by Ryan Casey
“It’s okay,” Brian said. He avoided eye contact with Tony. Funny really, how they were all just as civilian as one another. Or as criminal as one another, rather. Brian was pursuing leads and withholding important information. He couldn’t rest on his “police powers”, not anymore. “Come on, David. Let’s just get out of here.”
David nodded rapidly and shot ahead of Brian and towards the concrete steps. The closer they approached the steps, the more sound Brian could hear upstairs. Clearly a public place of some sort. Hidden in plain sight.
“Here, couldn’t help but notice you mention those murders on Pendle Hill and Longridge Fell. Anything we should know, like?”
Brian peered back at Tony. His eyes shot to the ground again, unable to maintain contact. “Why should you know anything?”
Phil raised his bony hands in his brother’s defence. “Just as members of’t public, like. All he means.”
Brian sighed and shook his head. Doing so reminded him how much it ached from the blow he’d received. That was a point—a third person had knocked him to the ground. Obviously one of Tony and Phil’s dodgy mates. Oh yeah, if he knew Tony and Phil Mcphee as well as he thought, then they had no shortage of dodgy meathead mates to do their dirty work, that was for sure.
“Brian, can we go?” David stood at the top of the steps. His voice was shaky and his jaw was quivering. Seeing him like this cheered Brian up a little.
“Just through the door on the right, pal,” Tony said. “You’ll know where to go from there.”
Without any further encouragement, David was out of the door and into the hum of voices in the room above.
“Stay out of trouble, you two,” Brian said, as he followed the hard concrete steps towards the wooden door.
“Seems like you’re the one who needs to stay outta trouble,” Tony called. “Be careful when yer huntin’ for ghosts, officer. Never ends pretty.”
As he pushed through the door at the top of the steps, the realisation of where he was erased any minor curiosity at just how peculiar receiving abstract advice from a headcase like Tony Mcphee really was.
Punters peered at Brian and muttered to one another. A large, open log fire crackled in the corner of the room. A bartender sprayed real ale into a murky-looking pint glass. It was the Grey Goose pub. The very place David and Brian had started their discussion earlier.
And judging by the way David was speeding out of the door, they weren’t sticking around for another pint.
Chapter Twelve
Brian had just about got accustomed to Hannah’s disappointed expression these past few days.
She was there by the window again when he got back. David offered him a ride home, but he refused. He needed time alone. Time to pull himself together after their kidnapping ordeal. Kidnap. He couldn’t actually believe he’d been stupid enough to allow himself to get tangled up in such a situation. He was supposed to be a former detective sergeant, for fuck’s sakes. He’d have to make sure he kept this as quiet as he possibly could.
He approached the door, a sense of dread welling up inside him, his chest tightening. The sky was a dark blue shade as night descended. His head wasn’t aching so badly from being knocked unconscious, but he’d have to keep an eye on it if it started bleeding. He didn’t want to have to mention today’s events to Hannah in too much detail, though. Oh no, that’s exactly what he didn’t want to do.
He slipped his key into the front door. He could hear the neighbours chatting somewhere nearby, so he wanted to avoid them as successfully as he could. He’d have to say something to Hannah. Explain his absence in some way. After all, he’d shot off earlier without even giving her an idea of where he was going. He could fix this, though. Fixing things was in his nature. He was a former police officer, for God’s sake—fixing problems was in his resumé.
As he stepped inside his house, he noticed the sheer silence of the place. Usually in the evening, he’d hear the light hum of static from the television in the lounge; Hannah opening drawers and dropping cutlery to the floor in the kitchen. Chaotic, but at least it was life.
Not this. This was a purer sound of chaos. A looming cloud of bickering and false explanations edging ever closer. He needed to be honest with her. He needed to tell her the truth.
Out of curiosity, he popped his head around the living room door. To his surprise, Hannah was sitting in the living room staring out of the window. She didn’t look happy.
“Han, are you—”
“Don’t ‘Han’ me,” she snapped.
Brian lowered his head. Maybe he had been a little forward using her pet name. Now for a Plan B. “I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry I shot off earlier. I just…I had something important to do. Something really important.”
A smile broke across Hannah’s face. “Something really important,” she said.
“Yeah,” Brian said. He approached her. She was sitting on the single chair—the one chair that barely got used in this place.
“Something really, really important. More important than taking your son bowling, I figure?”
Brian felt like a gun had fired at his stomach at point-blank range. His entire body seemed to crumble. “Oh, I…Fuck. Fuck.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and scrolled down to Vanessa’s name, but before he had the chance to dial, Hannah snatched the phone away.
“You’re sinking, Brian.” Her eyes were bloodshot and her bottom lip was quivering. “Just like you sank with the Watson case. I heard about what you were like. How all your…all your focus was just on the case and not on your family.”
Brian frowned. “How do…how do you know?”
“I spoke to Vanessa,” Hannah spat. She was up on her feet now, scooping up her handbag and a larger bag that she tended to toss spare clothes into. “She told me what you were like during that case. The booze. The self-loathing and self-pity. I know, Brian. And I can’t watch you do that to yourself again.”
Brian reached out for Hannah’s shoulder, but she smacked his hand away.
“Don’t. You don’t just walk in here looking like you’ve been mugged and expect me to just sit down and let you do whatever it is you’re doing.”
“If you’d let me speak,” Brian said, raising his voice.
“What else is there to say?” Hannah said. She smiled sympathetically at Brian, bags over her shoulders. “We spoke about this last night. You made the choice. The choice to be that family man. But then you went and fucked off this morning…I was worried sick. Worried to the pit of my stomach about you.” Tears were rolling down her cheeks now.
“Hannah,” Brian said. This time, she let him rest his hand on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I mean that. And…And I realise I should be more open with you. That—that maybe if I’m more open, you’ll understand.” He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out one of the documents he’d taken from David Wallson. It was one with the ancient diagrams on, as well as a few excerpts from a local history book. “There’s something going on that the police don’t know about. This case—the Pendle Hill and the Longridge Fell killings—there’s somebody called Harold Harvey who is involved. Only Harold Harvey is dead, and the name is of a bloke who executed a bunch of witches back in the…”
His speech trailed off because of the way that Hannah was looking at him. She shook her head. Wiped her eyes with the sleeves of her cream cardigan. “It’s this Cassy stuff, isn’t it? This evidence the journalist has? It’s got a grip of you, hasn’t it?”
Brian thought about rejecting Hannah’s suggestion completely, but he knew he’d only be kidding himself. “It started as just that. And of course, that’s a factor. But no. It’s not just that anymore. There’s something with this case that just…It fascinates me.”
“Brian,” Hannah said, shaking her head. “This case fascinates me. But I don’t go jumping in pits and mingling with the dead. Where were you today?”
“I…In a pub. Meeting
an old friend. About—”
“Then you need some time on your own.”
She lowered her head and walked around Brian.
“Wait,” Brian said. His whole body was tensing up. “Please, Hannah. It’s over now. I swear it’s over.”
“You said that the last time. How do I know your new journalist friend isn’t going to just call you again with a juicy new piece of information?”
The feeling in Brian’s body was so familiar. He’d felt it when Vanessa and Davey walked out of his life. He knew the emotion so well. “Please, Hannah.” It was as close as he was going to get to begging. “Please stay. It doesn’t have to be this way.”
Hannah smiled, but the wetness on her cheeks revealed her emotions much better than a false smile ever could. “I’m staying with Marie for a few days. Figured I’ll be a useful sister and help her look after this new dog of hers, anyway. Hopefully that’ll give you time to…Yeah.”
She walked around the door of the living room and into the hallway.
Every part of Brian’s body wanted to go out there and follow her, but he knew it was worthless. He knew there was no point in begging. He wasn’t a beggar—it wasn’t in his nature.
The front door clicked open.
“Please, Hannah,” Brian called.
She didn’t even respond. The front door slammed shut and her car revved up, disappearing out of the driveway and out of the street.
Brian stared up at the ceiling as he lay in bed. It was pretty chilly in the house, but he couldn’t be arsed moving to mess around with the heating. He always had the philosophy that putting a hoodie or a jumper on made much more sense, too. But right now, he couldn’t even be arsed doing that, as he peered at the plain white ceiling. The room was cold, but not just because of the temperature. More because he was alone. Without Hannah for the night and potentially more, all thanks to his stupid little obsession.
Every time a car drove down the road, Brian hopped out of bed and stared out of the window in hope that Hannah was returning, but it was no use. She was a woman of her word. She wouldn’t be back tonight, and judging by what she’d said, she wouldn’t be back tomorrow either. It was Brian’s time to sort himself out. Get himself straight. Realise his priorities.
He sighed as he rolled over in bed, the screen of his iPad tablet still lit from incessant Internet browsing earlier. A boredom cure more than anything. He’d called Vanessa an hour or two ago. She wasn’t pleased with Brian’s no-show, but he’d rearranged to meet his son in two days time. He’d played down his suspension too. He wasn’t too sure how much Vanessa believed him or fell for his “extended holiday” story, but fuck—he couldn’t have her involving herself in his personal life, especially now that Hannah and she had been in contact. He didn’t want people being suspicious about him. It didn’t sit right.
As another car sped down the road, Brian hopped back out of bed.
“Fucking idiot,” he muttered, as a white Renault shot past. He sighed and returned to his bed, picking up his iPad in the process. He wasn’t sleeping any time soon, so perhaps some more inane Internet browsing would send him into an information-overload-induced coma.
Opening up the browser, he clicked around on Amazon and a few other shopping sites first, but nothing really caught his eye. Then, he went on the BBC page, and saw a story about the Longridge Fell killings in the local news section. Apparently, the police had eyes on a suspect, and warned the public to be on guard for any suspicious activities. Yeah, right. Like any sane human being is going to willingly refuse a lump sum of £160,120 for a bit of menial work.
But the fact that they had eyes on a suspect likely meant one thing—they knew about the Harold Harvey alias. Whether they had more information, Brian doubted. He clicked over the Lancashire News page. Ah, now that’s where the police likely got their information. A nice big exposé story revealing the “twisted alias” of an “obsessed cult fanatic”. Whispers of an inside source, too. Fuck, when did Brian become such a sellout?
As a dog barked outside the window and another car drove past, Brian took a look at the document David Wallson had left with him. Those 17th Century diagrams. The faces, then the body parts. He compared it to a small photograph from both of the killing sites, cringing in the process. The heads, perfectly severed from the necks of the poor victims. Loose flaps of tendon dangling down into the mud. Grey faces. Vacant, terrified eyes.
And bones. Old bones. Witches’ bones? It looked that way.
Brian opened up a new tab and searched for “Pendle Witch Stories”. There had to be something he could pull up about all this that everybody else was overlooking. The killer was using Harold Harvey as an alias. Why would he use such a publicly known name? And if he were supposedly filling the boots of a witch hunter, then why was he also replicating the diagrams and rituals of these supposed witches? Something wasn’t right. Something really did not add up.
But the main question, more than anything, was a simple “why?” Why was the killer doing what he was doing?
Brian clicked through a few of the pages and scrolled through the sensationalist and incidental information.
What was “Harold Harvey” trying to make people see?
“Damn this thing.” Brian threw his iPad to one side. He wasn’t learning anything new. Harold Harvey killed twelve suspected witches in 1612. Made them walk all the way from one side of Lancashire to the other in order to be executed. Did all sorts of unspeakable things to them along the way. Sick bastard with a sick fascination, in Brian’s opinion.
Brian closed his eyes, the images of the case spinning around his mind. Twelve murders.
Ten killings.
Ten sets of bones.
Brian’s eyes opened inadvertently.
He reached for his iPad and opened it up again.
If “Harold Harvey” really was replicating the actions of his namesake, then there were still two yet to die. Or perhaps two already had died that he’d failed to identify. Two killings that had not yet been linked.
He needed to know more about the suspected witches. He needed to know more about those events in the 17th Century to understand events right now in the 21st Century. He just knew it had to be linked in some way. Two archeological groups. That couldn’t be a coincidence, could it?
He searched for the name “Brabiner” and “Davidson”, adding “witches” at the end of his search. Perhaps there was a link to the names. Perhaps they were descendants whom “Harold Harvey” was still vengeful about.
Every search, no results.
Brian cursed. He almost smacked his clammy hand into the iPad screen, but something else caught his eye on the page he had open. It was a walking website aimed at high school students. A fun map-route page with information on the Pendle Witch trials to make the whole thing seem a lot more fun.
Brian lifted the iPad closer to his face. His heart raced. His throat swelled up. He felt like he’d just made some immense discovery as a child; like he’d just made contact with an alien being and nobody else on the planet knew.
“Holy fuck, it’s not the names. It’s not the names…”
He prodded his finger on the map.
Spooky Point One: Pendle Hill Witch Camp—Creepy voices have been heard here! See if you can hear them!
“Spooky Point One” was the exact location of the Pendle Hill massacres.
He panned over to “Spooky Point Two”, his fingers shaking with excitement and adrenaline.
Spooky Point Two: Longridge Fell Meeting Place—Witches of the area said to meet here and do all sorts of scary things! See if you can find any creepy clues and make up some spine-tingling stories…
Sure enough, “Spooky Point Two” was the location of the Longridge Fell killings.
He gulped back a frog that seemed to be leaping like mad around his throat, and he panned out of the map. Judging by the key, there was another “Spooky Point”. Just one more.
Ten killings.
Twelve witches executed.
He zoomed in on the area labelled “Spooky Point Three” and he gasped as he stared at the location in disbelief.
“It’s not the archeologists…” Brian muttered. “It’s not the ‘who’. It’s the where…Fuck. Fuck.”
He leaped off his bed and threw on his shoes. He didn’t bother tying the laces properly as he reached for his phone and dialled Hannah’s number, his hand shaking more than ever.
He rushed out of the room, the ringing tone going on and on, the iPad screen dimmed, but the location still very much there.
The fields surrounding Hannah’s sister’s house.
Ten killings. Ten sets of bones.
Two to go.
Chapter Thirteen
Brian barged through the front door of his house. Hannah still hadn’t answered her phone, as the ringing tone rang on and on.
“Come on,” Brian said through gritted teeth. “Pick up. Pick up.”
“Hi, you’ve reached Hannah’s mobile. Busy at the mo, so give me a call back in an—”
“Argh.” Brian yanked the phone away from his ear and paced around the driveway at the front of the house. It was dark out there, the streetlamp outside their house broken. He looked at his phone again: 00:07. Shit. He’d missed the last bus. He was without a car. There was no way he was getting to Marie’s on foot, not tonight anyway.
Brian crouched on his porch-way and held his head in his hands. The locations on the Pendle Witch map website. Two of them had perfectly matched the locations of the first two killings. Ten people had been killed that were in those locations. Twelve witches were executed back in the 17th Century. Two to go. One location remaining.
And that location just so happened to be the field in front of Hannah’s sister’s house.
Hannah’s sister who’d just got a brand new dog and regularly took it for walks on that field.
Brian’s heart started to race again as he dialled Marie and Hannah, but neither of them were answering. He couldn’t help but fear the worst. He remembered the bones as they circled the ground. The grey eyes staring up into nothingness. The killer must’ve chopped the heads off with the sharpest of tools.
