BLACKDOWN (a thriller and murder mystery)

by D. M. Mitchell

  ‘Fowler!’ said a voice from the bushes. Hushed but urgent.

  His eyes scanned the edge of the clearing from where it had come.

  ‘Fowler, it is me, Blackdown. Come out of there. You are on full view. Can’t you see it is what they desire? It is all part of their damned game. They sit and wait your folly. It is all planned. Leave the neckerchief.’

  Fowler still could not place where the voice floated from, but he would not leave one of the tickets that might buy his freedom hanging so enticingly close to him. He moved towards it, glancing up at the men lining the ridge. He could make out the grotesque shapes of their masks in the lamplight; sense their rising expectation as he approached the neckerchief.

  ‘Fowler! Do as I say, man!’ hissed Blackdown. ‘You are not safe out in the open.’

  Fowler hesitated before the swinging silk neckerchief and was reminded of the long, flowing hair of a woman he’d promised to marry a lifetime ago, before he was forced into the army. He reached up and his fingers caressed it gently, top to bottom, thinking on what might have been.

  He barely had time to register the wild scampering sound behind him. He turned. The sight of the beast bearing down upon him was like a vision hot from the depths of hell. With a roar, the beast launched itself at Fowler and he was knocked to the ground, his hand still clutching the white neckerchief. Blood spattered and soiled its silken surface as clawed hands held his face in a vice-like grip and a wide mouth fastened around his throat. Words he could no longer spew filled his mouth and escaped over his severed tongue as a pained series of grunts. And then his throat was ripped open with a quick flick of the creature’s massive, hairy head, and Jack Fowler gasped as his eyes began to glaze over.

  22

  All Hell Breaks Loose

  ‘No!’ said Blackdown from their crouched position at the edge of the clearing, holding Callisto by his muscled forearm. ‘You cannot do anything for Fowler now. He is dead. Come; leave the creature to its business. It will give us time to get to the pool.’

  Callisto’s eyes flashed Blackdown and unforgiving stare. But with a glance at the sight of Fowler’s body almost entirely covered by the formless blur of the creature as it savaged his lifeless body he nodded and the two men took flight into the wood. They heard a loud cheer rise up from the ridge. The sound of bets won and bets lost.

  The two men raced through the wood, Blackdown leading the way. Eventually, Callisto caught Blackdown by the arm and stopped him dead in his tracks. He stared hard and questioning at Blackdown, raising his makeshift club and pointing in the direction of the creature.

  ‘You want to stand and fight?’ said Blackdown.

  Callisto nodded fervently. Grunted his affirmation.

  ‘No, we cannot. We must reach the pool.’

  Callisto raised his brows, held out a questioning hand.

  ‘Why? Because our salvation lies there, that’s why. For God’s sake, man, let’s be off. I know these woods – I spent many hours as a child here. I know what I am doing.’

  The sweating prize-fighter lowered his head and closed his eyes for a second or two.

  ‘You can stay and fight him with a wooden club if you wish, Callisto, but you will lose. It has the strength of four men and the savagery of a hundred. You know that better than I.’

  Callisto agreed with a reluctant nod, and both men set off again, deeper into the engulfing wood. They paused every now and again for Blackdown to gauge his position. He felt the trunks of trees to touch the damp moss, knowing that it grew on the north side of the trees, able to navigate by this crude method, the position of the moon in relation to the treetops, and by an innate instinct honed through the many years as a boy and young man traversing this very land. They came across another clearing, and spied yet another neckerchief hanging from a bough. But he bade Callisto ignore it, and pointed out the ridge lined with yet more lanterns.

  ‘They expect us to enter the clearings to collect the neckerchiefs,’ he said in a whisper. ‘It’s where the killings must usually take place, our pursuer able to see its prey more easily. That’s why they have set up temporary viewing platforms above them. Well they will have no such pleasure from us. We are close to the wood’s centre now, where the pool lies.’

  This time Callisto did not question Blackdown. He followed him meekly into the bushes. But they had gone no more than twenty or thirty yards when Blackdown brought them up sharp, and he held up a hand for silence. Both men stood stock-still, Callisto raising his club, looking in the direction that Blackdown now stared. Blackdown pointed.

  They held their breaths. They heard the faint shuffling of something moving through the undergrowth somewhere to their right. Then it fell silent. ‘It is the creature,’ said Blackdown under his breath and close to Callisto’s ear. ‘Fifteen to twenty yards distant. It seeks us out.’

  The noise started up again, something brushing against leaves, a small twig snapping underfoot, the noise hardly audible.

  ‘This way,’ urged Blackdown. ‘There is not far to go.’

  They wove as silently as they could through the bushes, aware that no matter how quiet they tried to be they could not hope to be completely silent, not with someone as large as Callisto, thought Blackdown. He was not built for stealth.

  With huge relief Blackdown entered the small clearing he remembered from his childhood; from all the legends and superstitions that surrounded the dead-centre of Devilbowl Wood, to the bitter-sweet memories of swimming in the pool there, taking satisfaction from the fact it was expressly forbidden by his mother, who warned him and his brother that it was far too dangerous a place. Strange, then, he thought as he approached the still black pool at the clearing’s centre, that he now saw it as his refuge, his sanctuary and his salvation.

  Beside the pool stood an old oak tree, its boughs reaching out over its jet-like, glossy-black surface. Hanging from it was another neckerchief, caught in the moonlight. On the ridge, through a stretch cleared of trees, lanterns hung from tall poles. Blackdown made out the indistinct figures of men gathering and staring down into the clearing.

  They track or anticipate our movements, Blackdown thought. ‘Follow me, but keep an eye out for the creature,’ he said.

  Callisto grabbed Blackdown, his face a mask of confusion.

  Blackdown smiled coldly. ‘I don’t mean to take the neckerchief,’ he said quietly. ‘Trust me. And do not let your guard drop; the creature is close by and may be upon us soon.’

  There were two boulders sitting on the banks of the ancient pool, from which as a young boy Blackdown remembered jumping into the water. They looked like sleeping elephants under the moonlight. He approached one of them, running his hand over its surface, tracing a crack down to the ground. Even under the light of the moon it was tremendously difficult to see anything clearly in the shade, and he was using his sense of touch more than anything to locate the hole.

  The growl made them both stiffen.

  At the edge of the clearing they saw the dark form of the creature emerging from the bushes, bent to all fours like a wolf, its head low. Blackdown was still amazed at how large the unfortunate man was – if you could call him a man, he thought, for this was like no man he had ever encountered. His size almost put Callisto to shame. He saw Callisto face the creature, and backed towards Blackdown with his club at the ready. The creature began to pace the edge of the clearing, its guttural rumblings seeming to fill the tiny space.

  ‘Watch him closely, Callisto!’ hissed Blackdown, fervently searching the base of the boulder till he found the hole he was looking for. He reached in and put his fingers upon something. He dragged it out.

  Callisto waved his club at the creature, boldly made a step or two towards it, mirroring its grunts with a few of his own, taunting it, encouraging it to strike. The creature’s eyes fastened on the bare-chested bulk of the prize-fighter, its hairy jaw dropping, saliva dribbling through jagged teeth. Its muscled shoulders tensed, ready to pounce. Callisto’s fist tightened aro
und the stout branch, sensing the creature would at any moment throw itself at him and preparing for the worst. He had lived in fear of this beast when it had been in Pettigrew’s possession; before it had been passed on to Lansdowne for his own perverted use. He never expected having to face it unfettered. He had called for its destruction, pleaded with Pettigrew to put the man out of his misery, for this was no life for a man, if indeed it was a real man. But perhaps this was God’s justice, after all; justice for all those men Callisto had been forced to recruit for Lansdowne’s twisted and unholy pleasures; for all those poor soldiers he had been forced to take prisoner, to deliver to their death. His strength used for evil purposes.

  If it were God’s revenge then so be it, he thought grimly, standing tall.

  In an instant, the creature lunged towards Callisto, its muscular thighs rippling as they propelled it across the clearing. It gave a loud, curdling shriek that iced Callisto’s insides and he raised the club.

  A thunderous roar filled the glade, and a brilliant flash of light momentarily lit the creature as it launched itself at Callisto’s throat. But instead of hitting the prize-fighter, the creature swung to one side as if hit by an invisible fist. It collapsed on the ground by Callisto’s feet, its arms and legs thrashing manically, its piercing cries both pitiful and terrifying. Callisto looked back.

  Blackdown was standing with a smoking pistol in each hand, smoke rising languidly from one of the barrels. He strode by Callisto and aimed a gun at the creature’s head. He pulled the trigger, and the gun exploded into life. The creature stopped its struggling.

  Callisto looked wide-eyed at Blackdown, who fell immediately to the ground behind one of the boulders, beckoning Callisto take cover. He handed Callisto one of the pistols.

  ‘Load it!’ he said, handing him a bag of lead balls and a handful of paper cartridge. He set about loading his own pistol, biting off the cartridge, tipping the powder into the gun’s barrel and sprinkling a little under the hammer. He smiled at the look of confusion on Callisto’s face as he rolled a lead ball down the barrel, thrusting the empty paper cartridge after it and tamping it down with the pistol’s ramrod to hold the ball in place. ‘I had an idea what this place was being used for, so I stashed these here as surety a while ago,’ he said. ‘I sneaked by Lansdowne’s guards and left my weapons just in case I ever needed them. I know this place better than anyone; they could never prevent me entering if I had a mind. Neither will they prevent me from leaving. My only fear was that the powder might have gotten damp, but thank God it has been warm these past few nights.’ He cocked the pistol and pointed it to the sky. ‘They will soon realise what has happened, Callisto, so take cover.’

  As if to illustrate his warning, shots rang out from the ridge over the clearing and they heard balls strike the boulder and thump into the damp earth nearby.

  ‘Don’t spend your charge in haste,’ Blackdown warned Callisto as the man prepared to discharge his pistol in the direction of the fire. ‘We don’t have much and cannot expect to fight a battle.’ More bullets struck the rock. They heard the sound of voices from the ridge, orders being given. ‘We need to get out of this clearing – I feel as exposed as a fish in a barrel.’

  But when he made an attempt to move from the boulder’s cover he became the target for a hail of shot as more of Lansdowne’s guards took up position. He scurried back into the boulder’s shelter, raising himself and firing the pistol at the shadowy forms beginning to gather under the light of the lanterns. He saw a group of men scramble down the ridge and disappear into the bushes.

  ‘We’re going to have company,’ Blackdown said, reloading. ‘They will try to get around us, I reckon, and soon this boulder will offer us no protection at all.’ He peered around the rock into the thick undergrowth, looking for the slightest signs of movement. He fired his pistol again when he saw scuttling shadows. A rain of fresh bullets forced him back under cover again. ‘This is hot work, Callisto!’ he said. Callisto fired his pistol blindly into the wood, started to reload.

  ‘My boy! My boy! They killed my boy!’

  Robert Caldwell grabbed a gun from one of the guards and dashed down the ridge into the wooded hollow. ‘Damn you, Blackdown!’ he screamed from the cover of the undergrowth. ‘I’m going to kill you!’

  Blackdown shook his head. ‘So many people seem to want to do that,’ he mused. ‘Now I have another.’ He called out from behind the rock, ‘Take your place in the queue, Caldwell!’ But his face was devoid of humour. He was struggling to see how he was going to get out of this. He never expected there to be so many armed men. He was facing a veritable army. The only thing left was to make a dash for it. He turned to Callisto. ‘We have no option. If we stay here we are dead men. We will have to make a break for the cover of the wood and hope for the best. They shoot blindly and into the dark, so the odds are not all stacked against us.’

  Callisto swallowed. He nodded, sucked in a noisy breath through his nose.

  Blackdown pointed. ‘We head in that direction.’ Callisto nodded again. ‘I will lead. I know the way out of here.’

  And with that Blackdown grabbed the remaining bullets and powder from Callisto and charged across the clearing. A number of shots rang out, lighting up the wood like tiny flares, and Blackdown heard the bullets splinter trees and thud into the ground, but thankfully he reached the tree line without being hit. He crouched, turned and beckoned Callisto with his pistol. As the prize-fighter vacated the cover of the boulder and lumbered across the open ground, Blackdown fired his pistol at their attackers.

  Callisto had almost reached the trees when two shots were fired and the man stumbled and fell. He groaned in agony, a meaty hand clutching his thigh where a ball had struck it. He attempted to crawl towards Blackdown, throwing him the second pistol as he did so. Blackdown ran to the stricken man and tried to haul him over the mossy ground, but his weight was just too much for him. More bullets whizzed over their heads like angry wasps, narrowly missing them. Callisto waved him away.

  Blackdown took hold of Callisto’s pistol, fired it and feverishly set about loading it again. Bullets zipped by him. He swore he felt the heat of them. The images of past battles swam in his mind as his fingers struggled to load the pistol with a lead ball. Battles he thought he would never wage again. He could leave Callisto behind, of course, and the enticing thought flitted through his head, but he abandoned it in favour of another.

  The best form of defence is offence.

  He raised both loaded pistols and stood up. Instead of running away from the handful of men who had taken up position at the edge of the clearing and who were currently pouring badly aimed shots in his direction, he charged towards them, shouting out loud and defiantly. He fired once and cast the gun away, charging them as fast as he could. One or two shots were fired at him, but they were wild, and the effect of seeing Blackdown charging down on them had the effect of making one or two of the men run away. They bolted back up the steep incline to the ridge, tossing away their weapons and scrabbling in the soft dirt to escape the madman.

  Robert Caldwell had emerged from the bushes, had made his way to the pool and was bending over the dead body of his charge. ‘My boy!’ he said plaintively, knowing his lucrative involvement with Lansdowne had come to an unexpected and sudden end.

  He rose to his feet in time to see Blackdown racing across the clearing. He raised his pistol, fired at the running man and missed. Blackdown swung his arm round, aimed briefly at Caldwell and shot him dead.

  Blackdown knew the men would not stay afraid of him for long. They’d soon regroup and set about him with a renewed vigour. He cast away his pistol, having used up all his powder and shot.

  A gunshot immediately ahead showed that not everyone was a coward. Blackdown ran headlong towards the place where the flash had come from, and he barged into a man who was trying to reload his musket. As Blackdown bowled the man to the ground, the guard grabbed a knife from its scabbard and slashed out at him, catching Blackdown on
the upper arm. Feeling no immediate pain, Blackdown landed a heavy fist into the man’s face, peeling his resisting fingers away from the knife’s haft and forcing the man to give up the blade. With a deft, practiced motion, Blackdown sent the knife plunging into the man’s chest. He died at once.

  A second guard came out of the gloom, the bayonet of his musket slicing close to Blackdown’s cheek and sinking into the soft earth. Rolling away, Blackdown grabbed the end of the barrel and yanked hard. The gun was wrenched out of the guard’s hand, and with a terrified expression the guard made a bolt for it, back towards the ridge with his companions.

  He had gone no more than four yards up the steep bank when there was a tremendous snap and the man screeched out in agony as the mantrap’s metal jaws flashed out of the undergrowth and sank its teeth into the man’s leg, breaking bone and severing arteries.

  Blackdown looked down upon the writhing man. The trapped man’s lips parted in a heart-wrenching scream, his face dropping paler by the second.

  ‘You should be aware where your own traps are,’ Blackdown advised coldly.

  ‘Help me!’ the man begged, his back arched in pain.

  Blackdown saw the huge amount of blood pumping out of the wound. ‘I cannot help you,’ he said. ‘Your artery is severed and you are already dead. The best you can do is pray for forgiveness.’

  Blackdown ducked as a number of bullets crashed into the undergrowth. Through the bushes he made out the shapes of a number of men lined up on the ridge, firing down at him. There were few options left to him, he thought. He might have secured a few extra minutes, but time was fast running out. It had been foolish of him not to have made his escape when he had the chance, and his compassion for the wounded Callisto had barged away his normally cool and clinical resolve.