by WR Armstrong
Oh boy, he thought crazily, this is heavy stuff. I never wanted this. Give me a second chance and I’ll be a good kid. I promise I will never steal, and won’t harm anyone. He thought he heard the rat snigger. “Nothing can help you now,” the creature’s taunting voice whispered inside his head.
The hole was now chest high. A mound of dark earth was piled up around the grave. The skinhead felt claustrophobic. The rat continued to observe his progress, staring balefully through lifeless black eyes, urging him to dig faster, and deeper. Again the youth pleaded to be allowed to rest, only to have the request refused.
And then it happened. A dreadful hollow clunk reverberated through the night air, as the metal blade of the shovel hit the wooden casket lid. The rat emitted a high-pitched squeal of triumph, whilst the youth groaned miserably. He gazed at the rat, realising he was at the creature’s mercy forever. The thing was indestructible. Sure, he could batter it to death with the shovel, tear its rotting body apart with his bare hands, but it wouldn’t get rid of the voice that constantly tortured his mind, and which had grown to dominate the others. That voice, he realised, not only possessed the rat; it possessed and controlled him. He had unwittingly created his own private Hell on Earth. The only way out was death. And even death was no guarantee he would purge himself of the awful voices. They might haunt him beyond the grave. The rat observed him closely. It knows what I’m thinking, he thought with renewed horror.
“Diiiigggg,” it ordered inside his aching head.
Five minutes later, the top of the casket containing the body of his dead friend was revealed fully.
He looked up at the rat. “W-What now?” he asked, although he already knew, and without further ado he cleared the sides of the casket until the brass handles were visible. He leaned the shovel against the wall of the grave and dropped to his knees. He began to release the brass clips that held the casket lid shut. A wood cricket scuttled across his shaking hand, startling him badly.
The last clip released, he mustered all his courage, and raised the heavy pine lid, the hinges of which creaked mournfully. Inside his head the rat shrieked jubilantly. The youth stood upright, feet splayed either side of the coffin, holding the lid three parts open. He really didn’t want to go all the way and open it fully, but knew he must. So he did.
The coffin was lined inside with lovely dark ruffled silk, his friend’s decidedly unlovely body lying snugly between the generous folds. Neil wasn’t as bad as he had feared, for the mortician’s had done a neat job on the facial injuries he’d sustained. He was dressed in a smart blue double-breasted suit, and red silk tie. The skin thought Neil would have preferred burial in his denims and prized Doc Martin’s. The suit had probably been purchased especially for the funeral. Neil’s face was a little bloated and misshapen. The eyes were sown shut, the mouth, a thin colourless line with lips slightly parted, giving the appearance of a vague, eerie smile. The skinhead wondered fleetingly if Neil had been embalmed.
He felt a sudden urge to express his sorrow at Neil’s untimely death, but the rat was impatient, demanding the body be removed from the grave. Dutifully, the skin raised the corpse to a sitting position. The head lolled forward loosely as if the neck were broken. An insect dropped from the hair, a sexton beetle. By adopting a crude version of the fireman’s lift the youth managed to haul the body graveside. By the time he climbed out of the hole, the rat was perched upon its chest. The skinhead averted his gaze as the rat proceeded to breathe air into the mouth of the corpse, before gnawing through the stitching that bound its eyes shut.
He scanned the church grounds half-hoping they would be discovered, for he wanted out of this nightmare. But the graveyard was deserted. He and the rat were alone: except for Neil of course. But Neil was dead, he reminded himself.
Or was he?
He refused to look.
The rat broke into his thoughts again, instructing him to refill the grave. He concentrated his attention on the deep hole and the heavy piles of earth, and reluctantly set to work, oblivious to the sounds of the night, and of vague movement directly behind, as his one time friend began to stir.
He toiled hard, and would have finished the job had a fatal blow to the head not put paid to his efforts. He died where he fell, the unwitting victim of his own macabre creation.
In a nearby street, a young mother was at home planning how to exhume the body of her late son, for the voices had promised she could have him back and she believed. Pat O’Brien had procrastinated long enough. She knew immediate action was needed, or it would be too late. The body would be too decayed. Resolute, she began to make plans. She would need a good spade and perhaps a pick and a torch. She would also require two lengths of wood for the cross to be used in the ceremony that would lead to her son’s corporeal resurrection. There was also the problem of gaining entry to the churchyard to overcome, for she knew the gates were locked at night. And then she would have the unenviable task of returning the body home unnoticed. It could be done, she thought.
It must be done, insisted the voices.
Pat thought about Tommy a great deal that night as she prepared for his homecoming. She cleaned and tidied his room, and made up his bed using crisp fresh sheets. She wrote a shopping list that included all his favourite treats. She ironed his best clothes, for undoubtedly he would need a change of clothing. She put out a fresh bar of soap in preparation for his bath, for he would need a good wash too. When all that was done she sat by a blazing fire, reading the bible, taking heart from a single verse in the Book of Revelation. “I am he that liveth, and was dead: and behold, I am alive for evermore, Amen; and have the keys of hell and of death.” In bed she read about the man Lazarus, about the resurrection of Jesus, and felt inspired. Miracles did happen. The bible was filled with them. The voices promised a miracle, so why on earth would she disbelieve? The voices belonged to angels, divine messengers of God. They had been sent by the good Lord to guide her. Her son’s resurrection was a reward for her devout service to the Church. The Lord had showed mercy in her hour of need. He had not forsaken her after all. She went to sleep smiling. She dreamed of her son returned to her, as he was before the tube crash.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Time had finally run out for the Archaeological Society. Immediately following McGrath’s visit to The Dempster Foundation, The London Transport Executive issued a deadline for the archaeologists to pack up tools and leave the underground, a decision upheld by the Home Office.
In the meantime, the Church procrastinated on its decision to allow a full-scale dig take place at St Anthony’s. As for the finds so far unearthed, they were steam cleaned and meticulously logged for future reference, before being transferred to the Natural History Museum. Smaller specimens of bone underwent further chemical and serological analysis in an attempt to give a clearer picture of the health, and the way in which the grave’s occupants had died, although it seemed beyond doubt that a terrible massacre had occurred at St Anthony’s.
Media interest in the burial pit was intense following the unfortunate deaths of the tube driver and student archaeologist, and the other bizarre incidents linked to the mass grave. The tabloids theorised that the dig was jinxed. Comparisons were made to the excavation of the tomb of the Egyptian boy king, Tutankhamun, which had been dogged by bad luck, and labelled cursed as a result. Carrington had hoped to capitalise on such widespread interest, knowing that publicity of this kind was worth its weight in gold.
The dagger like crucifixes remained somewhat of an enigma. Made of gold their age was indeterminable, as no physical or chemical tests are available that can be used to date the metal. As no reference could be found to suggest such instruments were ever used by orthodox Christian religions, they were deemed to be pagan instruments. Evidence of Pagan worship had been discovered in London previously. In 1954, on the site where Bucklersbury House was later built, deep down under the debris of medieval and modern London, the wall of a Roman temple, once used by the worshippers of the
god Mithras, was discovered, whose religion was one of the chief rivals of early Christianity. Contained therein were a number of sculptured heads and statuettes, the importance of which had never been explained. There was much evidence connected with Pagan religions further afield of course. The figureheads dotted around Easter Island in the Pacific Ocean, Stone Henge in England, and the Olmec heads in La Venta, Mexico carved three thousand years before the appearance of the Aztecs being just three examples.
Infuriated by the Churches indecision, Carrington contacted the Cardinal’s office, hoping a little subtle pressure might do the trick. After being given the run around by a number of officials, he finally got through to someone who mattered: a Monsignor Pioli, a senior adviser to the Cardinal. Although he knew better, Carrington hypothesised that those buried in the mass grave at St Anthony’s might be followers of Catholicism, knowing the suggestion would add controversy to the subject, and force the Catholic Church to give the matter more serious thought.
“That being so,” he said, “why would an entire Catholic community be buried in such an unorthodox way? And why were they slaughtered in the way they were? We are led to believe that the Catholic Church is compassionate, and strives to help and protect its followers, do we not?”
The Monsignor was non-committal. “What is your point Professor?”
“The burial pit is attracting much interest from the Press, Monsignor Pioli. Heaven forbid they form the opinion that its occupants were Catholics disowned by their religious leaders to be executed, and unceremoniously dumped in the ground without proper Christian burial. And then there is the matter of the artefacts found buried alongside them.”
“You are of course referring to the crucifixes?” the Monsignor said cautiously.
“Daggers to be more precise,” Carrington said. “What use would a Catholic community have for what appears to be ceremonial daggers?”
The Monsignor’s silence was telling.
“I am of course conjecturing Monsignor Pioli. However, I feel I must warn you that the refusal of the Catholic Church to allow proper investigation might be viewed in an unfavourable light. Should matters be left as they are, the media may draw their own conclusions, and use a little artistic license in the process. I hope you take my point?”
The Monsignor grudgingly took on board his point, offering to make Carrington’s thoughts known to the Cardinal in due course. Seeing it as another delaying tactic the professor pressed him for an immediate decision, only to be told the Cardinal was unavailable, being tied up in a meeting with the Church Council. “Further delay puts me in a difficult situation, Monsignor,” he said. “The Press is showing much interest in the crucifixes, and more specifically the manner in which the occupants of the burial pit were slain. I am really not sure what to say. As you know, I have my own theories on these matters, although I would hate to put words into journalist’s mouths. I wonder if you could advise me on what direction I should take with the answers I give.”
There was another drawn out silence.
“One moment,” the Monsignor said finally. Carrington heard the phone being put down, and footsteps withdrawing. Endless minutes passed before the Monsignor came back on the line.
“We seem to have had a stroke of good fortune,” he said a little breathlessly. “The Cardinal’s meeting finished earlier than expected. I have just had the opportunity to talk to him on the telephone. He has agreed to send two senior ministers from Archbishop House in Westminster to your headquarters to view your discoveries first hand, and listen to your—theories. I will accompany them personally. The priest of the parish of St Anthony’s will be invited to attend, as he will find himself heavily involved if permission is granted for your team to excavate within the church grounds.”
A time was arranged, and the conversation drew to a close. Carrington was elated. He had chanced his arm, used a touch of mendacity, and it had worked like a dream, prompting the Catholic Church hierarchy to act far more quickly than it otherwise would.
2.
Following much heated debate; the archaeologists got their way. The above ground excavation began in earnest the following week. Bad weather initially hampered progress. The area was promptly cordoned off, surveyed, and an initial trench was dug. Three Portacabins served as offices and storerooms. A fourth was employed as a staff canteen. A team of thirty people comprising of professional archaeologists, students and handpicked volunteers was employed to work the site. It rained continuously on the first day, and little was achieved. Following an improvement in the weather, the team methodically stripped away layer after layer of soil. A bobcat was brought in to aid the diggers. The site was initially excavated to a depth of twenty feet; electro-sensitivity tests suggesting such a depth would need to be achieved before anything was found.
Father Donnelly observed the proceedings unfold worried that media interest in the dig might lead to the real reason for his hasty instatement at St Anthony’s being discovered. He really should clear out the crypt. His last visit was an unqualified disaster. His claustrophobic victim had virtually screamed the place down. Luckily, he had persuaded the child to keep quiet about the incident, and no more was said.
He had been faced with another potential problem that morning. The grounds man had discovered two graves disturbed. Coincidentally, these graves bore the bodies of tube crash victims. Donnelly put the incident down to the work of vandals, and gave instructions for the graves to be tidied, advising the grounds man to keep quiet about the matter, and to report any further incidents to him immediately. The last thing he needed was the police sniffing around. He felt trapped, vulnerable, but was determined to keep his head and his job, at all costs, even if it meant temporary self-denial regarding his more illicit activities.
3.
In the woods backing onto the rectory something moved. Bushes rustled as a creature more dead than alive foraged for food in the undergrowth. It raised its snout to sniff for a scent. It grunted, sensing quarry was nearby, and scuttled through the wooded area before pausing to test the air again. Its cold lifeless eyes searched for prey before fastening on to a small shape that sat unobtrusively in a clearing. The squirrel remained oblivious to the creature, for its rotten scent fooled the rodent into thinking it was dead, and therefore posed no threat.
It crept through the undergrowth, a dog yet not quite a dog, drawing steadily closer to its quarry. Since feeding on the man, it had survived on woodland creatures and insects, poor substitutes for human flesh.
The squirrel was close. The dog-thing watched it from less than six feet away, hidden from view by a mulberry bush. Its muscular body quivered with excitement, knowing that prey was within such easy reach. Its powerful jaws parted in anticipation. As it moved silently forward it slavered expectantly. The sound of a twig snapping underfoot forewarned the squirrel of imminent danger, but too late, for it was suddenly seized by strong canine jaws, and swiftly decapitated.
The dog-thing hunkered down for its feed, but the squirrel provided a meagre unsatisfactory meal, and the creature was soon on the prowl for further offerings. After a while it managed to catch a rat. The vermin proved vicious, defending itself rigorously, but was no match for its adversary, providing the creature with its second meal in as many hours. Like the squirrel, the rat was an inferior food source, however, lacking the rejuvenating properties the dog-thing needed for its survival. Realising the nourishment the man had provided would not last forever, the creature went in search of more human meat.
Quite suddenly, it found itself on the trail of another, strangely familiar scent. Soon it stood at the entrance belonging to a concealed crypt. A dim recollection of this place entered its fuddled brain, together with a vision of a time when, with others of its kind, it would seek refuge within the crypt’s cold dark interior.
It was disturbed by new sounds that drifted through the wintry air. They took the form of rough grinding noises that came from the other side of the big building, where the man in the long ro
be lived. The dog-thing grew curious. It investigated, and observed discreetly, as people worked the land with spades and picks and pushed wheelbarrows, while the strange objects that made the loud groaning noises scooped up pile upon pile of earth. The activity pleased the creature. People meant food. Human flesh would not only rejuvenate its physical being, but would heighten its awareness. Its memories were as yet vague, fragmented. Like the crypt, this place was familiar, although the creature didn’t yet know why.
It watched the people work, waiting for its opportunity.
4.
The young man was found wandering the city streets in a state of delirium. Beneath his shredded clothes, his body was a bloodied mess. Severely lacerated arms, massive contusions to his abdomen, bites covering his face and neck: he resembled a victim of a wild animal attack. At the local hospital where he was treated, he was recognised as being an ex-patient. When asked how he had come by his injuries, the story he told prompted an immediate phone call to the police, who established his name was Marcos Powell, and that he lived alone in a flat in Fulham. A scaffold erector by trade, he had recently been working on the section of tube line damaged in the bomb explosion. An accident on the job saw him admitted to hospital, where he’d met the nurse whom he subsequently dated, and now blamed for his injuries, claiming voices promising immortality had led him to take her life, after which her corpse rose up, and set upon him in a murderous rage.
