by Simon Clark
Six months ago, Pel Minton had joined an archeological excavation in England. Despite there being little in the way of wages, the work suited her. Accommodation came free – rudimentary, to be sure: either a house-share with other diggers, or a tent – but it was a great way to see Britain, and she loved the mystery of peeling back layers of earth to reveal Roman villas, or Saxon forts, or whatever lay hidden. A couple of months ago, the opening of a battlefield grave revealed skeletons with arrowheads embedded in the bones. A sight as thrilling as it was grisly.
This dig, however, would be different. Today was catastrophe day. She eyed the approach of the old man, who appeared so uncannily young. Only the walking-cane hinted at infirmity.
The head of the dig, Kerry Herne, employed a bullhorn to toss out quips and encouragement to a dozen or so colleagues who toiled in trenches, or sieved dirt for finds. Aged forty, outrageously glamorous, with long, wind-blown hair, she raised the mic to perfect lips. ‘Give it your best shot, people. We’re waiting for word on the church ruin from the authorities. Meanwhile, we’ve got to finish these test trenches tonight. It is really – and literally – a case of time and tide conspiring against us. Where you’re digging now will be ocean in a matter of days. Fish will be doing whatever fish do where you’re standing – d’ you hear, Nat Stross?’
Nat saluted her with a shovel; a mass of soil mixed with bone fragments cascaded down his neck, which earned him laughter from his colleagues.
Kerry grinned as she thumbed the mic button. ‘Archeologists interpret the dirt, Nat, we don’t use it as a fashion accessory.’ All the time she shot glances in the direction of old Jacob Murrain. Clearly, she knew what lay in store for her when he reached the dig.
‘Keep sieving, Pel.’ Nat shook dirt out of his jacket. ‘We’ve another ton to lift before bedtime.’
‘Slave-driver.’
‘Aw, go on, you love it. Then you have to love this work with a passion, because we don’t do it for the money. Am I right?’
Pel gently tapped him on the head with the plastic mesh. ‘Next you’ll be telling me we get our reward in heaven. Whoa.’
‘What you got there?’
She gently wiped the dirt of centuries from a metal disk the size of her thumbnail. ‘Coin … no, it’s a silver button.’
Nat whistled. ‘That’s high society. Make sure it gets put with the A class finds on Kerry’s table.’
Technically, Nat was her boss, but despite being built like a heavy-weight boxer, he was gentle as a kitten. And he never gruffly ordered her about, unlike some of the other archeologists, who endlessly chivvied their lowly ‘dirt-monkeys’, as they termed their assistants. When Nat asked her to do something he always made it sound like caring advice from a friend.
Taking the silver button – Regency, she surmised – to the trestle table, where the particularly valuable finds were set out for Kerry’s perusal, allowed her to catch her breath. It had been a busy five hours, and this was her first day at this particular site. Because coastal erosion had been munching away the coastal cliffs at such a ferocious rate, the archeologists were on a rescue mission, which turned out to be little more than a ‘rip and grab’ job. They were compelled to yank potentially valuable artefacts out of the ground fast before the sea took them.
As Pel threaded her way through the headstones, with her precious find in hand, she had the opportunity to appreciate how hard her colleagues worked. There were a dozen slit trenches in the graveyard. Another one had been started alongside a free-standing mausoleum in redbrick. Little bigger than a garden shed, it contained one of the most chilling pieces of ‘primitive art’ ever seen. At least, that’s what Nat claimed. Tempting to take a quick peek, she thought, but we can’t waste a minute. The ocean’s going to take all this in a few days. Time’s running out.
As she walked through the long grass she sucked cool sea air into her lungs. Cloud scudded through a blue October sky. On the cliff-top stood the remains of a church. The square tower still remained intact but the other end of the church, containing the altar area, had tumbled down on to the beach as the ground had crumbled away beneath the foundations. Now roof timbers stuck out into the cold breeze; the bones of the church laid bare by its gradual destruction. She scanned the terrain behind the doomed church. Largely undulating grassland, it suggested loneliness. The nearest house lay in the direction of town, perhaps a mile away. While the only road, serving this unpopulated section of coast, seemed to only venture here grudgingly. Little more than a dirt track, it had nearly broken the suspension of the vans as they’d driven up here. Strangely, as the road was seldom used, a pair of trucks, with matching crimson cabs, were thundering up the incline toward the church. Maybe they’re salvage merchants coming to collect masonry from the church, she mused. They’d better he quick; there’s a chance it will have flopped down on to the beach in a few hours.
Breathing deeply, Pel savoured the tingling scent of ozone on the air, blending with the subtler aroma of freshly turned soil. Her parents would be surprised at her choice of work; after all, she never was one to get her hands dirty; now, however, mother nature’s own good earth decorated her fingers.
Kerry smiled from where she sat at her finds table. ‘Ah-ha, more treasures?’
‘A silver button.’
‘Excellent. You know, you’ve a good eye, Pel. Most people would have thought this to be just a grubby pebble. It takes some doing to see an underlying design through the dirt.’
‘It’s practice, I guess.’
Kerry gave her an appraising glance as she slipped the button into a plastic envelope. ‘We don’t want to lose you. You’re a valuable member of the team now.’
‘Thanks, but I still plan to leave for Berlin at the end of the month.’
‘I wish you could be persuaded to stay. The pay’s awful, as you know, but this is valuable work. And you’re just so bloody good at it. You’re intuitive. You can read subtle clues in the landscape. We wouldn’t have picked up the medieval jar last week if you hadn’t checked the walls for cavities.’ Her line of sight wandered across to the church ruin. ‘Oh no, he’ll kill himself … the place is falling apart.’ Kerry picked up the bullhorn and shouted, ‘Sir! You, sir. Keep out of the ruin. It’s unstable … sir!’ She frowned. ‘That’s odd.’
Pel looked in the direction of the church. One of its exposed roof beams swung in the breeze as if inviting them to get closer. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I thought I saw someone against the base of the tower. Like they were …’ – she shrugged, baffled – ‘trying to push it over the cliff.’ Kerry rubbed her forehead. ‘It’s these sixteen-hour days. I’m going nuts.’ She smiled. ‘You don’t see anyone, do you, Pel? Dressed in black?’ The smile remained, yet her expression suggested someone who needed reassurance.
Pel tried to lighten the mood. ‘You are going nuts. There’s no one there. It’s probably just a shadow cast by the clouds.’
‘Yes, you’re absolutely right. Anyway, I shall be having a very large gin and tonic in the pub tonight. I’m sure I’m even cataloguing finds in my sleep now. Oh no, here he comes.’ She nodded in the direction of the cemetery gate. ‘Mr Murrain.’
‘Why’s he trying to stop the dig?’
‘He’s obsessed with the mosaic in the little building over there.’ Kerry adopted a deep voice to imitate that of a man’s: ‘“Keep the light burning; you’ve got to let me keep the light burning.”’
‘The light? What light?’
‘Oh, the man’s convinced himself there’s … damn, he can’t do that!’ Kerry spoke into the bullhorn, ‘Mr Murrain. Please stop what you’re doing. This is work of international importance, Mr Murrain. We can’t allow you to disrupt it.’
Kerry dashed toward the intruder who’d climbed into a trench. Pel watched with that mixture of shock and fascination that comes when a situation appears as if it will erupt into violence. Nat went along to backup Kerry. They weaved through the headstones toward the man. What then? Wou
ld they restrain him? Nat wouldn’t normally resort to force, but if the old man got so riled up he decided to attack? She had a sick feeling in her stomach – the one that told her a situation was about to turn ugly. It was, but not in the way she anticipated.
The other diggers had stopped work now. They stood in their trenches to watch the outcome. Already they could make out Mr Murrain’s cries on the shiver-making breeze. ‘You mustn’t destroy it … you can’t even touch the mosaic …’
Kerry approached the man slowly now. ‘Coastal erosion will destroy the mosaic anyway. We’re not going to damage it. It’s going to be lifted out in one piece and taken to a museum.’
‘It must stay here,’ roared the man. ‘It mustn’t be touched. And I’ve got to keep the light burning. If I don’t we’ll all be in danger.’
With the mosaic lying at the focus of this argument, Pel decided to snatch a look through the iron railings which formed one side of the mausoleum. It had to be something pretty special to get the old gent so worked up. And Nat did say that the mosaic’s picture was the strangest he’d ever seen.
Even as she cut through the grass to the building, she could still hear Mr Murrain pleading with Kerry and Nat, ‘Listen to me,’ he shouted. ‘Instead of moving the mosaic you should be urging the authorities to build a seawall here. It’s still not too late to save the land. We’d be safe then.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Murrain. That’s beyond our remit. We can’t persuade anyone to build a seawall to stop the erosion. It’s too late—’
‘Yes, it will be too late!’ railed the man. ‘You know what the town’s children call the mosaic? They say it’s the Ghost Monster. And they’ve named it Ghost Monster for good reason! If you insist on removing it, then I’m warning you that—’
A roar of engines drowned Mr Murrain’s prediction, or threat, or whatever it was he was trying to tell Kerry and Nat.
Those guys are eager beavers, Pel thought. The two trucks swayed as they powered along the road that would take them along the edge of the cemetery to the ruined church. In each cab a man sat at the wheel, their eyes hidden by sunglasses. Dear heaven, the guys were in an insane hurry. That little track wasn’t built for those kind of speeds.
Pel shot a glance back at Kerry, now in earnest conversation with the old man waist-deep in the trench. The others were returning to their work as the threat of violence seemed to be receding. Little did they know…
Pel quickly approached the mausoleum. Just one little peek, then I’ll get back to my sieving, she promised herself. Well, there’s the light that he was so worried about.
An old-style lantern hung from the ceiling inside the building. It shone its amber light down on to…
She never got chance to see what the lamp did shine its light down on to. With a massive crash the first truck powered through the fence. In an explosion of splintered timber rails the vehicle shot through the cemetery. The second truck followed. Both machines smacked into headstones. Stone crosses, carved angels, plaster cherubs – they burst into fragments as the trucks battered them into the earth.
Pandemonium. Archeologists scattered for cover. Pel froze. The drivers must be deranged. Why on earth would any sane human being want to race trucks in a cemetery? One truck skidded sideways; its wheels hurled up sod, along with dark geysers of earth; its rear-end fishtailed into a finds’ table, sending it cart-wheeling into a hole. Then the big machine spun out of control; its rear wheels pitched down into the main excavation works. There its driver revved the engine uselessly as tyres spun against soft muck.
Distracted by the crash of the truck, she forgot to check where the other one was. When the thunder of a motor battered her ears she glanced in the direction of the sound.
The second truck swept through the grass toward her. A marble angel rose above a grave between her and the cab’s grill. A second later the steel beast annihilated the angel.
Pel knew she was next. There was no time to run. The front of the cab filled her vision. The engine howled. All she could do was close her eyes. Then wait. Five, four, three …
The concussion came sooner than she anticipated. Breath jolted from her lungs. She descended into darkness.
2
THEY SAY IF you are attacked by a lion you feel a detached calm. The teeth gripping your throat don’t hurt you. You are strangely at peace as the animal savages your body. You are tranquil. It’s like going to sleep in softly engulfing darkness. These thoughts went through Pel Minton’s mind as she was hurled sideways. Logic dictated the truck’s fender had smashed her ribs … and probably the entire front of her skull.
But, as she fell into a place that was cool and dark, there was no pain.
It only hurt when an object snagged her ear-piercing.
‘Ouch. That stings!’ Even more surprising than the lack of pain from what must have been a dozen broken bones, was the way her lips effortlessly ejected the words.
‘Sorry.’ A male, English voice. ‘But whatever you do keep your head down.’ A powerful hand pressed against the side of her head. Strangely, it felt like someone held her head against their chest. But who on earth…?
Then a monstrous roar. Her eyes snapped back into focus.
Above her, a black tyre sailed just inches from her face. This, followed by the underside of a truck. All too clearly she saw the spinning drive prop, along with dirt-encrusted steel struts; a moment later: a greasy rear axle and yet another tyre. Then, above her, deep blue sky.
At that moment she understood. Someone had thrown her bodily into the narrow test trench near the mausoleum. Just two feet wide and eighteen inches deep it resembled a shallow grave. One that had just saved her life. Or at least the one employed by a stranger to save her life.
When she sat up there was sudden silence. The truck had come to rest, nose first, against the mausoleum. Steam rose from the cab. The engine, thankfully, had died.
When she turned to thank her saviour she experienced a giddy sense of disorientation. For there sat Mr Murrain. Only he didn’t look quite like the Mr Murrain who had limped into the cemetery to berate the archeologists. Although this Mr Murrain had the same shock of black hair framing a broad face – one set with a pair of large grey eyes that had such an uncannily pale gleam. No. This version of the man was definitely far younger. Twenty-five at most, she guessed.
With an expression approaching one of amusement, he noticed her bewilderment; also, the fact she glanced between the man who still sat alongside her in the trench and the one standing with Kerry fifty yards away.
‘That’s my grandfather. Then you’ll know all about old Jacob Murrain.’ He gave a dry smile.
She shook her head.
‘Oh?’ The smile broadened. ‘You soon will. A little thing like this …’ – he nodded at the truck that had crashed into the mausoleum, containing the mosaic – ‘won’t distract him for long.’ Swiftly, he climbed to his feet, before brushing the soil from his jeans and white T-shirt. He offered his hand to help Pel stand. ‘I’m Jack Murrain. Are you sure you haven’t heard of the Murrain clan?’
Once more, she could only give a little shake of her head. The shock of being almost crushed into eternity by the truck started to work its way into her nerves.
‘I’m surprised,’ he said brightly. ‘According to the locals we’re a family of demons.’ He studied her with those unnervingly pale eyes. ‘You’re not hurt, are you?’
‘I’m fine.’ Even so, a tremble ran through her. Only it wasn’t fear. She’d spotted the driver of the truck who almost killed her. ‘You damn idiot!’ she yelled. ‘You nearly hit me!’
The burly man advanced on her, eyes blazing. ‘Then you should have got out of the bloody way!’
‘Why were you trying to run me down?’ She met him head on, fists clenched.
‘I wasn’t after you, you stupid bitch. I was trying to flatten that bastard.’ He jabbed a finger at the mausoleum. ‘I’d have done so, too, if I hadn’t had to brake ’cos you got in the way!’
‘Calm down, Ross,’ Jack told him. ‘You owe the lady an apology.’
‘I’ll do no such ruddy thing. Out of my way.’
The trucker went to shove Pel aside. Instead, Jack Murrain grabbed the big man, then flung him on to the mound of soil heaped beside the trench. In the same moment, Jack pinned the man down with one knee between his shoulder blades; the other knee shoved the man’s face deep into the soil. The trucker struggled. His muffled cries became guttural choking. Jack exerted more pressure against the back of the man’s balding skull.
‘Ross. I know you can hear me. When you calm down, I’ll let you go.’
By this time Kerry strode through the grass; her voice boomed through the bullhorn. ‘Everyone stay calm. Don’t tackle the drivers. Leave them to me!’ The woman was steaming angry. No wonder. The excavation site had been wrecked.
But, running up through the cemetery before her, came the second driver. He clearly resembled the first one that Jack held face down in that mixture of earth and disturbed human bones. They were about the same age, too, mid-forties. The man bristled with aggression. For the second time today Pel felt the sick sensation that foretold of impending violence.
‘Let go of my brother!’ bellowed the man.
Jack retorted, ‘Scott, the pair of you must be out of your minds. What do you think you’re going to gain by driving trucks through that thing?’
‘Because it’s all your grandfather thinks about. If we bust it we make the bastard suffer. Now, let go of my brother.’
‘Ross can get up when he stops behaving like a jerk.’
‘I’m warning you, Jack.’
‘And I’m promising you that if you so much as touch me, or anyone here, then I’ll knock you into that hole and fill it in myself.’
Jack noticed that the fight had gone out of the guy he held face down in the dirt. Quickly, he got off then rolled him over. Half-choked the man sat up. In between gasping for breath, he spat out chunks of graveyard soil; no doubt, with the odd flake of human skull, too.
