by Thorne Moore
‘Al.’ I stilled his claims with a finger on his lips. ‘No you haven’t. I know you want to feel something. But you really don’t want to feel what I feel. You can’t imagine what it’s like.’
He frowned. ‘Is it really that bad?’
‘I’ve felt everything bad up there. Anger. Fear. Monstrous rage. Emotions like a tornado, sucking the life out of me. I’m telling you because I trust you not to go broadcasting what I say to the world. And because you won’t call me a lunatic or a liar.’
‘Is that how it is?’
‘How would you expect people to react if you told them you felt something nasty in the woodshed? There are only three responses: I’m batty, or I’m a lying charlatan, or could I please put them in touch with dead Fido.’
‘Mostly the first?’
‘Mostly the second.’ I took a deep breath. Bad girls tell stories. That’s what people think.
I’d been coming home from school when Mr Jackson died. I felt his panic for his cat. I saw the cat, burning. And I felt Mr Jackson die. A feeling guaranteed to derange any eight year old, so I was already in a state of shock when I turned the corner into the chaos and babble, the acrid fumes, shooting flames and billowing smoke of our street. Fire-engines, crowds gathering, people jostling to see.
I remember a neighbour explaining that they were looking for Mr Jackson. Mrs Coley had seen him in the garden, but he must have wandered off in confusion because no one could find him. Had we seen him?
My mother was watching the flames in horror. No, we hadn’t passed him.
And I knew why. He’d gone back into the burning house to rescue his cat and he was dead and the cat was dead.
I blurted it out. I couldn’t recall the sequence of events after that, only a series of images, of big men in uniforms, anxious firemen, puzzled policemen, impatient policemen, and then, once the charred bodies had been found, highly suspicious policemen. What had I seen? I kept trying to tell them and they kept trying to make something different out of it. Had I spied on Mr Jackson? How did I know he was dead? Was I one of the children who taunted him, threw stones at his cat, daubed paint on his door? How did I know about the cat? Had I been there at the house when the fire broke out? Had I started it? How else could I know so much?
The more I stuck to my fantastical explanation, the angrier they became.
‘Do you know what we do to wicked girls who tell lies? We put them in prison!’
My mother was furious with them, insisting I’d been at school and anyway I never told lies, but even she couldn’t make head or tail of my story. Was I holding something back? Or imagining things? It couldn’t be true, so she took the only way out of the impasse. ‘Let’s not talk about it anymore,’ she said, when the police gave up on me. And we never did. Ever.
I learned that day never to tell. It could only ever lead to disaster. If I hadn’t told Peter about the bog…
Al was looking at me thoughtfully. ‘You felt the trapped emotions in there. You must have guessed there was a body.’
‘Probably. There are such strange feelings there, I don’t know what—’
I stopped as the sound of a siren brought us both to our feet.
‘That girl!’ I clutched my hair. ‘She’s really called them in!’
‘The professor called them,’ said Al, shaking his head. ‘He managed to get that bit right. Hardly calls for sirens, though. Are you okay to deal with them? I’d better get back to the camp, make sure everyone behaves in case the plod come barging through.’
‘Yes, go. I need to get back to the house anyway. God knows what Sylvia is making of all this.’
I was a lot more content to go down the hill than up it, making my way through clusters of archaeology students, as they gleefully compared notes and photographs, or busily worked their phones. Not all were enjoying the drama. One girl was on her knees before the Hooded Woman, saying her rosary, and another was shaking with sobs. I offered a half-hearted smile of encouragement, and hurried on.
I found Sylvia pacing, hands clasped, by an empty police car parked at the bottom of the rutted track through the woods.
‘Oh Kate. There you are. Oh Lord. Have you heard? Isn’t it awful? Ronnie’s found a body, up at the holy well.’
‘It’s a bog, Sylvia. Not a bloody shrine.’
‘It’s such a horrible thought,’ said Sylvia, looking sick. ‘A murderer prowling around, here. And no one seems to know who—’
‘It’s probably hundreds of years old.’ I led her back towards the house. ‘Just like the bones in the hall, remember?’
‘Yes, but this isn’t bones. Ronnie said it’s a body! Face and hair and everything.’
‘Really?’ The idea of bloated human flesh emerging out of that peaty water stopped me short again. I had no way of telling how long those savage emotions had been trapped in that dell. Centuries or months? No wonder the police had come with sirens, this time. This could be the start of a full-scale murder investigation.
‘Come on into the kitchen,’ I said ‘No point us standing here. Let me pour you a brandy.’
‘Oh, give me the bottle,’ she said, in despair.
I filled two glasses and sipped mine, as Sylvia downed hers in one go.
‘Ronnie called in the police.’ She refilled her glass.
‘Just like we did with the bones. You have to. Just in case.’
‘Oh Kate, a murder! I wish Mike would come down and tell me what’s happening. He went up with Ronnie. I couldn’t face it, but I wish I knew.’
‘Look, don’t have any more.’ I retrieved the bottle from her. ‘I’ll find Michael, and meanwhile, there’s at least one girl out there in tears. Why don’t you see if you can take care of her?’
‘Oh! Poor thing.’ The moment Sylvia had someone to mother, she got a grip. I pointed her in the right direction and set off again. One way or another, fate was forcing me to go and see the bloody thing.
In a brief fit of cowardice, I made the executive decision to divert via Annwfyn. As manager of the site, I had a duty to check that all was well, and I could see, instantly, that it wasn’t. The whole crew were standing round the open hearth, just standing, but doing it in an unmistakably obstreperous manner. A couple of policemen faced them, looking as if they were just waiting for riot gear. Between them stood Al, polite as a king cobra.
‘We’ll be wanting statements,’ said one of the policemen, eying Al from head to toe.
‘By all means ask for them,’ said Al. ‘And when you have a warrant—’
‘What’s happening here?’ I asked.
‘Don’t worry about this, Kate.’
A third policeman appeared from the side of the yurt, which he’d been circling like a jackal, looking for a weak spot. ‘And you are?’
‘I’m Mrs Lawrence. I’m in partnership with Mrs Callister and Dr Bradley.’
‘I see. Were you aware that these people were camping here?’
‘Of course. They’re here by invitation. I thought you were here to investigate a body up in the bog.’
‘Indeed we are, madam. Investigating. Taverner seems reluctant to let us see inside this tent. His property, apparently. But then I understand Llys y Garn is actually the property of—’
‘Mrs Callister and Dr Bradley, yes. If you have a warrant, you can show it to them. I think Dr Bradley is up here somewhere? Shall we find him—and leave these people to get on? They’re here to work on our hall.’
‘He already knows that,’ said Al.
‘Your hall. Yes, we’ve heard all about the hall,’ said the policeman, as if its mere existence were deeply suspect.
‘Well then, constable—’
‘Sergeant Jenkins, ma’am.’
‘If you have no actual business here…,’
‘We’ll go up and find Dr Bradley, ma’am.’ Sergeant Jenkins had moved across from the yurt to survey the round house. It was as good as complete now, daubed, lime-washed and thatched, a great organic beast, growling quietly on the hillside. He peered in t
hrough the open doorway, without putting so much as a toe across the threshold. Heaps of bedding were clearly visible.
‘In occupation. Permanent structure. You do have planning permission for this?’
Al turned to quieten the murmur of rebellion behind him.
‘Oh for God’s sake!’ I snapped. ‘We’ve got a body up there. Can we just concentrate on establishing whether it’s old or new and get on with our lives? We have a business to run here.’
Sergeant Jenkins grudgingly stepped back and gestured to me to precede him. I, in turn, gestured to his two henchmen to go first. We were followed by muttered expletives and Al’s hushes.
Up at the bog, Tamsin waved at me from the trees, with a gaggle of students, all trying to get good camera shots. I waved back and found Michael, who was standing at the brink of the dell with a plain-clothed policeman. He introduced him as Inspector Wiles.
‘What’s happening?’ I asked, as Wiles and Jenkins stepped aside, to compare notes.
‘They’ve established it’s definitely human, but it’s going to take them a while to get it out,’ said Michael.
The far end of the dell, under the steep slope climbing up to the moors, was being covered with a plastic tent. I could see and hear cameras flashing but that was all.
‘Have you seen it?’
‘Ronnie showed me. Nothing much to see. The side of a head. You can just about make out an ear and an eye and I think it still has hair.’
I shivered, nauseated. ‘So it really is recent? I wondered why we were swarming with police. Just two of them came last time. This time they’re all over the place.’
‘Yes.’ Michael frowned. ‘I’m surprised they arrived so quickly – and in such force. But I’m sure it’s just a formality. The body’s almost certainly old. The anaerobic environment would preserve it. I hope it’s old, if only for Ronnie’s sake. He’s ecstatic.’
‘I hope it’s old for Sylvia’s sake. She’s convinced we’ve had a murder victim dumped on us.’
‘I’ll go down.’ Michael caught Inspector Wiles’ attention. ‘If you don’t need me…,’
‘Well sir, nothing much doing just yet. No need to hang around here. We’ll have to wait for forensics to examine the scene and get the body out before we can do much else. Perhaps it would be better if we all go back to the house and leave them to it.’
‘Are you treating this as a murder?’ I asked.
‘Can’t rule anything out,’ said Wiles, unhelpfully.
‘Your sergeant seemed very keen to search the camp over there.’
Michael frowned. ‘No call to disturb them, is there?’
‘You mean the travellers, sir?’ asked Wiles, his tone carefully non-committal.
Careful non-committal had connotations, which Michael understood perfectly. ‘I mean the craftsmen I’ve hired to work on the house.’ He could do dignified authority when he chose. ‘They’ve caused no trouble—’
‘Oh I don’t know about that, sir. We’ve had our eye on them for quite a while. Perhaps you’re not aware of their criminal records. Drugs amongst other things.’
I was furious. ‘Kim used to have a heroin problem,’ I explained to Michael.
Michael laid a calming hand on my arm and addressed Wiles. ‘You’re quite correct. I don’t know that any of them have records, and I don’t know if any of them use drugs. I do know, however, that they have an excellent reputation, that they work well and extremely hard, and have been no trouble to us whatsoever.’
‘Not quite what Professor Pryce-Roberts thinks,’ said Wiles.
‘Ronnie thinks anyone who builds a roundhouse with questionable king posts is a barbarian and scoundrel,’ said Michael.
Wiles very nearly smiled. ‘Very well, sir. I just thought you ought to be advised. After all, the law will hold you liable for anything happening on your property.’
‘I’m aware of my responsibilities,’ said Michael. If Wiles couldn’t sense the irritation in him, I certainly could.
We parted company with our escort at a vacant workshop that had been appointed the incident room.
‘I swear they’re more interested in Al’s crew than in the body,’ I said. ‘They did seem pleased to have tracked them down when they came last time. Do you think they’ve been waiting for this opportunity? They’re very keen to search the yurt and the round house. I shooed them away, but they’re probably back by now.’
Michael laughed. ‘I hope Al and his crew had the sense to clean the place up. Do you think they have anything that shouldn’t be there?’
‘A bit of weed, probably. Al wouldn’t countenance anything more than that. He’s too concerned for his baby sister. And she’s clean now, he makes sure of that.’
Michael waved the issue aside. ‘If she has problems and wants to come to me for help, fine. Otherwise, I don’t want to hear about it. They’re a legitimate business and while they’re on my property, doing nothing wrong, that’s good enough for me. Sylvia.’ He stopped to give her a kiss as she came into the kitchen, refilled glass in hand.
‘Oh Mike,’ she wailed.
‘There’s nothing to worry about. Everything’s fine.’
*
The idea of murder, without being specifically eliminated, seemed to be quietly shelved. The police continued prowling, while a forensic team were at work, but there was no frenetic investigation, which was a relief at least to Sylvia.
Up at the bog, the body was slowly, carefully disinterred to be shipped off elsewhere for detailed study, Ronnie fluttering over it like a mother hen.
Poor Ronnie. I discovered that after years of being in charge of the excavation in Cumbria, his university had finally eased him into retirement. An insignificant holiday dig for amateurs in a Welsh field was the university’s sop to get him out of their hair. This barbaric find in the bog could turn out to be his triumphant epitaph. But it seemed he wasn’t sufficiently qualified or trusted to complete the task of removing the body. He could only stand and pretend to supervise.
Sylvia turned pale every time a vehicle rumbled down the track, in case it carried the mortal remains. ‘When will we know how old it is?’ she asked, repeatedly. ‘Clive Taylor told Fran that Gethin Williams had a fight with a biker last year and it could be him!’
‘Sylvia, I’m sure it isn’t.’
‘And Brian at the Cemaes says a girl went missing from a farm in Pen-y-bont on Bonfire Night—’
‘Listen, the biker went home and the girl probably ran off to the bright lights of Crymych. I’m sure it’s old. Just try to think of it as extra advertising.’
‘Like Bridie? Of course! But do you think it’s too much, Kate? Two bodies? People will think it’s a charnel house. They might be afraid to come here. ’
‘I doubt it!’ Students and regulars at the Cemaes Arms had already spread the word, and a small crowd was massing at the gates of Llys y Garn. First a smothered bride, now a bog body, and the whole world simply loved bog bodies.
Bertie the Bogman. Someone came up with the name, and the press soon had hold of it. I was going to be kept busy again, though I had assistance this time. Tamsin revelled in the ghastly business, guiding reporters and photographing everything to be uploaded to Facebook and YouTube. She was welcome to take over the publicity as far as I was concerned. And I finally quietened Sylvia’s last fears.
‘The BBC is coming. They’re sending a van.’
‘Oh Lord!’ Her hands flew to her wild hair. ‘I look a sight! Will they want to speak to me?’
‘Especially to you.’
The six o’clock news, that evening, reported on our big event, poor Ronnie side-lined yet again in favour of a more photogenic archaeologist with greater street cred. There were ten seconds of Sylvia sounding anxious, a shot of the tent shrouding the extraction and a good two minutes of Molly, standing on the overhanging rocks, in full druidic regalia, like a cross between Galadriel and a bag lady. They gave her incantations full coverage.
‘If we take that whic
h has been given to the Goddess,’ she intoned to the smirking interviewer, ‘the Goddess will take another in recompense. All will come full circle!’ We were promised hundreds of fellow believers, already on their way to Pembrokeshire, to reinforce the sanctity of the site. I was not pleased.
At least one good thing had come of it. No sign of Hannah. Since our altercation she’d sulked in her room.
*
The police left, Bertie left and Ronnie was ecstatically energised. He insisted on keeping me informed, plying me with details I didn’t want to hear and photographs I didn’t want to see. A blackened leathery face, twisted in an apparent snarl of rage – though immersion in a bog would probably do that to any face. The body of a large man, still dressed in leather and rough cloth, had been lying face down, hands bound and (I was supposed to be especially thrilled by this) very deliberately weighed down with stones.
‘Clear indications of ritual practice,’ said Ronnie.
‘You mean a human sacrifice?’ I asked.
‘Now we mustn’t judge the past by the moral standards of our day.’ Ronnie mistook my disdain for outrage. ‘One must understand the culture, the beliefs. Of course we’re not certain yet of the exact era, but it was undoubtedly an intensely ceremonial society. We’ll know more when we’ve completed our analysis. We haven’t yet dated the bog itself, which was the exercise I had in mind for my students prior to this discovery.’
As soon as the police finally packed up their gear and left, he herded his students back to work. Phone calls from the press kept coming and I continued to answer politely. Yes, it was surprising to uncover two bodies. No, we didn’t expect to find any more.
I certainly hoped not. Quietly, while no one was watching, I climbed up to the empty attic with its flutter of fear and defiance.
The defiance was unmistakable. Get out! The room was screaming at me. Out, out! But having coped with the hall and the bog, I was determined to be absolutely sure no more corpses were waiting to spring out.
I tapped on walls and floors, in search of cavities and concealed tombs.
‘What are you doing?’ Tamsin poked her head round the door. ‘I heard knocking. Thought it was a ghost.’
