Isabel's Light

by Andy Jarvis

  I can’t remember how long we stood just staring at it before one of us spoke. “Maybe its toxic gas,” Baz whispered.

  “But it doesn’t look like gas,” I said. “That would be invisible.”

  Reverend John reappeared from the vestry, stopping short of us with a face like someone had just asked for some holy wine to put in a beef casserole. “What is that?” he said pointing.

  “Rather hoped you might tell us,” I said.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Reverend John. “But it’s always been a funny spot just here, always colder. The radiator never seems to get up to temperature, like there’s a blockage.”

  “Ruptured pipe more likely,” suggested Baz, “That would explain it. Water leakage, damp ground causing a bit of vapour rising.”

  Ruptured pipe my ass. It just wasn’t steam. It was too cold for a start. Water needs heat or at least warmth to make steam. The old boiler had produced neither for several weeks. We tried wafting it away. Baz removed his woolly hat, and waving it about, it dispersed only to return a few seconds later, clinging to the rough ground. “A bit like one of your farts,” he said, “always lingering.”

  There was nothing else for it. We had to dig the pipes out anyway. If I didn’t know better at the time, I could have sworn that the top layer of hardcore was frozen. It broke up into brittle chunks with some effort as I swung the pick. But that couldn’t be. I picked a piece up to feel. Hard, cold and rock solid. But no sign of ice.

  “What are you doing?” said Baz.

  “Here feel,” I said, tossing him the lump.

  He turned it over and over in his hand, feeling the weight and trying to break it in two. “So what, it’s hard? It’s been under a lot of weight for a long time.”

  “It’s cold – freezing cold, that’s what.”

  “Yeah, but…I don’t know. Just carry on digging, clever sod. It’s the only way we’ll find out.”

  “Perhaps we should call someone?” suggested Reverend John.

  “I think the right lads are here already,” said Baz, crouching down and spading the broken rubble away.

  I resumed picking, steadily breaking the remaining hard surface. I felt the ground go soft. Excited, I grabbed the spade from Baz. I sunk it in and if I recall it right, it was almost as if the spade itself was being drawn into that soft pocket unaided.

  I stepped into the shallow trench. With my fingers I loosened the soil around the gash made by the spade and pulled gently at decayed sacking.

  Horror sucks. No, I mean it really sucks, and I don’t mean in the slang sense either. It just feels as though someone’s taken a tap to the base of your spine and decided to drain all the blood away. Couple that with an ice pack being suddenly slapped onto the top of your head as you realise the situation you’re in and you’ve sort of got the idea. Blood, energy and all sense of rationality take a walk. An icy slap in the face that feels like your very life force is flapping around somewhere outside your body.

  It flew back momentarily, clenching my mind as the tiny skeletal hand poked out from its grave.

  I staggered back, falling over the edge of the trench in a half faint, vaguely aware of Reverend John’s gasp.

  “Whoa!” cried Baz, “Jesus Ed, you found a mummy!”

  2.

  Bound in the rough burlap shroud in which it was found, the corpse did have the appearance of a mummy, albeit a misplaced one. The church was very old but modest in size, and had no known internal tombs. The body shouldn’t have been there. The groundwork had been delayed, and once we’d recovered from the initial shock, began stripping the old boiler for removal. The police examined the site, questioned us for a while then let us move on to London on another job while they finished their investigation.

  The strange mist had gone even before the police had arrived. I seem to recall it rising up and disappearing into the coloured light beams of the stained glass as I came to my senses.

  We were away two weeks. In the meantime forensic scientists identified the body as male, aged about three months at time of death, and the burial dated at approximately seventy to a hundred years ago. The official police statement was that it was dryness of the ground that must have preserved the body – which was strangely still intact – beyond its normal years. They wouldn’t say for certain. As nobody living could be charged the matter was left in the hands of Southwell Archaeological Trust.

  One good thing did come of it, though. The police team had to move the remaining pews, upturn the flagstones and examine the rest of the ground in order to rule out the possibility of any more unofficial burials having taken place. These were then carefully replaced, except for the flags we needed upturned in order to finish laying pipes.

  We fretted for a time while we were away, finding it difficult to stop thinking about the body, to the point where it kept us awake talking at night. That’s one other thing about our job: Jack the Lads we may be, but ten years of our work had given us an appreciation of the past and a dangerous curiosity. We returned as soon as the police had finished their work – and one jump ahead of the Trust.

  We found ourselves at the little village hall and library flicking through the Candlewell Chronicles and Archives. The usual stuff: accounts of harvests, fetes etc. Even the registry gave no clue as to the child’s identity.

  “You won’t find anything in there,” said a voice from behind.

  We turned to face a short, elderly gentleman, suited and tied as if ready for church, standing at the doorway. Mega-thick spectacles surveyed the room to either side of us.

  “Are you from the Trust then?” he asked.

  “Yes, we are!” Baz spouted, momentarily forgetting his overalls. “James McBright Archaeological Services,” then: “Blind as a bat,” he whispered, elbowing me.

  “I can see the rings of Saturn with my glasses on and I’ve perfectly good hearing,” replied the man.

  “Sorry, mate,” Baz muttered sheepishly.

  There was a long pause as the man continued surveying the room then looked back outside the door as though making sure we were alone. “No matter lads. She walks there some nights, on that spot where you found the child. Some of us have heard her, sobbing. Tears your heart out to hear it.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “The Fearn Lane Witch, she’s known as.”

  “A witch! This just gets better!” said Baz elbowing me again.

  “But you won’t find any record of her here,” said the man. “Parish Council Records kept by the Reverend himself, and they’re secret. That’s all I’ll say on the matter. I may have said too much already. There are some things that should stay put. I should advise you not to insist on your search. Other folk than myself might not look upon it so kindly. Good day.” He walked out.

  Baz really knows how to stick his foot in it. Given an acre of field with a single cow pat, Baz will step in the crap. It’s one of the traits I admire him for. Well, sort of. The step first, wipe later policy is a bit like the SAS motto, you know, Who Dares Wins. Only it’s Baz. Loveable, comfortable and matey Baz. Not renowned for lobbing stun grenades into foreign embassy windows – although he can be persuaded into most things given a pint or two. And it’s shit, not glory, more naivety and non-realisation of the danger than bravery. If I’m still about at the time I’ll see that it’s written on his tombstone. Not the SAS motto, but something nearer to the working man’s equivalent like: Suck it and See. Anyway, sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes the shit flies. The following morning it hit the fan, as the Yanks say.

  “No, no, no!” stormed Reverend John, as Baz backed apologetically out from the vestry door, shakily holding onto two dribbling mugs.

  “Sorry, Rev, didn’t mean to…ow! Bastard!” Baz yelped, as the tea slopped across his wrist and fingers. “Oh, Christ…I mean…shit…sorry Rev, I mean Reverend, sorry Reverend, sorry, didn’t mean to curse, sorry.”

  “Oh here, just give me those a minute,” Reverend John said impati
ently, taking the spilling mugs without flinching. “Now dry your hands and try not to be so impertinent in future.”

  Baz quickly wiped his fingers down his jumper and jeans and took the mugs, still backing up mumbling apologies.

  Reverend John locked the vestry door, stating that he’d return in an hour’s time so we could finish the boiler work. “Don’t stop on my account,” he added brusquely marching past.

  Baz trundled over looking sheepish. “Well, I think that went down well,” he said passing me a mug.

  “About as well as a fart in a space capsule. What the hell did you say to him?”

  “I was just asking about the Records, you know, like the old geezer was on about.”

  “Dickhead. I don’t think that was a very bright idea, do you? What did he say?”

  “He said no.”

  “No shit? I’d never have guessed. What else?”

  “Nothing. He just slammed the book shut when I asked him about it. Then he came up to me all sergeant major like with a face like that guy in Oliver Twist, you know, when he asks for more gruel.”

  “Here,” I said, sliding the toolbox across the floor with my foot. “We’ve got some jointing to finish.”

  *

  “Look, just leave it Baz,” I said, placing another round of pints on the table. “The Trust will be here in a day. We’ll know more then.”

  “Ed, we’re down here for what, another few days? A week tops; we may never find out who or what that thing was.”

  “There was something in the papers.”

  “Oh yeah, of course, the papers,” said Baz, sarcastically. “A few lines in the Candlewell Gazette. Even a tiny mention in the Sun, but it doesn’t tell you anything. It’s like the locals don’t want to know about it. There’s something weird about all this, apart from the obvious – a kid’s body in an unmarked grave. And the old geezer at the village hall!”

  “Yeah, that was unreal. All that stuff about someone walking the church, like a ghost he meant. What did he call it…the Fearn Lane witch?”

  “And what about Reverend John? He was really rattled, even more than you, and you touched the damn thing. Hey, how did it feel? You should have seen the look on your face! It was like it had grabbed hold of you! Remember that film, Carrie, where that hand leaps out from the grave? That was just like you; totally freaked, eyeballs popping even!”

  “Oh yeah?” I countered. “And what about you staring bug-eyed at that mist? You looked white as a sheet. If someone had tapped you on the shoulder you would’ve had to change your underpants.”

  “At least I didn’t swoon. Talk about a gay thing to do.”

  “How do I know you didn’t, if I was out of it, eh? So let’s just can it and try and focus on the job we have to finish, right?”

  “So how are we going to get into the Parish Records?” persisted Baz.

  “We’re not. And you’ve got a bloody cheek asking RJ. You should take heed of the old git at the village hall. Private Records, he said. Take it as a warning Baz.”

  “But Ed, that just winds me up even more. The mystery’s killing me.”

  “I admit the whole thing’s got to me as well, but you heard Reverend John; access denied. No one’s allowed, especially outsiders. We’re strangers here Baz, remember, never mind parishioners, so forget it.”

  “I think there’s something you’re hiding.”

  “Like what?”

  “You’re scared, scared of ghosts. Scared of the Fearn Lane Witch!” said Baz laughing.

  “I’m not scared.”

  “Let’s do it then.”

  “I’ve told you my reasons.”

  “I don’t get it,” Baz muttered. “At one time you’d have been up for something like this. What’s that saying: in for a penny, in for a pound? You told me that one.”

  “I was younger and more drunk then.”

  And that was the end of the matter, I thought. Baz took a long swig of strong Norfolk bitter, mumbled something about missing the proper northern stuff and reached into his trouser pocket, pulling out a long string upon the end of which dangled a large shiny brass Yale key. It glinted before me tantalisingly, hypnotically, in the warm evening glow of a quiet, centuries old inn. Not to mention the warm glow of several pints of ale.

  “Early morning starts,” Baz said proudly. “Compliments of Reverend John!”

  “How early?”

  “Oh, say 2:00 AM?”

  3.

  “This is bloody insane!” I whispered, fumbling for the maglite.

  “It’s brilliant! Just like Indiana Jones,” insisted Baz, creaking the door shut as the torch beam sliced the pitch blackness.

  We stumbled our way up the aisle, feeling along the pews. I stopped half way, listening, peering through the dark to either side. The site of the grave was within ten metres, I estimated at the end of the row where I halted. Deathly silence. Too silent. The building was old, very old; perhaps it should be silent? Most people think old buildings are creaky, but not necessarily. New buildings, with their drying plaster and unseasoned roof struts make noise. Centuries of settlement puts them to sleep.

  I tried to shut the vision of our discovery from my mind. Not that I was scared. No way. The only thing I was nervous about was being caught or tripping and falling flat on my face in the dark. A drip sounded ahead of us, reminding me of the urgency of our contract. I felt strangely relieved at the break in the silence. A drip’s a drip at least and not an irate Reverend. We carried on forward.

  We crouched and groped awkwardly around the altar steps to the vestry door. Baz held up the torch as I twisted the knob.

  “Locked, damn it,” I whispered, feeling relieved.

  “Not for long,” said Baz, dangling another key in the torchlight.

  “Hang on,” I said. “RJ willingly gave you the first one so we could make an early start. How the…?”

  “A little sleight of hand trick I learned from an ex-borstal mate.”

  “You thieving bastard!”

  “I think I know where to look,” said Baz, once we were inside. “I saw the Rev sifting through and jotting down the other day when I was brewing up. The big cabinet over there.”

  He tried the large brass levers. “Locked again,” he whispered, “only I’ve got no key for this one.”

  To this very day I have no real explanation for what I did next. Call it the beer, the sense of adventure, intrigue. Beer. I pulled out a small crowbar from my overall side pocket. “Little trick I learned in plumbing school,” I said, inserting the bar between the cabinet doors. “How to get into tight McBright’s personal tool store.”

  “Bloody vandal!”

  “Oh yeah? This’ll be you, if we get caught.”

  Gently I prised the doors, listening for the telltale sound of bolt slipping from socket. Snap! A chunk of wood shot out across the room and the bar slipped from my grasp clanging loudly to the stone floor.

  “Think you used a little too much pressure there, Ed!” giggled Baz.

  “Oh, great! Now what do we do?”

  “Don’t panic, I’ve got some Bostick in the van. It’ll be good as new before we leave.”

  The Records were thick, and very heavy for books, the older ones well bound in leather, and clearly dated. We took two volumes and laid them out on a table, Baz leafing through as I held up the light. An hour passed and we found no reference to witches, or even Fearn Lane.

  “Come on, Baz, let’s call it a night. This is too creepy.”

  “No, wait. A hundred years was only an approximation. We need to extend a bit.”

  He swapped volumes and flicked forward an inch or so of pages from the early 1900s. More by chance than perseverance the word Fearn caught my eye.

  “There!” I almost cried aloud. “Read it. What’s it say?”

  “It looks like a declaration of some sort,” Baz said, running his finger down the page. “It says here: ‘the decision of this good council...’ he became silent as he read on. A minute passed
as I tried to make out the words from over his shoulder. From where I stood I caught only snippets, but enough so the words unnerved me.

  Baz sighed heavily. “This is really macabre, Ed. I’m not sure I like it.”

  “Well, go on, read it. We’re here now, you talked me into this.”

  “It goes on to say that one Isabel Rankin of Fearn Lane, having been found in the practice of the Beast, is to be excommunicated from this Parish. The Beast? What’s it mean Ed? What’s the Beast?”

  “It’s a reference to the devil, or Satan. Perhaps there was a coven. Damn, I just had a thought. Maybe that kiddie was a human sacrifice. They used to do that.”

  “What?”

  “Offer up a child to the devil, a sacrifice as a show of allegiance.”

  “It goes on here,” Baz continued, “It be decreed that she be excommunicated and banished from the Parish, that no person of this good community extend charities to the witch. No word be spoken to or of it. No travel be given. Witness in the presence of John Cannon, his Lord Mayor William Jason, and High Councillor Ephraim Bannock.” And so it goes on. She must have done something really bad, look at the date: twelfth of December, 1934...Christmas time. By charities I assume that means food as well. It sounds like they sent her to Coventry, good and proper.”

  “Still doesn’t explain the child or even if it’s her, never mind why she supposedly haunts the church,” I said. “Well go on, keep looking.”

  As the night trickled away Baz carefully leafed forward in time through the pages, neither of us exactly sure of what we were looking for. An entry several weeks further on was even more disturbing. Baz took a deep breath, sighed and read aloud the last part. “This being the final and overriding decision of I, John Cannon, Reverend of this Parish declare that the child of witch Rankin is refused burial, refused Christian rites and internment to these fair grounds. So be it.”