The Undead

by Guy N Smith

  As he shuffled away he was still smiling but for a different reason. The youths, the tinkers, both were forgotten; he had room in his thoughts only for a young child who had talked to him and had understood every sound he had made. He couldn't wait to see her again.

  Marie Halestrom was awakened from a deep slumber for the second successive night. She lay trembling in the moonlit room, listening fearfully, anticipating that throaty bestial sound from beneath the bedroom window, a vibrant roar that it was impossible to shut out no matter what you did.

  Then suddenly the room was lit up by a vivid flash. A distant rumble, another flash; two more. She sighed, felt a mounting tenseness because thunderstorms always made her uneasy. Yet somehow this was different, didn't seem quite right, the atmosphere wasn't sultry enough for thunder and lightning.

  She lay still, listening, but there was only silence and moonlight, as though the electric storm had passed on. But her apprehension did not lessen, a premonition again. Something was wrong; maybe she had better go and check that Amanda was all right.

  But she didn't. Now that everything was quiet she dozed fitfully; a conglomeration of dreams that were meaningless and which passed into oblivion as soon as she had dreamt them.

  Then she woke again. Once more the fear and uncertainty, her pulses pounding. Listening. A heavy thumping sound that had her sitting up trembling. Somebody was knocking on the front door; frenziedly!

  ‘Ron, Ron!’ Shaking her husband, hating him because he hadn't heard. ‘There's … somebody at the door!’

  ‘What … uh … what time is it?’

  ‘I don't know but it's still dark. Please, Ron, go and see who it is. If it's Beguildy …’

  ‘If it's Beguildy then I've got something for him!’ Ron Halestrom muttered grimly, struggling into shirt and trousers, pushing his feet into a pair of slippers. Out onto the landing, down the stairs. The knocking was thunderous now, the door vibrating with the assault, somebody outside shouting. ‘Hey, open up. Is anybody at home? Open up!’

  Certainly it wasn't Beguildy's primitive roaring. Ron switched on the hall light, shot the heavy bolts back and threw open the door.

  ‘Thank Mary, I thought there was nobody at home!’ The caller was a man in his thirties, dressed in frayed jeans and an open-necked shirt. He was breathing heavily, had a jagged cut across his forehead from which he tried to stem the flow of blood with a sodden, crimson handkerchief. He had obviously been running, breathless and frightened so that he could barely speak. ‘You gotta help us, sir. There's a man dead … our very own Sean, and others hurt. And … and the camp's ablaze, burnin' like the fires of hell itself.’

  ‘Come inside.’ Ron held the door wide. ‘Calm yourself and try to tell me what happened.’

  ‘I'm from the encampment beyond the wood, sir. 'bout half mile from here.’ He grimaced, dabbed at his wound. ‘Just goin' to bed, sir, when they come upon us; kids, armed with clubs and pikes. Set about us, killed poor Sean, God rest his soul. Set fire to the cars and lorries.’

  ‘My God!’ Halestrom was aware that Marie was at the top of the stairs, didn't want to look at her. ‘Tinkers, eh, and on my land. I think the sooner we get the police, the better.’

  ‘Aye, it'll have to be the police.’ The other rested a hand on a carved oak chair to support himself. ‘Call the police, sir.’

  Ron Halestrom picked up the phone on the hall table, dialled 999. There was some delay after he got through, a number of questions but he supposed it did all sound a bit far-fetched. The police switchboard operator hadn't heard of Gabor so he had to give directions, glancing from the wounded man to Marie who had progressed in slow stages down the stairs, white and shaking. Angry, too.

  ‘Well, there's police, fire engines and ambulances on the way,’ Ron replaced the receiver. ‘but we can't do anything until they get here. In the meantime my wife will do her best to attend to that nasty-looking wound of yours. You've lost a lot of blood by the look of it.’

  Marie Halestrom shuddered, felt as though she was going to be sick; the sight of blood always made her feel that way. Oh God, this awful place. She wasn't going to let Amanda stay here any longer. Enough was enough.

  A long night of activity that stretched well beyond the summer dawn, police and firemen converging on the field adjoining Gabor Wood, ambulance men loading the body of Sean O'Brien into one of the vehicles, taking a few more of the wounded to hospital; some nasty cuts and bruises, a few burns from the petrol explosions and a couple of broken arms. It could have been a lot worse. The only really serious casualty was the boy who had had his skull spiked with rusty nails.

  The police converged on Longlea Cottage, made several arrests and took Phil Barron along for questioning. A WPC remained in charge of the rest; they would be sent home before the day was out. This was no place for young children.

  By nine o'clock the officers had converged on Gabor House, a white-faced Marie making coffee and trying to prevent Amanda from going outside to play at the same time. Thank goodness that Irishman had gone to hospital, she still felt sick after attending to that deep ragged wound that would need at least a dozen stitches.

  ‘There's always trouble where these tinkers go.’ Inspector Wallace mopped a sweating brow and wondered to himself whether they could get this bit of bother sorted out in time for him to go and try for a trout later in the afternoon. Gabor was officially Sergeant Williams' beat and possibly it could be left in his hands. ‘The kids from Longlea claim that the gypsies set fire to the cottage. Certainly somebody piled a heap of dead grass up against the door and put a match to it. Somebody will be charged with the murder of the dead tinker and there's a young boy with serious head wounds. A real nasty business.’

  ‘These tinkers are on my land.’ Ron Halestrom was angry. ‘How soon can you get 'em off, Inspector?’

  ‘Difficult.’ The big policeman furrowed his brow. ‘You'll have to make an official complaint and then we'll have to get an eviction order. All that takes time, plus the fact that the vehicles and caravans are so badly damaged that they'll have to be towed away.’

  ‘But you can charge 'em with not having road fund licences or insurance cover,’ Halestrom snapped. ‘Throw the book at 'em.’

  ‘Not worth it.’ The other dropped his gaze. This was a frequent complaint from the public which always caused embarrassment. ‘For a start the vehicles aren't on a public highway and we'll have to disprove the usual claim that they were towed onto your land by licensed vehicles. Charge these blighters and they'll just disappear and leave you with a load of junk that you'll have to pay to get carted away. I'm afraid you'll be stuck with these tinkers for a few weeks, Mr Halestrom. We'd like to help but I hope you appreciate the problems.’

  Ron refrained from pointing out the injustice of what would happen to himself if he drove an untaxed car into the village. But damn these coppers, they weren't going to have it all that easy. ‘I've got another complaint to make apart from the tinkers,’ he said.

  The inspector raised a quizzical eyebrow. Strangers had an annoying time-wasting habit of trying to change any area into which they moved to suit their own convenience, and this fellow was the kind who tried to be smart, enjoyed being one jump ahead of everybody else; wasting police time, in effect.

  ‘We've got a regular prowler.’ Ron Halestrom sensed the other's immediate unwillingness to co-operate. ‘He was in the grounds the night before last and yesterday evening we caught him in the garden talking to our young daughter. I understand he's known locally as Beguildy.’

  ‘Beguildy!’ A sudden laugh from the grey-haired Sergeant Williams who was leaning his elbows on the kitchen unit. ‘Don't you get worrying yourself about Beguildy, Mr Halestrom. He's harmless enough. Wanders all over the place, makes a lot of noise but you'll get used to him so that in a few weeks you won't even notice him. I've been in this area twelve years and Beguildy had been on the mooch long before then.’

  ‘Well I'm not having him trespassing in either the grounds or
the wood,’ Halestrom replied icily.

  ‘Nothing we can do about it, I'm afraid.’ Williams shrugged his shoulders. ‘He doesn't steal anything and all he's committing is a civil trespass. No point in you trying to sue Beguildy because he's got nowt anyway.’

  ‘The law,’ Ron's voice was low, angry. ‘states that a trespasser who returns after having been warned off may be removed using no more force than is necessary. I'm going to warn this old ragbag off and if he doesn't heed it then it'll be up to him how much force I have to use!’

  ‘If you take my advice, sir,’ Inspector Wallace placed his empty cup on the draining board. ‘you'll leave old Beguildy alone. Of course that's up to you but you'll be wise to take my advice because the villagers here don't take kindly to outsiders trying to interfere with an established way of life.’

  ‘But that's ridiculous,’ Marie Halestrom spoke for the first time, her eyes reflecting her inner fear. ‘The inhabitants of Gabor are frightened of Beguildy.’

  ‘No.’ Inspector Wallace picked up his hat, nodded to the other officers and thought to himself that there was still a chance he might get some fishing in today. ‘The villagers aren't frightened of Beguildy, Mrs Halestrom. They're frightened of themselves, the legends they've created out of the past. Take a friendly tip from me, leave these people to themselves because you'll not change them, no matter how hard you try. You live your life and leave them to theirs.’

  ‘Well, that's the last straw!’ Marie stared out of the window, watched the two police cars disappearing down the drive. ‘Every day here has a crisis of some kind. I'm not staying. You can please yourself, Ron, make all the excuses you like, but Amanda and I are leaving!’

  ‘Let's not jump to any hasty decisions.’ Ron sighed, knew she meant every word she said. ‘A string of coincidences, that's all it is. The authorities will surely take note of the villagers' petition over Longlea Cottage after what's happened tonight and close it down. The tinkers will move on. It's just that we've come here at an unfortunate time. Give it a month and everything will settle down and we'll forget that it's ever happened. If things aren't any better by the end of June I'll put this place up for sale. I can't say fairer than that.’

  ‘And what about Beguildy?’ She shuddered at the memory of that hideous lurking figure who even at this very moment might be crouched in the bushes outside.

  ‘Leave Beguildy to me.’ Ron Halestrom rose to his feet and there was an expression of determination on his suntanned face. ‘I'm going down to his hovel this very minute. Never mind the law, I'm going to make it very plain to him what will happen if he ever sets foot on my land again!’

  She wanted to say ‘Don't go’ but she knew her husband's mind was made up. Or ‘Be careful’ but it sounded trite. She didn't want Ron or Amanda anywhere near Beguildy.

  Oh God, she was beginning to understand why Beguildy held Gabor in such a grip of fear. For some inexplicable reason the vagrant was a law unto himself and whatever Ron said wouldn't make a scrap of difference. Marie didn't know whether she could stick it out until the end of June; it wouldn't be any different then or at any other time. In spite of Ron's determination and anger it all seemed so futile. The sooner they sold up and left the better.

  Amanda was up at the window watching her father drive off. But she was no longer smiling. Marie watched the child's expression, saw how it had changed overnight to … one of resentment. As though Amanda had already taken sides - with Beguildy!

  Suddenly, the words the child had uttered the previous evening echoed mockingly in Marie's brain … ‘Fire … Fire … make fire because boys wicked …’

  And there had been a fire! Violence and death, as though Beguildy had uttered his own warning to the new inhabitants of Gabor House.

  CHAPTER FIVE - THE LURE OF THE POOL

  Eddie Reece had made up his mind that when he grew up he was going to be a gamekeeper like his father. Long before he was eight ‘Little Eddie’ was obsessed with the idea, and it reflected in his infant school work, an intelligence that was already being diverted into the background of field and covert in which he lived. Reading and writing were no good to anybody, the boy decided, because in a job such as he would have there would be no time for either.

  John Reece and his wife Eileen were mildly concerned at their son's attitude. Shooting, the sport by which the gamekeeping profession existed, had an uncertain future, particularly with the various restrictive amendments made law by the Wildlife and Countryside Bill. A job fraught with disaster; a bad rearing season could have seen the Reeces on the move by the New Year for Lester-Mylton did not accept failure. The weather, a power cut that could cool the eggs in the electric incubators, were all the sole responsibility of John Reece and no excuses would be accepted by his employer. They wished their son had had other ambitions but there was plenty of time yet, another eight years for him to become disillusioned but they knew he wouldn't.

  School holidays were Little Eddie's paradise; he could accompany his father about his duties and learn for the future. Yet his parents had imposed certain restrictions upon their son's outdoor activities. He was not allowed to take his Diana .177 air rifle out without adult supervision, neither was he allowed to go to any of the coverts alone.

  ‘It's not safe with that Beguildy always prowling about,’ Eileen said. ‘You never know what the old chap might do if he found a child alone in the woods. He can't be right in the head, no matter what folks say, otherwise he wouldn't be like he is.’

  ‘Oh, he's harmless enough in that respect,’ her husband muttered. ‘just a damned nuisance mooching about the estates and the boss is wild about that rabbit snare he found in the hedge by the Lodge last week. Like that fox snare we found that dead deer in last winter. That was Beguildy's work all right and he'd set it in the hope that he'd catch a deer by the leg. Cruel bugger had probably forgotten all about it because the beast must've been in there a week when we found it. He ought to be hung and gibbetted.’

  ‘Like Bemorra was!’ Eileen's mouth tightened.

  ‘You pay too much attention to local gossip.’ John Reece laughed. ‘One good thing about these legends, though, they keep the locals off the estate. I wish to Christ it would scare these deer poachers from the city.’

  ‘I'm going into town this afternoon.’ Eileen wiped the last of the dishes and hung the cloth to dry on the Rayburn rail. ‘I don't expect Eddie will care to come with me. Keep an eye on him, won't you? Those tinkers will be around Gabor for some time to come yet.’

  ‘Blasted parasites.’ John grimaced. ‘Don't worry about Eddie. He's going fishing this afternoon.’

  ‘Alone?’ Eileen Reece's expression was one of concern and disapproval.

  ‘He'll be all right, he's only going down to the brook on the Home Meadow. He can't come to much harm there. Damn it all, he's in shouting distance of the rearing field.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ she sighed. ‘but keep your eye on him, please, John. After all this trouble between the tinkers and the Longlea mob I get the feeling that … that nobody's safe. And when that old fiend gets roaring like he does in the woods it's like living in the jungle.’

  ‘You go and get a taste of civilization for an hour or two.’ John Reece began lacing up his heavy leather boots. ‘It'll do you good to get away from here for a while. Eddie'll be OK. I'll go down and see how he's getting on a bit later.’

  Eddie Reece had already set off, carrying the fishing rod which he had had for Christmas. If he couldn't go air-gunning on his own then fishing was the next best thing. Fifty yards down the lane he stopped, glanced furtively behind him. He had half-expected his mother to be watching him from the gate but there was no sign of her. He heaved a sigh of relief, almost decided to go down to the brook after all. But no, there was much bigger fish in the offing than the tiddlers which the Mylton stream held. One in particular that he'd heard the big boys at school talking about - the giant pike in Gabor Pool, a creature so old and so cunning that it had eluded anglers for decades. So
Punky Watson said, and Punky was a knowledgeable sort of kid.

  The Gabor lands were ‘out of bounds’ to Little Eddie. His mother didn't like him going there because it was a favourite haunt of Beguildy's and his father had forbidden him to cross the boundary hedge that separated the former Mainwaring land from the Mylton Estate because he said it was trespassing, and if you took the air gun or the fishing rod then you were poaching.

  But Eddie was determined to go to Gabor Pool. Just for an hour. You never knew, beginner's luck might succeed where a lifetime's experience with the rod had failed. The big pike might underestimate a young boy, find itself hooked and tossed onto dry land to flap its last. His optimism knew no limits. Of course when he returned home with the fish he'd have to confess that he'd been to Gabor Pool but that small misdemeanour would be overlooked in the light of his triumph. And just imagine the expression of envy on Punky Watson's face when he saw Eddie's photo in next week's Advertiser, proudly displaying not just the Gabor pike but an all-time record. Maybe he'd go on TV as well. Those sort of feats got you a good keepering job in later life.

  Eddie reached the boundary hedge, found the same gap in the stools through which he had wriggled on several previous occasions, looked around again just to be sure that he was unobserved. Within seconds he was walking on Gabor land, his heartbeat a trifle faster than before. He glanced at his watch, a birthday present from Uncle Jack and Auntie Alice: two-fifteen. He'd start back at three-thirty just to be on the safe side.

  Ten minutes later he came to the edge of the wood. In the distance he could hear voices, those tinkers no doubt, clearing up after last night. Even their presence was acceptable to him because suddenly Gabor Wood was a very gloomy place; trees that must have been old before … before Bemorra was born, their foliage so thick that it shut out most of the sunlight, a sort of damp smell because the ground never got a chance to dry out properly. And that pungent smell, some kind of fungus that stank like Dad's vermin gibbet in the Home Covert. The thought of gibbets led back to Bemorra. They'd hung his body in here somewhere just like Dad strung up the dead crows and jays for Major Lester-Mylton to come and check every so often.