Urban Occult

by Various

  LEARN ALL ABOUT THE MIDDLE AGES MYSTERY, it said in large handwritten letters. WHY DID MARIA BAKEWELL THROW HERSELF OFF THE NEWLY ERECTED TOWER?

  “I wonder what that’s all about,” Gareth said, curiosity tugging the question from a deep part of him.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Patrick replied, voice as dismissive as his body language. “Come on.”

  But John, having visited the village before, proved more responsive. “It’s to do with that stupid bird we saw in that painting yesterday. She killed herself, and no one knew why. Shame.”

  “It… it certainly is,” Gareth said, his heart swelling a little.

  “Yeah, she’s pretty fit, isn’t she?”

  In addition to the crude sentiment, Gareth didn’t care for Patrick’s use of the present tense. The young woman’s spirit might be preserved here, but in these garments and with others around dressed similarly, it felt as if time had slipped backwards, particularly when the man with the hammer barked a command at his dutiful wench. Shorn of modern mores, were men unashamedly domineering? Whatever the truth was, the illusion was shattered when the man bit into a mass-produced chocolate bar as if he couldn’t wait for breakfast.

  The air felt full of occult mysteries. This incongruous feeling of past and present merging was heightened when Gareth, moving on with heightened purpose, noticed shapes lurking in nearby fields. The earth there appeared churned up, as if perhaps by motorbikes owned by local boys. The dearth of modern trade had left the ground barren, unable to generate sufficient produce even to support for this community. The figures he’d just spotted must have been afterimages of other inhabitants he’d spotted on his way here.

  The Gadmer tower had now drawn near.

  The hill on which it stood was smudged by rising sunlight. As Gareth and his companions advanced up the slope, the tower hardly assumed much more definition. Gareth’s eyes were smarting, his body assailed by a curious tingling. A single doorway was located on this, the building’s darker side, and as the three of them slowed within yards of it, a wind cut in, blurring Gareth’s vision all the more. His hearing was also now affected, the sounds of activity in the village seeming distant and unreal. The tower appeared to have subsumed all his senses, its presence even tasting strange, a mild coppery sensation.

  He was finally ready to enter.

  “What you have to do is climb right to the top and then stare down at us,” John said, panting from the vigorous walk here.

  “And then you’ll be a man, my son,” Gareth replied, but the allusion was lost on John, while Patrick expressed either confusion or contempt by sucking another lolly. Then Gareth looked at neither as he plunged into the shadowy entrance.

  The silence inside gripped him. The entrance housed a spiral staircase and was full of shadow, not least because its walls were made of dark stone. Maybe the builders had used material from a nearby quarry, but Gareth couldn’t help feeling that the choice of colour represented sin in all its various forms.

  A young woman had died here soon after its completion, but this didn’t discourage Gareth from ascending. He began to do so, his soft footwear maximising the impact of all the steps’ imperfections. This discomfort kept his mind alert, however, forcing him to consider why he was going through this ritual at all.

  The Middle Ages, he knew from reading books on the period, had been characterised by many symbolic acts, some involving fertility. An insight now occurred to him, one as heady as the dizzy feeling he experienced while advancing higher and higher: He was trying to befriend the two boys outside because he wanted access to girls in his new school. In that sense, his mum’s plan—taking him away from his former institution—had backfired.

  As Gareth stepped up his pace, he discovered that he had an erection. Round and round he went; up, up, up. His mood grew disquieting, aggressive, and when the cramped tower cast back echoes of his movement, he imagined—and even yearned for—someone else inside the tower.

  Moments later, he reached the top, bursting out of a doorway and onto a circular walkway like warm liquid, his limbs mobilised for action. But what could he do alone? Glancing across a sweeping landscape only increased his desire to interact with someone… but there was nobody here. He strolled across the walkway’s edge, where a small wall did little to protect visitors from falling.

  Gadmer looked tiny from here, like a toy version of itself. Gareth was unable to see the campsite nor any of his fellow pupils, but it was still early and they’d yet to arise. Nevertheless, the village bustled with activity, with people, miniaturised by distance, moving around in authentic costumes. The men appeared more visible, women restricted to menial tasks in housing and gardens. Closer by, did a group of guys till the earth? This might be a re-enactment of age-old cultivation techniques, because the market for such produce had long since declined.

  At that moment, Gareth noticed something peculiar: no vehicles were parked in the village.

  He shivered and turned away, now hearing sounds approach from below. Were Patrick and John advancing, intent on tormenting him? Looking over the edge—the sight of the drop diminished his previous feelings of arousal—Gareth examined the foot of the tower.

  There was nobody there.

  Just then, giggling joined the clatter of footfalls ascending from inside the tower. This laughter possessed a female quality, but the other sounds were surely too numerous to denote only two pursuers.

  Indeed, that was when five young people erupted from the doorway: a teenage girl, and four slightly older boys.

  Each was appropriately dressed for the 1400s. Gareth watched as the girl—all but a woman, in truth: blonde, blue-eyed, and wearing a long dress which befitted a fine portrait—stole across the stone floor, laughing while being chased by the prowling boys.

  None of them looked substantial. That was Gareth’s first impression. This surely couldn’t be his eyesight playing tricks because, after blinking rapidly, the figures continued to look as faded as worn-away paint. None acknowledged his presence, either.

  The male foursome rounded on their quarry, one preventing her retreat while the other three advanced on her. Some of the playfulness vanished from her face, and moments later, an unsettling expression passed among the boys. Gareth knew this look well, after seeing it in the face of Patrick the previous evening. And hadn’t John also been drawn into this?

  “Oh, Maria… Maria . . .”

  The leader’s voice—the boy now seeking to touch the girl—appeared less solid than the sound of a breeze invading the scene, as if commenting critically upon it. Then this boy unfastened a cord around his waist before tugging out his erect penis.

  His friends smirked, but Maria only gasped, unquestionably frightened. She’d now fallen onto her back, inches from the edge of the tower’s edge, her legs visible beneath clusters of fabric. She looked slender and enticing, and to his shame, Gareth sensed his own body thrill to this sight. But then his mind shut off these sensations, and he began wondering where he’d seen the young men before. Surely this didn’t matter, however. All Gareth knew was that something terrible was about to occur. The boy, no longer wearing his trousers, had dropped onto the girl and pinned her to the stone. His accomplices moved to assist, also unleashing their stiffening appendages.

  They were about to rape her.

  For long seconds, Gareth remained confused. For one moment, he’d feared murder; the sort he read about in his favourite fiction, but not this. Whatever dark magic had conjured it into being, the episode was real, and possessed so many implications which cut to his core that he hurried forward, flinging out his arms, and shouted with abject horror.

  “No! What are you doing? That’s wrong! Wrong!”

  But his attempt to intervene proved ineffectual, and nothing at all changed.

  The hem of the girl’s dress had ridden up to her thighs and countless hands plunged inside.

  His hands shaking like the rest of him, Gareth made an effort to grasp the assailants, but his fingers passe
d straight through their ghostly bodies. He felt nothing other than his flesh moving through crisp, morning air. Then, hoping the past was accessible to language, he shrieked again.

  “Stop now!” His voice resembled that of some hysterical female, maybe even a little like his mum’s. “You don’t have to do this. It’s not -it’s not inevitable.”

  The wind affected his vision, blurring the connection between himself and these previous residents of Gadmer. And if his words had fused with this bygone episode, some force outside awareness had conveyed them: his will, perhaps?

  At any rate, rather than complete what their primal masculine desires had started—abuse the girl and throw her from the tower—the attackers relented, as if realising that although cruelty was an option, so was mercy.

  Then the four half-faded figures hoisted up their trousers and fled back to the doorway, disappearing inside the tower with a flurry of diminishing footfalls. Maria sobbed on the floor for at least a minute, before clambering to her feet, dusting herself off and then moving away slowly, to descend with a survivor’s broken, yet resolute gait.

  Gareth thought he detected a phrase in the sounds of her grief: History can also be written by the benevolent. Was this just a mild delusion, however? He was uncertain, but after he also departed, he’d never felt more grateful for his mum’s incessant influence.

  Patrick and John waited for him at the foot of the stone steps.

  “What were you shouting at up there, you dick?” asked one of them.

  And then the other said, “How come you didn’t wave when I did?”

  But Gareth refused to reply to either, rushing away instead over fields now clear of the motorcycle tracks he’d spotted earlier. While observing armies of wheat and countless rows of vegetables, he wondered whether he’d taken a different route on this occasion.

  But then he smiled with hope and hurried on.

  The village was alive with festival cheer. Men in traditional outfits supported attractive women, while children charged around with zestful abandon. When Gareth greeted his mum—she was ill only because the world had made her that way—he gave her a lengthy hug, to which she responded with both surprise and delight. He was even keen to prolong the embrace, but then the festival Queen was revealed. This young woman led a procession of residents back to the tower, with four men in tow, each an elder statesman of Gadmer holding the tails of her clothing with tangible respect. The woman was blonde, blue-eyed and beautiful—a real oil painting.

  Gareth wondered how many years had passed since the event he’d witnessed had occurred. But all the festivities prevented further reflection on this matter. Ms Jenkins chatted with Mr Collins, both clearly single, and either Patrick or John, now dressed as peasants, suggested that, overnight in their tent, they’d probably…

  But Gareth refused to listen to their pernicious nonsense. He was talking now to Louise, a pretty girl in his class whose infectious laughter was innocent and to be upheld at all costs.

  Later, after everyone had eaten home-grown produce, danced and sang, the schoolchildren climbed into the vans to leave. However, while passing the village hall, Gareth asked the driver to stop. Then, to the sound of protestations (predominantly male), he climbed out and rushed inside the building.

  The painting of the four now familiar men, seated at a table, had altered. There was no longer the same fearful surreptitiousness about them; they appeared open, honest and trustworthy.

  Gareth knew this interpretation wasn’t subjective.

  As for the other portrait—well, that one had gone.

  After carrying out housework, his mum had often claimed that, when a picture was removed from its hook, a square of clean wall would always lay behind it.

  But where the young woman’s picture had once stood, there was no patch at all. It was as if a particular event had never happened in this community.

  At that moment, Gareth heard someone approach—the soft tread of a woman, possibly his teacher, coming to make sure he was okay. Then he turned, happily resolved to earn all his rewards in life.

  The End

  Pieces

  Julie Travis

  She rolled herself a thin cigarette and put some coffee in a mug.

  Each vice brought her great joy. On this morning, she waited until the kettle had boiled before lighting up—and the effect was heavenly. She had not woken Sarir, her girlfriend, allowing the woman a pleasure of her own. She enjoyed some moments of peace, the flat feeling still and calm despite the noise of the north London streets outside. Her foot began to itch, so she reached down to scratch it and there, on her ankle, was a tattoo.

  She laughed. It was impossible; she had four tattoos, but this was not one of them; she had none below the knee. She wet a finger and rubbed it, sure that it would smudge and disappear, but it didn’t move. It had to be Sarir’s work. She went back to the bedroom and woke her.

  “Did you do it with a marker pen? You’re going to suffer if I can’t get it off.”

  Sarir sat up. “What are you talking about?”

  Treve placed her left leg on the bed, noting with some unease that Sarir was mystified.

  “My new tattoo. I’ve just found it. I thought you’d done it while I was asleep.”

  “I’m not five years old, Treve! I don’t draw on people. Let me see it properly.”

  The tattoo was of a corner piece of a jigsaw puzzle. There wasn’t much to it—it was just a black outline with nothing inside—but it was a professional looking job. Sarir wet a flannel and scrubbed it then gave up when it was obvious the tattoo was not going to move.

  “Can you feel it? Does it feel like a new tattoo?”

  Treve shook her head. “I only saw it by accident. This is ridiculous. Impossible.”

  Sarir’s eyes widened. “Are there any more new ones? Have you checked everywhere else?”

  The prospect of having Sarir examine her was enticing, but as soon as she’d undressed Sarir gasped and Treve knew there were more new tattoos. Sarir ran her fingers across the middle of Treve’s back, then across her left buttock.

  “You’ve got two more. They’re both jigsaw pieces, but different. I think, anyway.”

  Treve looked at them in the mirror.

  “I can’t really tell back to front,” she said.

  Sarir examined them in more detail. “They are different. And they’ve got part of a picture on them, but I can’t see what it is.” She looked at the clock. “I have to get ready for work. We’ll sort this out later. There’ll be a rational explanation.” Then she added optimistically, “Try not to worry.”

  Another cup of coffee and another cigarette.

  For now it was the best plan Treve had.

  She woke early the next day and turned over to find Sarir lying wide awake and silent beside her. She looked frightened.

  Three more tattoos had appeared across Treve’s back.

  They had already arranged to go into the city to see Lew, who had tattooed both of them, and they hurried to get ready. As they sat on the bus to Clerkenwell, Treve couldn’t help but feel intrigued. There wasn’t always a rational explanation for things. And in a world where fish fell from the sky and pumas were spotted on the Cornish moors, why couldn’t tattoos spontaneously appear?

  She had sketched her first tattoo a decade ago after seeing a man crouched on the pavement in the pouring rain, singing. It was unlike any song she had ever heard, with an odd rhythm and notes that rose and fell without any discernible pattern. The man sang in a secret language so she could not understand the words, but the song was so wretched and full of grief that she’d arrived home in tears. That night she’d drawn a three-quarter moon surrounded by musical notes. That, it seemed to her, was where the song had originated from. A week later it had been etched upon her upper arm. She’d had more done since then, one every few years, when she was inspired enough by an experience to mark it permanently. Lew had done the last two of them and both of Sarir’s tattoos. His studio, The Modern Primitive,
was well respected among the tattoo community and he was open minded enough to consider anything.

  He was waiting for them. Lew was a big man, pierced and tattooed all over his body. His shaven head depicted the body of an octopus, the tentacles running down his neck and onto his back, where they spread out, twisting and curling as if wanting to investigate every inch of his flesh. Because of his heavily pierced face many gave him a wide berth, but he was quiet and shy, almost scholarly in his knowledge of tattoos. Which was why he was so anxious to see Treve.

  When they arrived he ushered them away from the reception area and into the quiet of the studio. A woman, with hair so long it reached the floor, was having alchemy symbols inked onto her leg but both she and the tattooist were too engrossed to notice them. Treve took off her shirt and showed Lew one of the tattoos. He smiled.

  “When you rang I thought that perhaps you’d been indulging in illicit chemicals. But no! They’re real enough. May I take a closer look?”

  “Of course,” said Treve, slipping off her shoes and undoing her trousers.

  Lew picked up a magnifying glass and peered at all the tattoos in turn, then photographed them.

  “They’re not new,” he said, “even though they’re new to you. There’s no silvery healing skin or scabs. It’s as if they’ve been there for years.”

  He studied them again.

  “The ink looks old, too. When you look close up, you can see it’s not true black like you get these days. It’s dark, dark blue. Like early, more primitive inks.”

  “But they’re definitely tattoos?” asked Sarir. “Not moles or something like that?”

  Treve sighed. “She wants to know if it’s cancer.”

  He shook his head. “Oh, they’re tattoos. Done by a real artist. They may be simple but they’re beautifully finished. Real flair. I just can’t understand how they got there. Do they hurt? Itch?”

  “I can’t feel them at all,” said Treve.

  Lew sat down and scratched his bald head. “This is very strange. I’ve never heard of anything like it. There’s one more thing I can think of—can I take a sample? If I can study the ink in more detail we might be able to work out what’s happened.” He unfolded a cut-throat razor. Seeing Treve’s expression, he added, “Don’t worry. I’ve done far more delicate jobs than this. Take a look at my catalogue if it’ll make you feel more comfortable.”