“And you believe the villagers thought you knew this?”
“Well they used every dirty trick in the book to get me out, so they were certainly freaked. Looking back now, I realise my fear may have made me overlook certain other matters, and for that I am profoundly and overwhelmingly sorry.”
“Other matters?”
“Well again I can’t be sure. And it’s nothing concrete. But I can recall that around that time there was a little girl I used to see occasionally. Maybe about six or seven years old? I remember seeing her on the common with a dark-haired young woman in sunglasses, and the little girl was chanting from a book, rocking back and forth. At the time anyone witnessing the scene would have said it was a book of nursery rhymes or something, and maybe I’m putting two and two together and getting six - but looking back I realised that the woman she was with was a neighbour, a divorcee, and yet I’d done her a reading and there was no child. I don’t know who the girl was, is what I’m saying. Those Dean children were a menace and running wild - she could have been one of theirs and. I didn’t want anymore trouble and so in the end we just left. Not a day too soon either.”
“Dean?”
“A rough neck family who had one of the cottages down the track which runs around the back of the woods. You know - pick-up trucks in and out all the time, odd jobs, scruffy kids with no manners. Her, the wife, looking at you like she wanted you dead - fag hanging out of her mouth, hair scraped back into a greasy rat’s tail, always in trackies. Just rough and rude and nasty - like the worst kind of travellers only they weren’t travelling! I’m surprised you lot weren’t involved to be honest.”
Martha frowned. “Did you ever meet a girl called Ruby?”
“Ruby! Oh yes. I’ll never forget her. It was much later though and not in Woodsend. No, she came here. Girl of about twenty or so, and very troubled. She was living or squatting I should say, with a gypsy chap over at Bridesmoor in the mill!”
“Why did she come to you, can you remember ?”
“Well that’s the odd thing. She said the mill was haunted and it was driving her nuts. I sensed immediately that she was a clairvoyant. Told her if anything bad had happened in the past, in that mill, then she‘d be picking it up. It was all complicated by the fact she’d been on drugs and was going cold turkey - but there was no doubt in my mind she was psychic and way out of control. Poor girl was distraught! Going mad. Anyway, I taught her as quickly as I could how to close down the psychic channels and suggested she come to my classes at church, because she desperately needed help. Well anyway, she rang after that for another appointment but never showed up. I had the oddest feeling about her, so I drove over there.”
“Where? The mill? When was this?”
“It would have been about six or seven years ago, I suppose, and what happened will be imprinted on my memory for as long as I live, I can tell you.” She picked up her cup and drained the tea. Poured them both another. “That place had a really bad atmosphere, and I mean terrifying. Menacing. It would have been difficult enough for anyone trying to sleep there, but for someone mediumistic it must have been intolerable. Ruby. Oh dear how can I explain? She was little more than a fragment of a person. A worn out shell. And he’d upped and left - the man she was with - called her a druggie off the streets, which is what I believe she had been before she took up with him, and then taken a hike and left her there. When I found her she was lying on a filthy mattress in one of the bedrooms reciting a nursery rhyme…”
“Four and twenty blackbirds?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do then?”
“I called Father Adams - a Catholic priest I know.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, ‘Why?’ Because the girl was in psychic trouble. I suppose I thought she was possessed. Sorry, I know people like you will think that’s bonkers. But…if you’d seen her…”
“Well I’d have called a doctor.”
“Yes, and I did. But first I called the priest. Only here’s the thing - he died en-route - his car went across two lanes on the M1, and under a lorry. I waited and waited. The GP never came, by the way, and eventually I called an ambulance. When I finally went back into the mill she’d gone. I don’t know how she left without me seeing, or what happened to her after that. I think a police report was filed because of the ambulance call-out.”
On impulse, Martha reached out and squeezed Celeste’s hand. “Thank you. Thank you for trusting me. I’ve got a much clearer picture now, and a few more pieces to the jigsaw.”
Celeste closed her eyes for a few seconds. That moment…the ambulance crew stumbling back into the twilight clearing, asking where exactly the girl was because there was no one in there. The impatient sighs. The glare of incredulity. How busy they were. A wild goose chase…
A voice from far, far away cut into her thoughts. “Celeste?”
She blinked and looked into Martha’s small, bluebird eyes. “Yes? Sorry. I‘m feeling a bit vague…this happens…”
“Look. I’ll level with you: we have Ruby in hospital with us. Only she doesn’t appear to have any relatives and there is no surname, which is what I’m trying to find out. There’s also, as I mentioned before, another client who’s suffering a similar set of symptoms - the one my colleague was investigating back in the mid-nineties. On top of that we have some unusual goings-on with the staff who treated them both.”
Celeste had half closed her eyes. “Yes, and it’s all too late. You’re going to have to be extremely careful. I mean it, Martha. None of you will believe in God but it would be a very good idea if you started. I know that will fall on deaf ears.”
“I do believe in God. I was baptised.” Martha showed her crucifix.
Celeste nodded. “Good. Keep the faith then and start praying. Be vigilant at all times. Something is going on in that village and I fear it’s satanic rites. I can see them.” She closed her eyes and slumped heavily back in her chair. “But they know you’re coming. And there are things I cannot see. Hidden….I can’t…it’s worse than anyone could imagine…I feel terribly, terribly sick.” Suddenly, tears spilled copiously down her pillow-cheeks and she doubled over. “Oh it’s terrible what they’ve done. It’s terrible. You have no idea. I had no idea. But now I see …And you have to be careful. You in particular. Driving home.”
***
Chapter 23
Woodsend Village. Present Day. 3 am December 2015
Callum turned off the Old Coach Road before letting the car freewheel silently down Ravenshill to the river at the bottom. There he parked and got out.
The night was freezing; an ice-fresh breeze rushed against his skin from the river, and slithers of moonlight illuminated the forest.
All the good souls of the world asleep…
Dead leaves crunched beneath his feet as he walked along the tow path into the woods, haunted by gradually emerging emotions. Well what else would he be doing? It wasn’t like he could sleep. Not with Becky like she was, and worse - turning to Noel for help in her hour of need. Suppose she couldn’t really turn to himself without arousing suspicion about their seemingly forever-in-the-shadows relationship? Even so…the guy had taken her hand, and looked into her eyes like he was her oldest, most trusted friend. Noel was a nice bloke, but that hurt. It did. It fucking hurt. God, why did he ever let her go first time round? Just a stupid argument as teens and he’d had to go and marry someone else, with the decades of consequences that brought. Just to show he didn’t care. Stupid, stupid…
The shock brought him up short.
So incongruously as to seem absurd and out of place, the path ended and suddenly ahead lay a caravan site. ‘Fairyhill Caravan Park,’ announced an arched sign rusted by damp days and rainy nights. A large open field, bordered to the north and west by the forest, contained just four white caravans, opalescent in the dark. God, who on earth would want to holiday here? Mind you, it was probably ok in summer, what with the river running by it. No facilities though, and
everyone wanted to plug in televisions and charge mobiles these days, not to mention take a hot shower. He smiled grimly, remembering some of the scout trips he’d taken as a boy - rubbing sticks together to make a fire - well this wasn’t far off!
He flicked on his torch. May as well take a look since he was here. Got to start somewhere. If that Kristy woman was right - and he’d have tagged her as barking if it hadn’t been for the call-out with old George Mason all those years ago - then there was something odd going on in Woodsend, although it was highly unlikely to be here in this derelict camping site. Usually if abuse was taking place you’d find it deep in the walls of a tightly-knit family home. And try getting into that without a warrant!
The first caravan he came to was an old Alpine Sprite. He grimaced, peering in through the window. Tried the door, then moved onto the next - a similar 1970’s style two-berth with an equally unappealing interior. The beam of his torch picked out the murky image of a Formica pull-out dining table and a set of bunk beds. He shuddered, about to move onto the next one, which was nestling closer to the woods, when something caught his eye, and he swung the light back over it.
His heart gave a sickening thump.
Good God.
It took a second or two for his brain to process the information. He switched the torch off then on again, nose to the window. Slowly, oh so slowly, what he was seeing computed to his conscious mind. Nailed to the far wall was an upside down cross. And in the shadowy gloom other artefacts now began to take shape - the pull-out table, now he examined it closer, was dressed like an altar, with a draped dark cloth and two candelabras - one either end. His eyes strained to see more, while his pulse accelerated.
A feeling, just a feeling… of someone watching…
A shiver traced up and down his spine like icy fingers. Gradually he eased himself round to face the woods, and an impenetrable, silent wall of blackness.
Callum flicked off his torch and waited. His own breath came too loudly in the icy stillness. A barn owl skirted the outer length of the field, as eerie and unworldly as a spectre; the air so motionless that the vixen’s painful cry, which ripped through the night, made his heart pump even harder. A fox. That’s all it had been. Just a bloody fox. Get a grip, man!
Still with his back to it, he tried the door of the caravan. Locked. There was no one out here. He was totally alone. And spooked - he had to admit - just bloody spooked! After a few more minutes he walked around the caravan again, shining the torch in to see if there was anything else, any excuse to break in. Satanism might be deeply offensive but it wasn’t against the law, he reasoned. He could hardly gain a warrant and bring a team of officers down in the middle of the night just because of an altar cloth and a cross on the wall. Even so, added to the weight of everything else he’d heard tonight, it was definitely worth investigating a bit more.
One more caravan - a longer, static one - remained. The chilly damp of early dawn began to permeate his jacket, filtering through to his back as he walked towards it. He’d have a quick look in the windows of this one and then come back tomorrow. Especially if someone was watching him. Right now, frankly, he’d donate a spare internal organ to be sulking sleeplessly under the cover of a warm duvet than be wide awake out here at this Godforsaken hour. Whatever had possessed him? Lovesick, jealous old sod….
Flicking on the torch again, he pointed it through a side window. Nothing. Walked round the back. Still nothing. Tried the door half-heartedly, ready to go now. Unexpectedly though, it was unlocked; and after a quick backwards glance towards the woods, he stepped inside.
Torchlight illuminated shadow shapes on the walls, of his own distorted silhouette, and objects not yet identified. He tugged open the wardrobe with a solitary click, and knelt down to check out the contents of a cardboard crate on the bottom shelf, tentatively pulling back the black cover. Except it wasn’t a sheet, he realised, but a hooded robe like something a monk would wear. His brain tried to catch up as one by one, each item contained in the box was revealed: a brass chalice, a pack of syringes, incense…. and something nasty in a bottle - like dark wax. He opened the jar and reeled back from the unholy stink. What the fuck was that?
Looked like someone had got a disgusting little satanic cult going on here. One which had probably ensnared some of the local children over the years, guaranteeing they would never grow up to be sane, well-adjusted adults. Nice. Right, well it stopped here. Probably this had caused that girl’s madness all those years ago too. What the hell did these people think they were doing? Were they back in the dark ages, or what?
He moved to pick up the box of horrors, intending to take it back to the station, when he glanced inside again, and put it back down abruptly. Was that what he thought it was? Holy crap.
He lifted out a small skull. And then another. A wild animal’s? A sacrificial offering? No, too big…too round…oh Lord… this was a baby’s skull…a human baby’s…oh hell, hell, hell…
With violently shaking hands he reached for his mobile and took photos, then hurriedly threw the black robe over the lot and picked up the box; only then noticing the row of torches - about five - advancing from the woods outside.
Shit.
Fumbling clumsily, he pulled out his phone to speed dial. No signal.
Fuck, fuck and fuck.
He glanced outside again: the torches were closing in rapidly. Shit - were they running?
He backed out of the door, still holding the box. If he bolted across the field towards the river and along the tow path he could out-run them. He’d got the lead. He shot one last look over his shoulder.
They weren’t torches. They were flickering. They were flames. What the…?
His breath caught tightly in the freezing air as he jumped onto the frost-hard ground. And then he was sprinting flat out. Picking up speed. Faster and faster and faster…
Thudding footsteps on the turf behind him. Holy crap they really were running. They weren’t just scaring him off - they meant to get him.
Panic gripped his whole body. He dropped the box and powered forwards, his muscles searing with heat, heart jack-hammering hard into his ribs as he ran flat out in a way he hadn’t since being a boy chased through the local housing estate by a gang of local bullies. Fuck, he was going to die.
Ahead, the ebullient River Whisper glittered darkly in the moonlight - the tow path seemingly so much longer than an hour before.
The sprint was now a desperate chase. An evil game.
Oh God, help me, I’m going to die. Please not like this, not now, not now I’ve found Becky, and I love her…why didn’t I tell her? Pride, stupid, stupid pride…
Think!
It would take a precious second to look over his shoulder… he couldn’t risk it…instinct forcing him onwards, lungs gasping to full capacity, ignoring the screaming acidic pain in his legs…as he catapulted, lurched and stumbled in turn. Stitch crippled his side.
Where were they now? Behind him? Level with him? Minutes to the car. He fumbled for his keys. Yes in the right pocket. Keep them there til the last moment. Faster, faster…rasping breath tearing in his ears…not his own…almost there though, almost there…
Suddenly on the path in front, a dark hooded figure materialised.
Callum’s glance flicked to the right - the woods were black - no choice…a split second’s decision. He darted off the path. Brambles in his face, the undergrowth wrapping round his ankles - twisting, falling, grabbing helplessly at prickly leaves with bleeding fingers - as blinding pain abruptly shot up his leg, and a metal clamp clicked and locked firmly around his ankle.
Just before he lost consciousness, a curious hallucination hovered over him - a circle of hooded, black-robed figures looking down with hollow eyes, one bending down to smile widely with stubs where teeth should be. A man with a white widow’s peak and the palest blue eyes imaginable. As translucent as glass. And older than time.
***
Chapter 24
Present Day
/> 4 pm and Kristy sat in her friend’s back bedroom, curled up against the headboard. The house was lit up like a football stadium with every light in the house switched on. Yet dark shapes skittered across the walls, the curtains twitched and billowed, and children’s whispers echoed in corners.
Let us in, let us in…She isn’t part of the gang…she wants to be…
Trying to shut her mind to the incessant chatter, Kristy picked up the book. The one Martha Kind had posted to her the day her heart gave out. The one Linda Hedge’s husband had handed over to Martha when he knew what she was investigating. A post-it note had been stuck to the front:
‘Kristy - urgent reading! I don’t know why but I don’t feel safe…as if there’s someone following me, probably just tired… but we need to go to the police now - we have more than circumstantial evidence that something is wrong. Martha K.’
Poor Martha. She should have retired to that bungalow by the sea, she really should, and she - Kristy - should never have let her investigate a dangerous case like this at her age. No one had known about a heart problem, though. She frowned for a moment - come to think of it, Martha had never mentioned one either - only her arthritic knees and constant back ache.
Coincidence?
The very air in the bedroom seemed to crawl with an unseen presence. Who was here, watching, listening to her thoughts, waiting to skip like a shadow across the doorway, or blow softly onto her hair? Kristy’s heart rate jolted up a gear as she scanned the room over and over, on high alert for the faintest flicker of sound or movement. The books on the shelves - still there…the alarm clock still ticking…What was real and what wasn’t? A dream within a dream…or a nightmare from which she could never wake up? Put simply - there was no protection from whatever un-named, un-known force threatened her sanity. Doctors like herself - what could they do? Tranquilise the mad and the bad? That was it - there was no sanctuary from this special kind of hell - no respite and no cure. ‘Put simply’, she thought - ‘something that could not be heard or seen lived and breathed the same air…try telling that to a shrink! ’
Father of Lies Page 17
