by Neil Spring
Sidewinder’s bitter tone surprised me a little. As for Price, he looked thoroughly affronted.
‘Warden, all I require are the facts. In this business, they can be frustratingly hard to come by, but facts are all we have. Cold, hard facts. Absolute, inimitable truth. But I see you’re not much interested in facts, are you? You’ve already made up your mind.’
Sidewinder kept his gaze fixed on the bumpy road. ‘Like you, Mr Price, I maintain a deep interest in matters of the preternatural; indeed, I have studied the subject intensely.’
That earned a raised eyebrow from Price. If there was anything that annoyed him more than beliefs formed without evidence it was people who claimed comparable or superior expertise on the paranormal. ‘You want to know something about the world beyond the veil, Warden? Let me oblige. It’s nothing but a bunch of charlatans who delight in deluding hopeful believers. And if, indeed, you are as well read on the subject as you profess, you’ll know that most accounts bow eventually to the scrutiny of diligent enquiry.’
‘Most. Not all.’
Price frowned and leaned towards the driver’s seat. ‘That’s a native accent, yes? How long have you lived in Wiltshire?’
‘All my life,’ said Sidewinder.
‘Any family?’
‘A son.’
‘He grew up here too?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then presumably you told him ghost stories as a boy. Presumably you told your son something of John Mompesson of Wiltshire? A famous case, Warden. A local case.’
‘A scoundrel of the first order,’ Sidewinder said, sitting upright in the driver’s seat and directing his words at me. ‘In the summer of 1661, he heard unsettling noises in his home. Drum beatings, scratching and panting noises. Objects moving of their own accord, and sulphurous odours permeating the house. Mompesson claimed that a man he had helped send to jail had, through some form of witchcraft, caused a malevolent spirit to invade his home in order to exact revenge.’ He shook his head. ‘Of course, the entire affair was a hoax cooked up by Mompesson to profit from those who came to see the spirit.’
Price was looking at Sidewinder with an expression of reluctant respect. He said coolly, ‘Well. Always a pleasure to meet someone with a passion for a subject most other scientists have dismissed out of hand.’
Sidewinder grunted and changed down another gear as the truck swung onto a new track, fringed with small whitewashed stones. ‘You may be surprised to hear it, but I’ve read your case reports, Mr Price. Your flagrant disregard for those blessed with the power to see . . . Who are you to speak ill of them?’
‘I recognise a fraud when I meet one, Mr Sidewinder.’
‘As do I, Mr Price.’
‘What are you implying?’
‘You call yourself a scientist, yet you have no degree, no qualifications.’
‘Rubbish!’
‘You think I haven’t done my research on you? Your books’ – he shook his head – ‘are hideously repetitive. And your lectures, I’m told, are nothing but an exercise in showmanship. And you expect me to take you seriously?’ He sighed with a slow, contemptuous smile. ‘You, a man who takes Fortnum & Mason hampers along on his investigations?’
I’ll be the first to admit that I found Price’s gusto maddening at times; but even so, I felt I needed to speak up in Price’s defence.
‘Harry is working, unremittingly, for the recognition by official science of psychic research, Mr Sidewinder.’ I thought of Mother and added, ‘No one has ever been quite as skilful as Harry in detecting fake mediums and protecting the public from their trickery.’
‘You are associating with a sensationalist, Miss Grey,’ said Sidewinder, his voice hard and resentful. ‘I read his reports on that whole saga in Borley. He destroys most of the evidence, except that which suits his purposes, and then uses that to woo the newspapers. I wonder if Mr Price is even capable of recognising a genuine paranormal event.’ Warden Sidewinder shook his head with a look of bitter disdain. ‘To speak plainly, sir, I am forced to wonder if there is any evidence capable of convincing you. And if Imber doesn’t, nothing will.’
*
We approached the village from the east, passing a few blackened and skeletal trees.
A murky mist was hanging over the plain like a bad dream. At last a landmark appeared on the far horizon, growing out of the mist.
‘That’s St Giles’,’ Sidewinder told us. ‘I’ll give you a set of keys.’
‘You could come with us,’ I suggested.
‘Out of the question,’ Price cut in.
I gave him an incredulous look. ‘Harry, we could do with some guidance, couldn’t we? You heard what he said – we don’t want to tread on any stray shells. Or worse, any—’
‘Land mines?’ Price cut in, his eyes glittering.
I gave a small shiver. Something about the way he was staring at me suggested he was quietly thrilled by the risk.
‘Yes, exactly, Harry. Land mines!’
‘You’ll need to keep a sharp eye out,’ Sidewinder advised.
‘I always do,’ Price murmured.
‘Most of the main pathways in the village have been cleared of debris, but there’s always a chance we’ve missed some. If you stray from the roads, though, you will be risking your lives. Do not touch or disturb any shells, mortar bombs, missiles or similar objects you might find. Understand? They may explode.’
‘Fine,’ Price answered, ‘but no one comes in with us, Sarah. Until we understand exactly what we’re dealing with I can’t risk any human incursion jeopardising my investigation.’ I opened my mouth to protest but Price added firmly, ‘I’ve already agreed it with the commander: the whole range will be secured the instant we enter, sentries posted at every access point. But we go in alone.’
It seemed I had been right to worry about his private meeting with the commander.
As our truck crested the hill, lumbering downwards into the village, we passed several rusting tanks close to the road and more Keep Out and Danger signs. Hedges of barbed wire. Red flags, whipping on the breeze.
‘Can we access the old stately house?’ I remembered Oscar Hartwell telling me about his old home, the magnificent dances he had enjoyed there. ‘Imber Court?’
Sidewinder shook his head.
‘Why not?’
‘It’s a kill house.’ He glanced at me in the mirror and registered my alarm, then answered the obvious question on my face. ‘An indoor firing range. The soldiers use it sometimes to train for room clearing, door breaching. Indoor combat situations.’
‘The whole house?’
‘Most of it. The soldiers say the place gives them the creeps. It’s not been used in a while but the land around it is littered with debris that could be lethal.’
‘What about the woods?’
‘Out of bounds. A recent spot check revealed as many as sixty to eighty high explosives in that area.’
‘The old mill?’
A long pause. ‘You heard the commander. The Imber Service tomorrow revolves around the church and the centre of the village. Make those locations your priority.’
I was about to ask how we were meant to focus on the centre of the village when most of it seemed to be off limits to us when Sidewinder hit the brakes. I saw a barrier ahead, and beside it a guardhouse from which a young sentry was emerging. The truck stopped and Sidewinder killed the engine.
We had arrived.
The three of us sat there in silence for a few seconds before Sidewinder got out of the vehicle and strode towards the guard, who looked barely old enough to have left school. Price quickly grabbed the tattered briefcase containing his scientific instruments, flung open his door and climbed out; he waited impatiently for me to slide across and exit on his side.
The guard, his face raw from the cold, was exchanging quiet words w
ith Sidewinder. When we reached them, the guard raised the barrier and Price snatched the keys to St Giles’ from Sidewinder and marched ahead. ‘Come on, Sarah!’
I began to follow, but Sidewinder gripped my arm. ‘You’re sure you want to enter the village?’ he asked me. His face was rigid; in the cold morning light, I thought he resembled one of the stone sarcophagus busts we were likely to find in the churchyard. But for the first time I detected some warmth – or was it sympathy? – from this man. ‘I’m telling you: that village is a magnet for unusual phenomena.’
‘Apparently so,’ I said politely. ‘That is why we are here.’
‘Imber is dead,’ he added, looking towards the village with a searching, baleful glance. ‘A dead place. And like every dead thing, it should be left to rest in peace.’
The wind was raw on my face as I looked at Price, standing next to the raised barrier, his overcoat hanging down to his knees, the brim of his black felt hat pulled down over one eye. I gave him a small nod and he flicked his head towards the village. Hurry, that signal was saying, Follow me.
‘I know Harry was reluctant for you to join us,’ I said to Sidewinder, ‘but if you wanted to, you could.’
Sidewinder shook his head, his gaze travelling past a rusting tank towards the piercing spire of St Giles’ Church. ‘Miss Grey,’ he said, ‘the only road worth taking in Imber is the road out.’
*
From the instant we entered Imber and the barrier fell behind us, I felt hemmed in by the valley, and had a distinct feeling of being watched. I told myself it was my imagination, paranoia.
‘Try to keep up, Sarah!’
The wind was getting up now, whipping at my hair and making it even harder to keep pace with Price’s long strides. We followed the white dusty track through an avenue of gaunt trees, some of them charred as if from an explosion.
Ahead of us was a mouldering stack of slatted boards, leaning perilously to one side. A barn? Perhaps once it had been.
Soon it was behind us, but my curiosity was only growing about whatever lay ahead. Gradually, the trees on either side of us fell away, and the dusty track levelled out.
‘Look, Sarah.’
I followed Price’s gaze down to the stony furrows at the side of the road.
‘Are those spent cartridges?’ I asked.
‘Yes. Grenade pins, too.’ He stared at me with an earnestness that was distinctly unnerving. ‘Keep your eyes on the ground. Be vigilant.’
The track turned right, cutting through a shifting sea of knee-high grass, veering downwards, then becoming steeper still, widening eventually to become a cobbled, cracked road. Price stopped abruptly and shot out an arm to bring me to a halt.
‘Well,’ he said, scanning, ‘here we are. The loneliest place in Britain.’
I heard myself inhale, and then slowly breathed out.
Crumbling grey cottages with broken windows lined the cobbled road. Hawthorn and weeds erupted in tangles from yawning black doorways. Some of the buildings retained their original thatched roofs, but most had no roofs at all, or had been covered with dark green blast-proof sheeting.
Somewhere, a loose shutter was banging, loud and insistent in the wind.
‘Oh, Harry,’ I whispered, and felt a tremble of awe run through me as my gaze settled on what had once been a quaint cottage, but was now little more than a bombed-out shell. Jagged black spaces yawned where there should have been latticed windows, the rotting frames riotously entangled with ivy. The front door was a dark, splintered space, barricaded with a twist of barbed wire. ‘They really did murder this village, didn’t they?’
‘They had their reasons,’ he said flatly.
The wind shifted and died; the banging of the shutter fell away. For a moment, nothing remained but the echo of dismay and despair, floating with us like chalk dust through the abandoned streets as we scanned the pitted ruins, the ivy wildly writhing out of walls that were crumbling and cracked.
I didn’t yet know if there were any supernatural presences dwelling here, but something else was clear to me: this village of barren beauty was eternal, a place where the past and present met in uneasy union.
It occurred to me then that these decaying houses weren’t just the relics of neglect; they were the causalities of trauma. Time hadn’t simply frozen here; time was wounded, permanently in pain. And perhaps . . . waiting? These houses had been homes for families and friends and lovers. A vanished community. Noble people, who had left those homes behind for a greater good; who had gone peacefully, with fortitude and courage.
This village doesn’t just belong to the army, I thought, it belongs to the past; and every part of me seemed to deflate out of respect for its sacrifice.
I closed my eyes and, for a moment, imagined that I could almost hear the hurried whispers and giggles of children, rushing after Sunday school to play in the fields; I could almost see the wisps of smoke rising from the battered chimneys. Life, long extinguished, forgotten by most who lived beyond the fences, in the outside world.
‘All right, Sarah?’
I opened my eyes and nodded, attempting a smile.
‘Then let’s find the church.’ Price glanced at his watch. ‘If we’re lucky,’ he said, ‘we have nine hours before sunset. I want to secure the church completely, every door and window.’
‘And then what?’
‘Spend some time inside? Perhaps even spend the night.’
‘What? We’re hardly prepared for that, Harry! No food, no extra clothes, no blankets.’
He gave me a boyish grin and I saw that he was pulling my leg.
‘Not funny.’
‘You should see your face, though,’ he said, chuckling.
Despite myself, I granted him a smile. He touched the rim of his fedora and I felt my heart warm a little towards him. It had always been this way: Price sprinkling just enough charm to keep me interested.
‘I’m quite confident we’ll come across some answers before sundown,’ he added, strolling ahead. ‘We’ll show Warden Sidewinder a thing or two, now, won’t we?’
‘Perhaps.’
I wet my lips – something had stolen my attention. Folded into the side of a nearby hill and just above the spire of the village church was a building that drew my gaze and made my throat tighten.
A watermill.
I pointed and Price followed my finger with his eyes.
Imposing and ancient, the mill was also derelict. Yet, even from this distance, it looked grandly impressive: two storeys high, a gritstone building of Gothic design, with iron-framed windows. Once used for grinding corn, probably. I pictured it up there on its lonely hillside, perched next to a large millpond with its own waterfall.
The mental image was clear. Extraordinarily vivid. I almost caught the scent of the place: a building pervaded by a dusty, dirty smell. It was, I felt sure, the sort of building inhabited by narrow staircases, uneven floors and ancient beams. A cold building – I felt that too – full of iron buckets and millstones.
‘Sarah?’
I flinched.
Price was standing there, scrutinising me. And all at once I had the strangest feeling, the strangest urge, to tell him a story about that mill. A new story, not about Sergeant Edwards and things he had witnessed there, but about something else.
Someone else.
I blinked, feeling oddly foolish for a second, and then curious.
‘Come on,’ I said jauntily. ‘Let’s get going.’
‘Yes. We may as well enjoy ourselves,’ he agreed, striding ahead. ‘Whatever Sidewinder believes, there’s nothing here for us to fear.’
I understood from this that he had already arrived at one conclusion: that there was nothing in the way of genuine supernatural phenomena to be discovered in Imber. And there was real conviction in his voice.
But I wasn’t so s
ure. I had the same queasy feeling that had first arisen in me back in London at the Brixton Picture Palace, a sensation of intense strangeness and absorption. Here, as there, I had the prickling suspicion – which I would have struggled to justify in any meaningful, rational way – that everything around me was only a façade, barely concealing something unpleasant underneath.
My gaze became lost in the distance for a moment, then fixed again on the mill, mysterious and somehow awful. I was sure for that instant that a repressed, unnatural presence dwelled here in Imber. Sadness and secrets.
I was sure of something else too.
It would be unwise – reckless, even – to ignore a feeling like that.
– 13 –
POPULATION ZERO
We followed the dusty track towards the centre of the village. On our right, a wall of dead hedges barricaded us from sloping, half-acre allotments, wild and uncultivated. On our left, a shallow stream, thick with algae, wound its way through a thicket of elm trees. Gazing at the dark gaps between those trees, I saw a padlocked gate and a high chain-linked fence topped with razor wire and, beyond, a huge boarded-up mansion.
Imber Court.
I walked right up to the fence, curling my fingers around it, and peered through, thinking to myself that this house must once have been magnificent. The sort of residence that boasted libraries and drawing rooms, replete with wood panelling and plush curtains.
Clearly, this manor had been built for a large family. The many arched windows suggested at least eleven bedrooms. But like everything else in Imber, it had been left to wither and die. Every door was blocked with steel sheets bolted to the masonry. Three storeys had been reduced to two.
I stared at it.
Yes, I felt sure this was the property with a macabre history that had been in Hartwell’s family for several generations, now the army’s ‘kill house’.
Was this also the house I’d seen when Edwards attacked me and I knocked my head?
Hard to tell. Similar, certainly; but that house had been splendid and grand, whereas this house was dilapidated beyond hope. Its appearance summoned images of its cold and neglected rooms, paint flaking off the walls.
