oil.’ Before placing this candle in the final corner, the shrivelled hands took out a small dagger and carved on its handle a single word “child”.
Finally, some incense was taken out and put in the centre of the altar along with a photograph of a beautiful old house. Its white walls shone in the moonlight underneath a veil of green creepers that curled their way around its large oak front door. The incense was lit and the large figure told its smaller companion to kneel before the altar. Then using a wooden staff, the slow stooping one began to walk around the clearing in a circle, counter-clockwise. As the staff scraped the skin of the dry earth so its possessor chanted.
‘I make this circle around us for evil’s end and in the power of the Lord Satan’s name. I make this circle around us to join us together in the power of the Lord Satan’s name.’
As the figure walked, there was no sound in the forest around them, no rustle of a hedgehog or mouse in the dry leaves, or snapping of tiny twigs as a fox slipped by. The creatures of the forest didn’t venture near the intruders, their senses far keener than that of humans. All that could be heard was the spell reaching into the night.
‘I make this circle around us that is endless in reverence for the Lord Satan’s name. In the name of our Lord Satan, the circle is made’
Then the figures were reunited, both kneeling before the altar. Nervously, the small one rose from the ground and taking the flame offered to it, lit the candles. The tiny white hand shook, its knuckles shining, transparent. Once it had resumed its kneeling position the small figure began repeating the spell that was now being chanted. The voice matched its demeanour, slight and shaky, but loud enough for those that mattered to hear.
‘The good bow before the evil as the godly before the sinner.
Lord Satan we implore your help
To fulfil our every desire
Bring us a virgin child that we may teach them your ways
Lord Satan, our Master.’
After the spell there was silence. For almost one hour the black robes knelt still and without voice. Only the wind blowing the candle flames showed any sign of life. When the larger of the two finally spoke, the ferocity with which it broke the silence made the other jump in fright.
‘Now you must recite the Lord’s Prayer as I have taught you.’
Without acknowledgement, the small voice plunged straight into its memory and brought forth the prayer.
‘Our Father who art in Hell
Evil be they name
Thy Kingdom come
Thy will be done on earth as it is in Hell
Give us this day our daily blood
And help us to trespass
As we seek revenge on our enemies
Lead us into temptation
And deliver us to evil
For thine is the Kingdom
The power and the glory
For ever and ever — Amen.’
Then the candles were blown out, the altar replaced in the bag and the stone returned to its gleaming innocence. The two figures left the pool of white light for the shadows, but the chill of a presence far greater than they hung still and lifeless in their wake.
1
Dorset, Summer 1994
‘This is hopeless. I’m lost and there’s no sign of Deepdene anywhere along this road.’ Alison Swift’s eyes darted betwe
en the map and the road ahead of her.
‘Mummy, when are we going to be there? I really need to go.’
‘Sophie I’ve told you, if you’re that desperate I’ll stop and you can go in the bushes.’
‘You know I don’t like that.’
The small child in her rear view mirror mumbled into her chin. Alison recognised the signs of a forthcoming sulk.
‘Look I’m doing the best I can. Please stop pestering and then maybe I can concentrate properly on where we’re going.’
Alison checked the mirror for reaction. There was a slight tremble of the bottom lip and a sigh, but otherwise the situation seemed to be all clear. Her daughter’s round pale face was downcast allowing the dark brown hair, which she’d so adamantly refused to be plaited that morning, to fall forward almost covering her face. Alison’s heart went out to her.
‘We can’t be that far away now darling,’ she’d said, careful to take the stress from her voice. Then like a hallowed saviour, up ahead the thin white messenger showed her the way. Deepdene 2 1/2 miles. Its wooden hand pointed right.
Alison was excited, it was the first time in six months that she’d felt any kind of emotion — other than sadness. From the details the estate agent had sent her, the house looked beautiful and at a price they could afford. Besides, she needed this and it felt right. The agent said the owner wanted a quick sale, this could be their chance at a new life, a fresh start.
The first sign of Deepdene was the predictable spire of a small grey church straining to be seen above the canopy of trees. The road narrowed and they drove past a cluster of little stone cottages hewn from the rock of the Dorset hills around them. A horse lifted its head from grazing to half-heartedly watch them speed by. Then, around a corner and they were upon it, the small village of Deepdene with around eight shops, all seemingly deserted except for an old sheepdog basking in the sun outside the bakers.
Alison had to make two attempts at parking in the large space between a pick-up truck and a greengrocers van. She was used to the tight manoeuvring into tiny spaces that every London driver faced daily and the sudden lack of impending bumpers confused her navigation system. They’d come to a halt just outside of the lone pub in the high street, The Ferret ‘n’ Weasel, and Alison gave an embarrassed glance in its direction to check if anyone had seen her somewhat less than great parking skills. She needn’t have worried. The only two drinkers were happily engrossed in their newspapers, totally unaware of the strangers in their midst.
‘Right, we’ll get you to the toilet and then we’ll go and track down the estate agents.’
Sophie gave a weak smile of relief at her mother. Alison looked at her, longing for her to laugh and beam a smile like she used to, but for six long months there’d been little sign of happiness, mostly tears and tantrums. It made her heart ache. ‘God please let this place be the answer,’ she closed her eyes momentarily, desperately praying that somebody would hear her. Then she snapped them open and switched back into cheerful mother mode. ‘Come on then, look sharpish. I thought you were bursting.’
Mission accomplished, they trotted off down the high street, heading for the bright blue sign Alison recognised as Spencer & Hardings. Judging from the size of the place, David Spencer and Jim Harding were the two middle-aged men she found herself face to face with as she pushed open the door.
‘Mrs Swift?’ the slightly older man at the right-hand desk stood up and extended his hand in welcome.
‘Yes, Jim Harding?’ queried Alison. In fact she knew it must be him because he looked exactly as she’d expected from their telephone conversation. The crisp upper class English accent permeated to his clothes which were neatly ironed summer tweeds and immaculately polished shoes. As Alison took his hand she also couldn’t help noticing that his fingernails looked better manicured than hers, while the floral scent of his aftershave smothered her with its sickly fragrance.
‘Sit yourself down, it must have been a long journey.’ Harding’s eyes dropped to the small face beside her. ‘And who might this be?’ He smiled at Sophie who could only muster a shy glance and a mumbled,
‘Sophie Swift,’ in response.
‘A cup of tea or coffee?’ he looked again at Alison, ‘or maybe an orange squash?’
Alison was eager to get off and see the house but she guessed Sophie was thirsty by the hopeful glance she threw her way at the mention of the orange. She’d have to start winding down from the rushed pace of London life, another few minutes wouldn’t make much difference. Harding bustled off into the back of the office while Alison seated herself on the wooden chair beside his desk.
‘I believe it was your accountant who put you in touch with us? Clive Fordham?’ It was David Spencer who spoke now, although to be honest, he and Jim could have been clones. They both had brown hair that was greying and thinning on top, both the same scrubbed skin without a hint of whiskers and even the same mannerisms. Their spotless appearance and surroundings, combined with a lack of gold bands on their wedding fingers, suggested to Alison that perhaps they were more than just business partners. Alison confirmed their route of contact.
‘Your husband has recently died I understand, my condolences.’
She thanked him but noted that her fingers had started to play with her shirt sleeve again. She’d been trying to wean herself off this grief reaction. Every time somebody mentioned her loss she would drop her eyes and reach out for the comfort of her sleeve. It was as though she couldn’t bear people to look her in the eye because the depth of her sadness let them see straight into her soul. Charlie had been the one to point it out to her, he’d been better than any counsellor could ever have been. With his help she’d slowly learnt to face up to her grief. Now she was able to look David Spencer in the eye to thank him for his condolences, but she still couldn’t control those fingers, they let her down every time.
‘I lost my dear old mother just a few weeks ago,’ continued David, oblivious to the emotional reaction he’d just set off, ‘Such a terrible thing to come to terms with — death!’
‘Yes indeed,’ Alison has replied, trying hard to avoid thinking about it. Sophie’s little hand clasping hers brought Alison out of her private world of grief to realise she wasn’t the only one suffering. As an adult she’d been able to rationalise her loss, Sophie couldn’t. She’d been very close to her father and had yet to understand the emotions his death had created. Her bed wetting and tantrums were the visible results of the inner confusion which had continued no matter how Alison tried to help. She put her hand on Sophie’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze of support, grateful that this time her daughter had chosen to share her grief. At other occasions when Sophie had rejected her mother she’d found it very hard to cope, but she knew it was just a question of time. She had to be patient and understanding.
Jim Harding’s return with their drinks thankfully dispersed the gloom cloud that had descended and they were able to get back to the task at hand.
‘Here you go, an orange squash for the young lady and a coffee for mum. Now let me get the file out.’
Alison took her coffee from the little painted flower tray it was offered on, but hesitated before putting it down on the desk. The polished cleanliness of its surface seemed to reject any hot and possible messy receptacles and she reacted like a timid schoolgirl in a headmaster’s office. She didn’t have to hold the cup for long though, David Spencer was on the case and had a pair of Dorset pottery coasters on the desk before Sophie had even finished her first gulp of orange.
There was a large map of the area on the wall beside where they sat and Harding, noticing Alison’s interest, pointed out the location of the house and the school which Sophie might go to. Sophie immediately brightened, she’d liked the idea of being picked up by a special bus every day and taken to school just like she’d seen in the movies. Her little fingers traced out the route it would take on the map. Alison meanwhile, was revelling in the realisation that the nearest big town was over ten miles away.
‘Closest supermarket is Tesco’s at Dibden,’ said Harding, concentrating on the map and his little 2D guided tour. ‘But there are plenty of farm shops and the village sells just about everything you need,’ he continued reassuringly, turning round to smile at Alison to see what the reaction was to this rural isolation and conscious of the fact he was supposed to be selling the area and not putting her off. Alison wasn’t phased, this was the heart of rural Dorset and exactly what she’d been looking for. She had romantic visions of walking or maybe cycling, to the local farm shop and buying all their food fresh, and was even planning on growing her own vegetables. With all the health scares over meat, plus genetic engineering and injected growth hormones, they’d become virtual vegetarians anyway.
Once they’d finished their drinks and Alison had taken Sophie to the tiny toilet at the back of the office, just in case, they resumed their journey. It wasn’t far out of the village, but they’d taken Alison’s car. Up the high street, past the greengrocers and the Post office and back on to the tree lined automobile artery. A few hundred yards along and they came to a Spencer & Hardings’s For Sale sign on the left. Down a bumpy dirt track and Alison got her first glimpse of the house — it was perfect. A stunning facade of white walls and green ivy creeping round a large oak front door.
