Darkness Rises

by Jason Foss

  It was as if a black hole had suddenly opened within the Poet’s soul. His eyes seemed to sink and lose their fire.

  ‘Yes, I suppose it might.’

  Flint saw that Vikki was grinning broadly at the discomfiture of The Poet. He seemed to be weighing things up, labouring under a growing weight. He nodded involuntarily as he visualised a cracking world. This was the culmination of his plan, to shatter The Poet’s morale and force him into attempting something rash.

  ‘When Monica is arrested for complicity, can you trust her not to lay the finger on you?’

  The oak panel door opened suddenly. The Poet snapped with irritation. ‘Rowan, I told you to stay upstairs!’

  Chapter 28

  Rowan had been there all the while, trying to convince herself that a route out of her predicament existed. She had heard the Spitfire arrive and counted two occupants. The student had been left behind, perhaps he had been the first to eat the cake and now Flint had let his impulsive heart over-rule his cautious head. He could not have told the police he had burgled her flat, so could not have told them he was coming to Foxstones. He had given her one final chance.

  Out of sight, she had stood at the top of the stairs, listening to the first words spoken by Flint, then Hancock, then The Poet. The group had adjourned to the study and Rupert had whispered an instruction to her.

  ‘Keep out of sight!’

  It was for his own sake that she ignored him once he had returned to the study. Hancock had gone from the hall, the other guests were still in their rooms, so no-one saw her moving carefully down the stairs. Quietly reaching the study door, she placed an ear against the oak and heard it all. First she was warmed by the robust stance of The Poet, then chilled by how close Flint was growing.

  The house keys hung in a great bunch inches from where she crouched, in seconds she had grabbed them and was letting herself into the gun room — a romantic name for a windowless cupboard. As she loaded the shotgun she had recalled distant days as a gamekeeper’s daughter, but the past and the present were slipping by and merging as the future dimmed. She left the room ­– and reason ­– behind.

  Flint noticed the shotgun before he noticed that Monica was holding it. In an instant, his brain realised what had really happened and kicked himself for not guessing sooner. The mistake could prove very expensive.

  Confident and oozing malice, the unassuming shopkeeper closed the study door with her heel. So Rowan equalled Monica, and Monica had fooled him more than he could have guessed.

  ‘What are you doing?’ The Poet made a movement towards her.

  ‘Keep back, just keep back!’

  Flint could have felt a warm, smug pride had not cold fear penetrated him. He had anticipated a climax, but not this.

  ‘Doctor Flint,’ she said, ‘dear Jeffrey, or shall I call you Jeff?’

  Vikki groaned. ‘It was her.’

  ‘Shut up, bitch.’ The shotgun, held at waist height, wavered towards a new target.

  For a moment, Flint considered remaining silent, then glanced at the mantelpiece clock and decided to buy time.

  ‘You know, Rupert,’ he said to The Poet, ‘since I started on this case, I’ve had some pretty offbeat ideas, I even thought Lucy had been sacrificed at one point, but I was wrong, wasn’t I? All this has got nothing to do with the Green Revolution, Mother Goddesses or any of that black magic nonsense. Lucy was killed for the oldest and basest motive: sexual jealousy. Lucy was besotted by you, wasn’t she?’

  The Poet simply glanced from Flint to Monica, then back again.

  ‘And she wasn’t the only one.’ Flint was aware that the shotgun was again pointed at him, but resumed his offensive to win The Poet’s confidence.

  ‘You had a sort of love quadrangle: Piers loved Lucy, Lucy loved you, but Monica worshipped you. Lucy never told you about the baby, did she? But she told Monica, right Monica?’

  Cruel determination had replaced the subtle innocence of her looks, and Monica gave away nothing. ‘Finish your story,’ she said.

  ‘Okay.’ Flint looked into her grey-green, flashing, eyes, then back to The Poet. ‘New theory. I don’t think you did kill Lucy, I think it was Monica, here — or is it Rowan? It’s difficult to make my mind up. She couldn’t bear the idea of young, vibrant Lucy having your child, so she poisoned her and convinced gullible Piers Plant that he was responsible. Dotty Piers insisted that Lucy was buried at Harriet’s Stone, then went into hiding. If he had kept cool, who knows, the grave might never have been found, but Lucy’s death drove him over the edge. Monica couldn’t risk him talking to the police, so she visited him at Forest Farm and cooked him a stew, letting down the tyres of his car just in case he had the strength to try to reach a doctor.’

  The face of the poisoner broke into a twisted smile, as though she enjoyed the revelation of how cunning she had been.

  ‘It was so neat, she even stopped sending fake postcards and threatening letters when Plant died, just to make it look like he was faking them.’

  ‘And you can prove this,’ she stated, without question. Her voice almost purred, she was turning so completely into the archetype of the wicked priestess, that Flint ceased to think of her as Monica. Rowan the witch was all that was left.

  ‘Monica, leave me to sort this out!’ The Poet suddenly burst in. ‘He knows nothing, he’s just trying to trick you! We can talk this out!’

  ‘No, it’s too late.’ Her thumbs hovered over the hammers.

  Flint glanced at the clock. Not quite late enough. He shifted to put his back to the window and his attention towards Monica. ‘Listen to me; my people know I’ve come here, they know everything I know. You’ll never get away with it.’

  ‘Yes, Tyrone Drake, is he still alive? Pity, I’ll deal with him next.’

  Flint began to sweat as macabre thoughts came to mind. ‘Think of the mess. One shot from that, you’ll need a new window, there will be bits of me all over the garden. You’ll never be able to clear it all.’

  She nodded. ‘Right, so we’ll go somewhere else.’ The shotgun motioned towards the garden. ‘We’ll go out of the window, and down to the boat house. No one will see us.’ Her eyes flashed again. ‘Afterwards, I will drive that horrible car through the village, hooting at everyone. There will be dozens of witnesses, everyone will remember seeing you leave.’

  ‘You can’t do this!’ Vikki was trembling, she took Flint’s arm. ‘You won’t get away with it.’

  ‘Of course I will.’ The stature of the Priestess had risen visibly, now she gloated with the confidence bred of fanaticism. ‘You’ll regret crossing the path of The Goddess. You have already seen her power. The Earth is greater than any of us. You will go the same way as that silly little tart.’

  The clatter of a bell sounded in the hall.

  ‘This will be the police,’ Flint exhaled, unable to bear any more tension.

  Her smile was broad as it was unreasoned. ‘We know you didn’t tell the police.’

  Thirty or forty seconds passed without words. Only bursts of recrimination flickered between Flint and the woman with the gun. The steady thump-thump of his heart increased its beat as Hancock’s footsteps echoed in the entrance hall. The stakes were set, the hands about to be declared. A muffled roar was heard through the solid oak. The Poet cast a look at Monica, then rushed to the study door and pulled it open.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ he cried.

  The war cry began. ‘Ali zumbah zumbah zumbah!’ as all eight of the Animals burst into the house. Hancock attempted to block their ingress, but disappeared under Bunny’s inelegant tackle.

  ‘Search upstairs!’ bawled Ape, slurring from drink, as the other seven piled over the bodies on the floor.

  The Poet whirled around. ‘Who are these animals?’

  ‘They call themselves the Animals,’ Flint managed to murmur.

  Monica’s shotgun wavered and for a moment, Flint considered lunging for it, but was halted by fear of carnage. The hall was the scene of
a mêlée, joined by two male house guests rushing down the stairs.

  ‘Stop them!’ commanded The Poet, but two lightweight Pagans versus a pack of hyperactive Rugby players was no match. Pushes and shoves turned to punches. Three of the college team burst through and charged towards the study yelling, ‘Doc, here we come!’

  The Poet stepped back to Monica’s side. Ape ran into the room.

  ‘Hold it!’ Flint warned.

  ‘Stand right there!’ Monica’s command stunned the onrush. Ape froze in his steps.

  The Poet glanced at the Rugby players, suspended in time, then at the shotgun barrels. Quietly, as if trying to control his own hysteria, he said, ‘Will everyone please just vacate my house.’

  Ape looked at Flint, then back at the shotgun. Flint shook his head.

  ‘You planned this!’ Monica spat.

  ‘Of course I did. You might have a mole at the police station, but I’m not stupid. You can’t shoot eleven of us.’

  ‘They’re trespassing,’ Monica said to her master, ‘you have the right. Take the gun, assert your right.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Rupert!’ Flint intervened. ‘You’ve just been defending your privacy, she’s been covering up for murder. She’s the one going to jail, not you.’

  Monica trembled. ‘Rupert, we stand or fall together. Remember your position! The newspapers will ruin you, you’ll be ridiculed! Your wife will divorce you!’

  The Poet was looking at Flint, not at the woman with the shotgun as he spoke. ‘My wife? When did you ever care about my wife? No, Rowan, this is not the way. My lawyer is very good, very expensive. I will enjoy hearing Flint’s accusations in court. We’ll see who runs out of money first.’

  ‘Rupert!’ Monica urged, but the Poet was no longer her Protector.

  He turned to her. ‘Tell me it isn’t true. About Lucy?’

  Enemies divided at last. If not petrified, Flint would have been proud as he saw the tension between the two finally snap.

  ‘Rowan, tell me you didn’t kill her!’

  ‘You couldn’t love that silly girl!’

  ‘She was like a daughter to me.’ The Poet’s misted eyes strayed towards the wide view of the garden. ‘I should have guessed. Your loyalty to Oak could never have been so deep as to make you do the things you did. What a dance you have led us, but the dance is ended. Give me the gun, Rowan. This is England. We have a certain way of doing things.’

  Blissful in his soliloquy, certain of being obeyed, The Poet reached for the barrel of the shotgun, gripping it with his right hand. ‘Come on, Rowan, don’t be...’

  He would have said ‘stupid’.

  Blood spattered on the wallpaper, plaster burst, a picture shattered, the roar rocked the eardrums. Blood blew back at Rowan, splashing her frock as she staggered back under the recoil. The Poet fell sideways, clutching at his crippled arm. Ape made to move, Vikki shrank into a corner and the gun switched round from target to target. Tears trickled down Monica’s cheeks and she let out an anguished gasp. Ape threw himself behind a heavy oak chest, distracting Rowan’s aim, and Flint dodged out of the door.

  He scuttled down the corridor, suddenly remembering that Vikki and his student had been abandoned. Flint slid to a halt under cover of the banister. The woman with the gun did not follow.

  ‘Who’s been shot?’ hissed Bunny.

  ‘What’s going on?’ hissed someone else.

  Flint was unsure. Monica might be grieving for her fallen idol or plotting revenge on the unbelievers.

  ‘Vikki, Vikki, leave her alone,’ he muttered, dreading to see Vikki next as a mangled corpse, or hostage with shotgun under her chin.

  Vikki put her chin around the door. ‘She’s legged it.’

  Relief came as a huge rush, spurring him forward to embrace Vikki. The hug was sincere, on both accounts.

  ‘Jeff, we could have been killed!’

  He held on to her, steadying his own nerves. Over her head he could see The Poet, moaning quietly, rocking to and fro on the floor. The Technicolor effects on the wall behind were spectacular. Flint released Vikki and yelled into the hall.

  ‘Which one of you is the medic?’

  The long-nosed one known as ‘Anteater’ picked himself off the floor and edged into the study.

  ‘Shit!’

  Immediately, the drunken thug turned to trainee surgeon, calling out requests for assistance and material. Tyrone rushed in through the front door.

  ‘She’s got a gun, Doc!’ he called, somewhat superfluously.

  ‘I’ll call the police or something,’ Vikki mumbled. ‘Even Douglas had better believe this!’

  Back in the hall, the Animals were as shocked as the two free-thinking artists whose faces they were crushing into the tiled floor. Bunny had Hancock in an arm-lock, whilst one youth had seized a battle-axe from the wall. Flint yelled instructions to his private army. ‘Keep sitting on them.’

  The leaded bay window was open. Rowan the Priestess had decided to flee and punish the sinners another day. With Tyrone at his shoulder, Flint dropped out of the window and on to the crisp winter lawn. Advancing cautiously to the corner of the building, he could see the white Naturella van standing on a patch of gravel, with its owner leaning on the bonnet, sobbing and cursing her luck. She was not the only one who could deflate tyres. Tyrone had made quick work with his knife whilst battle had raged in the hallway.

  For a moment, Flint hoped for total surrender but on noticing him, the Priestess again clenched her hands on the shotgun. ‘Monica, please.’ He made his last attempt to parley from the cover of the corner.

  ‘I never liked you,’ she said, ‘I was never interested in you at all. Just like you with Michelle ­– I acted it out, only I kept myself clean.’

  Clean? What was her concept of dirty? He pulled his head back into cover as she continued to spite him.

  ‘I still have friends. You will never find me until the day I find you!’

  When he again chanced a look, she was running diagonally across the rose garden, towards the south, towards the river. Allowing her another fifty yards’ lead, he jogged off in pursuit with Tyrone at his side. A row of thin hawthorns masked the fleeing figure for a minute or so. Then she could be seen again, running for the riverbank.

  ‘She knows something we don’t,’ Flint panted.

  ‘Boathouse,’ Tyrone panted back.

  ‘We just have to keep her in sight, but keep out of range.’

  Tyrone stopped running. ‘I’ll get the car, there’s a track runs beside the river.’

  He turned and ran back towards the house, Flint ran on. Just me and the Priestess now, he thought, and only the crazy one is armed.

  The woman soon began to tire, she staggered and slowed. Flint saw this and slackened his own pace. No use doing anything dangerous! The priestess reached the sea wall and allowed herself to rest by raising the shotgun towards her pursuer. Flint spotted a slimy culvert off to the left and rolled into it, his feet ending in cold, stagnant water. He waited whilst the Priestess stood blowing heavy clouds of vapour, then when she began to run off towards the right, he crawled from cover and renewed the pursuit.

  Overheating in his flapping greatcoat, he removed it and rolled it under one arm like a Rugby ball, without losing his pace. Not that he was worried about losing her, there was a good half-mile of visibility on the flat landscape so she could have a ten-minute lead and still be in sight. He had no intention of actually catching her.

  As Tyrone had guessed, the fleeing figure seemed to be heading for the boathouse, but on reaching it, she ran straight past. Arriving at the sea wall, Flint saw why. A quarter of a mile of glistening mud separated the island from the marshy shoreline. Water had crept into the channel from two directions, leaving an hour-glass of mud between island and shore. Creeks cut the mudflats and one finger ran towards the boathouse, but anyone launching a boat would have to fight against the tide flooding down the channel.

  The priestess had used her rest to recharge
her strength and was now running with all the power that drives a madwoman. Behind her, acid burned at Flint’s lungs as he passed the boathouse. Another building lay ahead, and he read the O.S. map memorised in his head. Beside the words ‘Stray Farm’, a narrow double line of dots connected island and shore. The Stray.

  She reached the farm and disappeared over the rise towards the shore. It took Flint half a minute to arrive at the same position and he halted for a few moments to draw breath. Behind, he could see Foxstones, distant now, and beside it the glint of setting sun on windscreen that said the Spitfire was on its way.

  Stray Farm was a grey, silent place where not even a dog barked at the chase. The Stray was a single, narrow causeway that led to the shore, providing a back exit for the islanders and an escape route for Rowan. Without a plan, Flint tossed his bundled coat on to the sea wall and broke into a jog again. His quarry was a hundred yards ahead, tiring, walking for nine out of ten steps, only managing a fitful sprint. Either side of her, threatening pincers of water lapped at the margins of the causeway. She was almost at mid-point and unless Flint followed, he knew she would escape. Probably she knew someone over on the far bank; friends, relatives, fellow Pagans, clients of The Poet who would hide her. By the time the police reached the isolated spot, she would have vanished.

  Beneath his feet, the track was rough, rutted and water-worn. Running the first hundred yards from the island was ankle-breaking work, but further on, a figure in flapping dress staggered to a halt, bending at the waist. Flint slowed his pace and hailed her, hopefully beyond the range of a wavering, exhausted shot.

  ‘Monica, give it up!’

  She looked back, then turned away and stumbled on. Glancing sideways, the water seemed level with Flint’s eye line and an unpleasant thought washed over him. The priestess could reach the shore, then turn and hold the ford. It would be the Battle of Maldon, 991, all over again. He would play the hairy Norseman, she the defiant Saxon, standing firm with her shotgun until the tide sluiced him away. He ceased to chase her as water rushed across the roadway from two directions, separating pursuer and pursued. The track suddenly vanished and within moments ten, thirty, fifty yards of water cut both off from the far shore.