Darkness Rises

by Jason Foss

  At the local police station, a keen constable took delight in explaining how easy it was to make a fire bomb with a drop of acid, some firelighters and a condom. No magic was involved. Pity, thought Flint; he almost wanted to believe in spells, so he could weave a circle of protection or buy a talisman to ward off the evil eye. No, these devils operated in the real world with tangible weapons. He was mortal and in danger.

  *

  That afternoon, Flint moved in with Jules and Sasha whilst his life emerged from the ashes. Jules came back from college with the message to ring Vikki immediately. He gave a heavy sigh, then did just that.

  ‘Jeff, where have you been all day?’ She sounded very annoyed.

  ‘Sweeping up. Our pyromaniac had a second go at me.’ He went on to relate the drama of the dawn in his terse, documentary style. ‘It’s another warning, Vikki; close this time.’

  ‘Well, I spent the day at the hospital,’ she said, as if firebombs were trivial devices.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘No, I had my skull X-rayed and they wrapped so many bandages round me I look like one of your mummies.’ It was Vikki’s turn to spin a yarn, one full of violence and terror.

  Flint felt sickened as he listened. Already he knew he would have to abandon his houseboat and find somewhere anonymous to live, but the assault on Vikki was something else. Something innate and macho urged him to protect her.

  ‘Vikki ­– you’ve got to take care.’

  ‘Why just me? It sounds like we both had a brush with death last night.’

  ‘Not death, Vikki. If someone really wanted to kill me, he would have come along at 3 a.m. , doused the whole boat in petrol and given me a Viking funeral. My arsonist wanted me to escape with a warning.’

  ‘He didn’t seem to be bothered in the museum.’

  ‘Not Plant ­– we’re talking someone else. Lots of someones, probably; we’ve stirred up a whole bunch of lunatics. One has bombed my boat, another beat you up — or paid some thug to do it.’

  Vikki sighed heavily. ‘I’d better send Vince up to get photographs of your boat.’

  ‘No, no, not this time. Every time you do a story, someone likes it so much they try to kill me.’

  ‘Only once; you’re exaggerating!’

  ‘Once is enough, I’m not a cat. And neither are you. I want to find Lucy, not join her.’

  ‘Right! Right, so we’d better find these lunatics of yours before they get us again.’

  ‘Vikki, this was a warning...’ he began.

  ‘Look, stop playing the pacifist liberal ­– we’ve got to nail these bastards. Now you’ve done all the research, you’ve read the books and met the people, you’re the one with the computer full of information, where do we look to find them?’

  ‘We have to leave this to the police now.’

  ‘Douglas is a useless twat,’ Vikki snapped. ‘I’m seeing him tomorrow­ – what do I tell him he’s got to do?’

  After a pause to reconsider, Flint reluctantly said, ‘I do have a plan.’

  To be truthful, Tyrone had a plan; one which his supervisor regarded with scepticism. The next morning, Flint cycled into college via the insurance office and picked up a claim form. It was late by the time he strode into the postgraduate room, which reeked of stale coffee and was empty of all but one researcher. A large chart hung from the wall, presenting a two-dimensional maze of facts. It was a worked-up version of the first diagram Flint had sketched in his notepad. Now the chart was a metre wide by two long, constructed from recycled computer print-outs Sellotaped together. With Tyrone watching, he added the latest details with a felt pen, Tipp-exing out mistaken hunches.

  One word lay in the centre of the diagram: LUCY. From this, lines radiated to dozens of inter-connected boxes, mapping out the problem. Somewhere, deeply buried under an overburden of trivia, lay the solution.

  Tyrone drew attention to the new line connecting LUCY and PLANT, which converged on a box reading BABY. Barbara’s confidence could only be carried so far. ‘You’re sure he’s the father?’

  Flint’s pen squeaked to a pause. ‘No, but I’m fresh out of other candidates. He seems the logical choice. He may have been hopeless in normal life, but then Lucy wasn’t interested in normal life.’

  ‘So, she gets pregnant during some orgy and he bumps her off,’ Tyrone stated, ‘or am I being simplistic?’

  ‘Guesses ­– all we’re doing is guessing.’ Flint gazed at the chart. ‘Too much white paper up there. Needs filling in. Our problem is that we’re trying to out-think a madman, put rational explanations behind irrational acts.’ Flint sucked his pen. ‘The past holds the keys to the present.’

  ‘That’s a good old archaeological cliché, but with respect, Doc, I’m only here another week.’

  ‘Traitor!’

  ‘Sorry, but it’s all booked.’

  ‘Okay, so tell me of this crazy plan of yours.’

  ‘No self-respecting witch would miss Lugnasadh, so we’ve got two options. Plan A is to find where they meet and stake it out. Plan B is that we take that list of people Gratz gave you, and try to follow them to where the coven meets.’

  ‘Okay, I’m game for plan A. I feel daft enough to try anything.’

  Tyrone’s plan went ahead immediately. He scoured the Ordnance Survey maps in tandem with archaeological journals to identify prominent Celtic or pre-Celtic sites. Vikki was officially on sick leave but spent it in Kingshaven library running through back numbers of her own newspaper to check reports of unusual behaviour on past Pagan festivals. Adding both data sets together produced a distribution map, which was also pinned on the wall of the postgraduate room. A dozen sites of definite occult interest were identified immediately, plus another two dozen likely candidates. It was only a case of taking a gamble and guessing; in no way could they cover them all.

  As time began to run short, Vikki went to tackle Chief Inspector Douglas once more. Her eyes puffy behind the sunshades, she trailed along in his smoke stream as he paced down the corridor of the Kingshaven station.

  ‘You didn’t see him, you’ve no idea who it was, so what can we do?’ Douglas gave most of his attention to a heap of typed papers.

  Vikki’s mood was determined. ‘You could start taking this case seriously.’

  Douglas stopped outside his office, knowing that if he let the reporter inside, all hope of catching up on the paperwork was gone for the morning.

  ‘I am taking it seriously! We found a man who saw Piers Plant’s car out near a cottage on the night of the fire. That same cottage was rented in January by a man calling himself Johnson, but who answers the description of Plant. Satisfied? We are not flat-footed idiots!’

  ‘Where’s the cottage?’

  He gave her the location, which was oddly close to Jeffrey Flint’s favourite cluster of megaliths.

  ‘So when do you arrest Piers Plant?’

  ‘Tell me how and I will,’ he said earnestly. ‘Give me half a clue what is going on and perhaps we can even find dear Lucy Gray.’

  ‘Lugnasadh,’ Vikki said by way of response.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The prof, you know, Doctor Flint. He told me that the last evening in July is some big Pagan festival.’

  ‘So he’s still chasing witches?’

  ‘He’s worked out where they meet.’

  The bland cynicism of the policeman’s face was replaced by wary interest.

  ‘Where?’

  Vikki showed him a list scribbled on her notepad. ‘These are all stone circles; that’s where these people get together. Some of them are near this cottage.’

  Douglas looked deeply troubled. ‘The Witchcraft Act was repealed in the nineteen fifties.’

  ‘But don’t you see? Piers Plant will come out of hiding to go to the ceremony.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  ‘It would be like the Pope skipping Easter.’

  Douglas shook his head and looked at the list. Vikki continued to bob in front of hi
m, demanding attention.

  ‘Even if he isn’t there, his friends will be. They might know where he is, or what happened to Lucy Gray.’

  ‘Lucy Gray,’ Douglas muttered as if the name haunted him. ‘See, there are twenty places on this list, are you proposing I put all these sites under surveillance?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Forget it.’

  Vikki dodged into the doorway as the policeman tried to enter his office.

  ‘One car. It can drive around and record number plates. All we need is one number plate, one name and address, then we have them.’

  Douglas looked upon her with the look a weary uncle bestows on an unruly niece. ‘One car?’

  *

  Rowan regretted the loss of the cottage. It was in the columns of the infernal local newspaper that she read of the one sighting of the fugitive Piers Plant. The cottage had been handy for so many sites, a refuge for cold winter nights, somewhere to rendezvous and change from the camouflage of twentieth-century dress. She thought back to when the girl had lain in the bedroom, shivering and unaided. Alternative lifetimes passed through her mind; what should have been said, what should have been done.

  She laid aside her knitting to slip on a cassette of medieval rounds, then sat back in her chair and began to hum to soothe her nerves. No doubts, no regrets, everything was as it was meant to be. But the archaeologist was becoming a nuisance. Unhappy accidents seemed not to daunt him, he should be left to defeat himself. It could be arranged, but it would be an unpleasant, final solution to all her cares.

  Her thoughts were drawn towards Oak, dearest Oak as she called him. A pathetic, trembling fugitive who threatened everything. He was coming to Lugnasadh, he said. She knew the risk that entailed, she knew the threat his dwindling sanity posed. How would he behave at the ceremony? Would he cause a scene? She would have to tell him of the change of plan ­– the official change of plan. There would be more sadness and more deceit; the plot grew deeper and thicker.

  Chapter 14

  As August eve approached, Plan A took on more credible form. Jeffrey Flint seemed in a buoyant mood when Tyrone and he met Vikki at Durring railway station with their maps and camera cases. She walked up to them with a black cardigan tied around her neck and a smile breaking through the fading bruises. Her tight boutique jeans were tucked into short yellow wellies, making her as country as she would ever be.

  Flint wore a digger’s ensemble of shapeless jeans and lifeless sweater. Tyrone came prepared for action in army surplus pullover and camouflage trousers. The student shared his supervisor’s bouncy optimism, Plan A was flawless, everything had been worked out in the finest detail and the logic was impeccable. Piers Plant had been researching the Darkewater megaliths, of which three had dramatic settings: Harriet’s Stone, South Barn and Devil’s Ring. All were in the farming belt of the valley, all sat in or overlooking cornfields, and all were within five miles of the cottage Plant had once rented.

  Tyrone sat in the back of the Metro, thinking a little about Italy, mostly about the twisting trail of Lucy Gray. In the front, Vikki was small-talking her way to the sites with her London accent and her hand-waving. If she watched the road, she could drive faster, he thought. The Doc seemed happy too, chattering away without making any obvious chat-up lines. It was a pity that Chrissie had dumped him, but Tyrone had never liked her left-wing affectations. You wouldn’t get Chrissie out in the fields on midnight witch-hunts. Tyrone felt for the big multi-bladed Swiss Army knife in his thigh pocket, then thought of Pagans; weird and violent. Bunny and his tribe of rugby club boozers should have been asked along ­– they were always game for a brawl.

  Just before sunset, Vikki parked her car in the yard of a derelict farm, leaving a walk of just over a mile to Harriet’s Stone. Passing no-one, they trudged the footpath at the edge of the cornfields. It was just a little far from civilisation to attract dog-walkers and teenage lovers, just far enough to attract others, perhaps. As they came to a crest, the sun set gloriously over the hills on the far side of the valley, warming Tyrone’s heart at the sight. Then it was chilled by the stone. Tall, alone, dominating, the single finger of granite poked from the wheat in the centre of a field. The finger of a mythical witch, Harriet, doomed to spend eternity holding up the fabric of the Earth. If there was any magical site in the valley, it was here.

  Low sunlight cast shadows across the field. Long grass stood about the base of the stone, and around this, another circle within the corn fell into dusk first, giving the illusion of a depression. This was the place, he was certain.

  Flint suddenly pointed. ‘My God, look!’

  Vikki was startled by the outburst.

  ‘Look at the shadow in the corn around the stone, the way the light hits it! The corn is shorter there.’

  ‘So?’ Vikki asked.

  ‘It’s like a crop mark.’ Tyrone realised what was being suggested.

  ‘Imagine a whole troupe of people trampling around the stone in the spring, bruising the corn shoots, compacting the earth so they grow less well.’

  ‘Really?’ Vikki screwed up her nose.

  ‘This is the place; look, we’ve got to hide.’

  Tyrone had never seen such animated excitement in the lecturer, not even in the wildest debate about racism or imperialism or any other -ism. A beech hanger lay some four hundred yards to the south and offered cover. Jogging to its edge, the trio went to ground amongst the bracken. Over the fields they would be able to hear songs and chants, or at least motor cars delivering the modern witches to their Sabbat. A cautious advance at midnight might reveal fires and dancing figures under the stars. Flint lay down, panting with the exertion. Tyrone flopped on to his back and pulled a Mars Bar from another pocket.

  Time has an immensity only obvious when nothing exists to fill it. Flint sat, poised on the edge of excitement for three hours. Vikki kept whispering things of no consequence. Tyrone looked up at the trees, thinking of all the Tolkien he had read in the past fortnight.

  A breeze rustled the branches, and bats skitted about against the darkening sky. Yes, he could see how someone impressionable could start to see fact and fantasy merge.

  ‘Do you know anything about trees, Doc?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nor me. Vikki?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We wouldn’t make very good Pagans, they’re into trees in a big way. Do you know they have to apologise when they cut timber?’

  ‘Really?’ asked Vikki, hardly sounding fascinated.

  ‘And they ask permission before picking an apple.’

  ‘You’re making this up.’

  ‘It’s all in the books,’ Tyrone said, then lost enthusiasm to talk.

  Bright yellow-white, Jupiter made its debut, then Vega, high and winking, was the first true star to grace the night. His throat dried, senses tensed for action. Nameless things scuttled about in the undergrowth. Flint shuffled his legs. Vikki would whisper ‘What’s that?’ whenever an owl hooted, something scurried through the undergrowth, or a distant dog barked. Flint gave way to asking him the time at increasingly short intervals.

  ‘What time is it?’ he asked.

  The luminous dial of Tyrone’s watch glowed in the night. ‘Ten to twelve.’

  ‘It’s bloody damp lying down here,’ Vikki whispered.

  A motorbike grumbled along the nearest lane.

  ‘You’d better be right about this, Jeffrey Flint,’ she warned. ‘Oh God, I’m all wet; my leg’s all wet.’

  ‘Shh!’ Flint urged. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Oh, sod this.’ Vikki stood up and began to probe her way forward. Tyrone rose and followed. Flint came last, hissing warnings. They advanced cautiously to the edge of the field and beheld the stone, still silent, still alone in the moonlight. Magic was there, reaching out, calling, but no one came to answer it.

  The moon blinked out as cloud rolled in above. Unable to see, they squatted to await the passage of the cloud.

  ‘Car!’ Tyro
ne warned.

  At an instant, the three were swishing back through the corn. Corn stalks tugged at Tyrone’s ankles, he began to bound to avoid tripping, but Flint gave a yelp then fell noisily. Vikki used the F-word, then she too went sprawling into the dark. Tyrone stopped and waded back to help her up. Flint crawled towards them, then all three dropped to the ground.

  A light could be seen dodging around in the dark. Tyrone could hear the others breathing close, he groped again for that knife and teased open a blade with one hand. The torch came nearer, two figures could just be seen silhouetted against the night sky.

  ‘Nothin’ here, Phil.’

  The police-speak tones were clear as the voices muttered together. Flint stood up and made himself known.

  ‘Doctor Flint, is it?’ one said. ‘We’ve been round your list and there’s nothing, nothing at all.’

  ‘Which ones?’ Flint asked, clearly in doubt.

  ‘All of them, all your list. No witches or Satanic masses, not even any boy scout camps.’

  The two groups came together.

  ‘But are you sure you’ve been to them all?’

  ‘Read him the list, Phil,’ the voice without a face was irritated.

  ‘No, it’s all right.’ Flint sounded suddenly subdued.

  ‘So we’re off back into town now, sir. To make our report,’ the last words were barbed.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Mind how you go,’ the policeman said.

  ‘Don’t meet any bogeymen,’ the other added under his breath.

  The police left them in silence. The moon did not reappear and as they stumbled through the corn towards the Metro, a fine rain began to fall.

  ‘Twat,’ muttered Vikki under her breath.

  ‘What?’ asked Flint after a few moments.

  ‘Twat,’ she repeated, ‘you, dragging me all the way out here to catch pneumonia.’

  ‘I didn’t force you!’ He sounded hurt.

  ‘Don’t say anything ­– just don’t say a word,’ Vikki snapped.

  Tyrone coughed as Flint dropped back to his side. ‘So tell me, Tyrone, who was the genius who composed Plan A?’

  *