Bone Harvest

by James Brogden

  4

  BRUISES

  OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS THE LEFT SIDE OF DENNIE’S face came up in a livid rainbow of yellows, purples, and greens. The neighbours were too polite to say anything, of course, which was just as well with her. Despite the drinking and camaraderie in the Pavilion, when it came to the actual allotments themselves people were a lot more solitary. For many of them, like Dennie herself, their allotment was a welcome distraction from the stress and noise of everyday life, a place of solitude and calm where each was king or queen over their own tiny kingdom, and so they were reluctant to disturb each other, happy to potter and dig in companionable silence. So when, on a bright and breezy Wednesday afternoon, Dennie saw Becky Pimblett coming towards her with a tentative smile and a plastic Tupperware container, she was surprised, alarmed, but also a little pleased.

  Rebecca Pimblett was red-haired and rail thin, with high, birdlike cheekbones and a wide goofy smile that she lavished on the world, though Lord knew the Pimbletts had little enough to smile about.

  ‘Hello, Dennie!’ she called. ‘I hope you don’t mind me dropping by. I heard you had an accident and I thought I’d bring you a little something to cheer you up.’ This was exactly the thing that Dennie liked about Becky: a straightforward and complete absence of pussy-footing around and a refusal to wallow. If Dennie had told her to sod off and mind her own business, she’d have given a chirpy ‘Fair enough’ and tried again some other time.

  ‘Becky,’ she replied, ‘don’t tell me you’ve gone and actually baked something for me.’

  ‘Well,’ Becky drawled, as if it wasn’t a big thing. ‘I was making some biscuits anyway and it wasn’t any trouble to throw in an extra batch.’

  Dennie took the offered box but didn’t open it straight away. ‘Can I ask how the little one’s doing?’

  ‘Alice?’ Becky’s smile sobered. ‘About as well as can be expected, thanks for asking. This last round of chemo has really knocked her for six. But David has the day off so we’ve brought her out for some fresh air. It’s going to be spring soon and I want her to see things growing instead of spending all her time surrounded by tubes and wires. I mean the house is clean but it’s a cold clean, you know?’

  ‘I know exactly what you mean.’

  ‘Listen, why don’t you come over and say hi to her?’

  ‘Oh no, I don’t think—’

  ‘What, you’ve got something more important to do than meeting my family?’

  ‘No, it’s just…’ Dennie gestured at her face. ‘I must look a fright.’

  ‘My little girl is a Pimblett, and we don’t scare easily. Besides, you’ve got a way to go to be scarier than a man in a white coat with a big needle. Come on.’

  Dennie gave in and let herself be led, Viggo trotting by her side. She glanced towards the Neary plot as they went; the newcomers hadn’t been seen since the Saturday when she had confronted them, and she hoped that they had enough of a sense of shame to be keeping their heads low for a bit. She’d debated whether or not to tell Angie, but not for long – Dennie knew exactly what she’d say. Are you sure you didn’t dream it, Dennie? Been having more of those blank moments, Dennie? Do you really think it’s safe to be on your own so much of the time, Dennie? She went with Becky mostly because she genuinely just liked the young woman and her family, but there was also a way in which she thought they might be able to help her.

  Becky’s husband David was a printing engineer by trade, running the big machines at a company in Stafford that made menus and local newspapers and the endless stream of glossy junk mail that seemed to be the only things that the postman delivered these days, but with that industry going down the tubes along with pretty much every other one, he’d been forced to go part-time, lucky to have not lost his job altogether. The opportunity to spend extra time with his sick seven-year-old daughter might have been a godsend to some fathers, but David Pimblett was one of those vanishingly rare individuals, in Dennie’s experience, whose sense of community spirit was almost as strong as his love for his family, and he’d volunteered to use some of that newly freed-up time as a Special Constable for Staffordshire Police’s Needwood Neighbourhood Team. The police station in Dodbury had closed over ten years ago, with the nearest station now being four miles away in Rugeley and only five full-time officers employed to look after nearly twenty square miles of isolated rural farms and villages, most of whom had only a Neighbourhood Watch scheme as their front-line defence against the increasing amount of farm theft and ‘county lines’ drug gangs. Dodbury was no different. David’s shifts riding along with the regular officers rarely saw him in the village itself, but even when he was off-duty there was a sense that at least they weren’t completely on their own. With his time taken up in this way it was Becky who looked after their allotment, which like its owners was straightforward, no-nonsense, and cheerful.

  The planting beds were simple rectangles formed out of old timber railway sleepers painted in bright colours – a bit weathered, but still solid. At one end they had a few small fruit trees which were just starting to bud and at the other a timber shed with a bit of decking out front and a water butt to catch rain run-off from the roof. David was digging over the soil in one of the beds, his breath pluming in the cold. He was the sort of man she would ordinarily cross the street to avoid, with his closely shaven scalp and tattoos covering both arms, which just went to prove how wrong first impressions could be. On the deck, their daughter Alice sat in a folding picnic chair reading a book, wrapped up thickly in a hat, coat and gloves, and a surgical mask which made it hard to see how thin Dennie guessed she must be, but the pallor of the girl’s face and the dark circles under her eyes said enough.

  ‘Hallo, the workers!’ called Becky as she and Dennie approached. ‘Get the kettle on! I’ve brought a guest for morning tea.’ Alice looked up and waved. Her father set his spade in the ground with a sigh of relief.

  Alice was staring at Viggo, open-mouthed with delight. He grinned back at her, tongue lolling. ‘Can I pat him?’ she asked her mother.

  ‘Sorry, honey, no. Germs.’

  ‘If it’s not safe, we can always go,’ said Dennie.

  ‘No, it’s okay. The doctors have said that she’s making good progress but her immune system is going to be a mess for a while yet. So a few hours in the outdoors should be okay, just as long as bits of it don’t lick her.’

  Meanwhile the girl had noticed the bruise on Dennie’s head. ‘Were you in a fight?’

  ‘Yes I was,’ she replied. ‘With a huge ogre! But I kicked him up the bum so hard my shoelaces came out of his nose.’

  Alice giggled in horror, her eyes shining.

  David filled a small camping kettle and set it to boil on a portable gas stove while Becky brought out an extra folding chair, and they sat on the deck. Dennie complimented them on the upkeep of their allotment and David asked her advice about onions while they watched a robin inspecting his handiwork, and then tea arrived, accompanied by Becky’s home-made biscuits. The Pimbletts were further away from the Neary plot than herself, with more allotments between them, so Dennie couldn’t tell whether the newcomers were there or not.

  ‘How are things in the neighbourhood watching business?’ Dennie asked him. ‘Quiet, I hope.’

  He nodded. ‘Nice and peaceful. I think all the troublemakers have migrated south for the winter.’

  ‘Nothing from the OWL?’

  ‘Nothing from the OWL,’ he confirmed. ‘As you would know, if you had a smart phone.’

  Dennie hmphed. ‘And have Siri or Alexa or whatever it is following my every move? No bloody thank you.’

  ‘Where’s the owl?’ asked Alice, looking around.

  ‘It’s not that kind of owl, honey,’ said her father. OWL stood for Online Watch Link, an app-based service which allowed members of the local community to report concerns to the police and for the police in turn to inform the Neighbourhood Watch, through David, if there might be suspected criminal activity in the area.
Dennie had asked Angie to log her first encounter with the ‘intruder’ on it, but was beginning to suspect that she hadn’t done even that. ‘It’s a thing on my phone that helps me to hear when there might be bad people around.’

  ‘Can I have a phone?’

  ‘No,’ said her mother and father at the same time.

  The robin continued to hop and flutter, peering for worms and beetles in the overturned earth. Viggo watched it intently, but behaved himself.

  ‘So, nothing at all, then?’

  He turned to look at her. ‘Why? Are you expecting something?’

  She tried to laugh it off. ‘No, of course not. It’s just that old saying, you know, about it being too quiet.’

  ‘Well, I like it quiet,’ said Becky. ‘Though chance would be a fine thing with this monster rampaging around my house all the time,’ she added, and pulled Alice’s hat down over her eyes.

  ‘Mummy!’

  ‘Although,’ Becky added, ‘there is that big hog roast on Sunday, which sounds like it should be fun. I take it you’re going?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet. I’m a bit busy this weekend. I’m also a vegetarian, so hog roasts aren’t really my thing.’

  Removing meat from her diet had been another of those changes after Brian that she couldn’t have made while he was alive. He’d liked his Sunday roasts. He’d also liked his Sunday morning fry-ups, and his Friday evening sausages – in fact there hadn’t been a day of the week which hadn’t included meat on the menu, a factor which had probably gone a long way towards explaining his heart condition.

  ‘Well, my family’s Jewish but it doesn’t make any difference to me,’ Becky said. ‘I’m sure there will be other options for us social outcasts, and for heaven’s sake we can take something along anyway to help out. It would be lovely if you could come. I think there should be more occasions like that, getting everybody together for a big celebration. You know, like a proper little village within a village.’

  ‘Have you met our new neighbours, then?’

  ‘Only to chat to, in passing.’

  Dennie sipped her tea carefully and tried to keep her tone neutral. ‘And what do you make of them?’

  Becky shrugged. ‘They seem nice. She’s obviously got him wrapped around her little finger, but he’s a bit of a charmer himself.’

  ‘Easy, woman,’ growled David in a mock yokel voice. ‘Don’t you be staring at no other menfolk, or I’ll beat you.’

  Sarah tries to laugh it off but Dennie can see that it’s a fragile and shiny thing, that laugh, like a glaze over something brittle that might craze and crack into pieces at any moment.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Dennie.’ She laughs. ‘I was taking Fred for a walk and he saw a bird and charged off after it, and I had the lead wrapped too tightly around my wrist, that’s all.’ She tugs the sleeve of her jumper down from where it has accidentally ridden up to expose the bracelet of bruises around her forearm – they are an angry purple, thunderclouds threatening to break out from under her skin. Dennie doesn’t say that she has seen a matching bracelet on her other wrist, because then Sarah will have to elaborate upon the lie with something about how she transferred the lead to her other hand and then, wouldn’t you know it, the silly dog did the same thing again. Dennie doesn’t point out that she’s noticed over the past year how Sarah’s t-shirts have gone from short to long-sleeved, and how she’s gone from wearing low-cut blouses to turtle-neck sweaters even when working on her allotment in the heat of summer. Dennie doesn’t think her brittleness could survive that. But she can’t say nothing, because if she says nothing she may as well be inflicting the bruises herself.

  Sarah’s baby boy, little Josh, is eighteen months old and trundling around the allotment in tiny overalls and rainbow wellies, using a plastic beach spade to help Mummy dig. Dennie watches him potter and chatter happily to himself, and experiences a deep upwelling of sadness for what this boy will have to grow up seeing.

  ‘Sarah,’ she says. ‘You know that if you ever need, you know, a break. A rest. You can always… there’s always room… now that my lot are gone…’

  ‘I’m sorry, if I need a what?’ Becky was frowning at her in concern. Not Sarah. David was pretending to be helping Alice break part of a biscuit into crumbs for the robin, but Dennie could tell that he was listening too. Viggo was on his feet, whining.

  ‘Oh no,’ she whispered, struggling to her feet out of the folding camp chair. Her mug clattered to the deck and spilled lukewarm tea. ‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to…’

  Becky was rising to her feet too, now. ‘Dennie, are you okay? Do you want me to call someone?’

  Dennie waved it away. ‘No. Thank you. For the tea and… No, sorry, I just. I need to…’

  Muttering more vague and half-coherent apologies, she wandered back towards the safety of her own allotment, Viggo close beside, leaving the Pimblett family staring after her.

  5

  THE SUMMONING

  A FRESHLY PAINTED SIGN ON THE GATE THAT OPENED onto the main road proclaimed that this was now Farrow Farm. Preparations for the equinox rite were as complete as they were going to be, but the deserter was still nervous.

  ‘You’re sure we don’t need to do this at the allotment?’ he asked.

  ‘I told you, we only need to raise him there,’ she said. ‘We are the new Church of Moccus, and we can perform the rite in any way we see fit. He can be killed anywhere, which is just as well, considering the noise.’

  ‘Aren’t there not quite enough of us? You know, for an orgy?’

  ‘The sex was always in celebration rather than summoning. Still,’ she added, with a teasing smile, ‘if it makes you feel better, you and Gar could always—’

  ‘No, forget it. No way.’

  ‘Well, then maybe you and I can celebrate afterwards.’

  As mother of her ‘church’ Ardwyn had controlled the purse strings but she hadn’t wanted to take any chances on how quickly the Farrow might have been able to convince the police to track the use of credit cards, so part of their four-day flight from Swinley had included a long detour south along the M6, emptying her account in a series of transactions that she hoped would encourage pursuers to follow a false trail. During their short time in Dodbury some of the cash had been spent on a suite of skinning and butchering tools, a stainless steel cattle trough, a chopping table, a chain block hoist and a sturdy extendable tripod, hooks, a mincing machine and a sausage machine, and a large chest freezer – but he didn’t know how long the rest of it was going to have to last them. He didn’t know if he and Gar would be enough to hold Moccus, assuming that the god would be able to find them at all.

  The rite would be after moonrise at five in the morning, barely a couple of hours before dawn itself, and after checking and re-checking everything there was nothing else to do except fret, so he fell back on a soldier’s habits and tried to grab a few hours’ kip while he could.

  When Ardwyn woke him she was naked, and she held the bone carnyx.

  ‘It’s time,’ she told him.

  He removed the clothes that he’d slept in, took up his knife, and went out to join her and Gar in the farmyard, where a bonfire had been lit.

  Moccus – Eater of the Moon – had shown his favour by blessing them with clear skies, though this made it chilly. The waning moon was low in the east, a fingernail sliver which would soon disappear into darkness, only to be reborn like the god himself. Virgo was on her back on the opposite horizon, and between them Mars and Jupiter were in conjunction, so close that their overlapping brightness outshone everything else in the heavens. ‘War and wisdom combined, see?’ she said, pointing it out to him. ‘As his tusks die she opens her legs to him that he may be reborn inside her.’

  She raised the pale bone of the carnyx to her lips.

  ‘Wait!’ he said. The horn dropped, and she stared at him. ‘What if I’m wrong? It’s not too late. Maybe we could…’ he trailed off, irresolute.

  She didn’t
try to reassure him; that wasn’t her way. ‘Are you wrong?’ was all she asked. ‘You’ve killed him three times already. I imagine that means you know him as well as any mortal can. Besides, what’s the alternative? You’re wrong about it not being too late, I’ll give you that. We can’t go back. Mother would feed us to his children. When I first met you, you were a deserter, and that was ideal for what the Farrow needed, but I don’t need that any more. I need someone who will stay and make a stand. So, are you wrong?’

  Gar added an interrogative grunt.

  Everett sighed, deflated. ‘No. I’m not wrong. Do it.’

  ‘Good then.’ She put the carnyx to her mouth again and blew, and its mournful note rolled across the night-shrouded fields.

  ‘Moccus!’ she cried. ‘Great boar! Dagger mouth! Hunter’s bane! We summon thee!’

  She blew a second time.

  ‘Ninurta! First farmer! Law giver! Healing hand! We summon thee!’

  She blew a third and final time.

  ‘Saehrimnir! First flesh! God’s feast! Divine blood! We summon thee!’

  * * *

  A mile away, the people of Dodbury stirred in uneasy sleep. David Pimblett dreamed of being chased through the cathedral spaces of a primeval forest by something huge that ran on two legs but panted like a beast. Angie Robotham dreamed of harvesting root crops on her allotment, only instead of carrots and parsnips she found herself pulling up hunks of raw flesh, dripping red and twitching. At home, downstairs in the kitchen, Viggo woke Dennie with his howling.

  * * *

  Moccus, ancient and weary, stepped into the firelight. His nearly blind eyes squinted around at the farm buildings, and his nostrils flared as he took in the scents of this strange new place. He snarled, confused and displeased.

  ‘I know,’ said the deserter. ‘It’s not what you’re used to. But it will be better, believe me. The offerings of Swinley were weak and their flesh thin fodder to keep a god under their heel, but here we will deliver you from that. Here you will be free, to finally enjoy human blood as you were always meant to. Only submit to us, one more time. Once more, that we may deliver you and earn your favour.’