The serene beauty of the Bridge of Sighs, Venetian-inspired splendour sitting uneasily with the red brick of St John’s College. The elegant neo-Classicism of Clare College’s western facade, its seventeenth century bridge spanning the freezing waters of the Cam, effortlessly linking New Court with the river. This enhanced the illusion of Clare being more a palace than a place of learning; an ice palace, snow and hoar frost glinting seductively on its gables. Then, the gothic Perpendicular majesty of King’s College Chapel, enrobed in snow and ice.
The past was alive, and never more beautiful than on a morning like this. Winter brought out the visual beauty of Cambridge’s architecture unlike any other season. Andy shook his head. Amazing, just a glimpse and he was back in scholar mode. Noting everything about his surroundings, the dates they’d been created, and the history behind them. Phil would be proud of him -
He noticed that Phil was quiet, rigid in his seat. His eyes were fixed firmly on the road ahead of them, avoiding the splendour of the historic backdrop.
Of course, Andy realised. His nightmare was in summer rather than winter, but it was on the Backs that he dreamed his wife and boy were hacked to pieces. By me.
At the black metal screen that composed the West Gate of King’s, a Marshal in distinct purple livery blew into his hands and stamped his feet. A reminder of ancient times, a guardian on duty at the college’s most vulnerable point of entry.
There was no Marshall at the entrance to All Souls, Andy noticed as he pulled the Transit onto the access road. There was something else.
“Why are we stopping?” Phil asked.
Rob pointed. “That’s why. Looks like we ain’t going any further.”
The West Gate to All Souls College was an intricately arranged series of wrought iron railings in black and gold. Six feet high, each railing terminating in an arrow-shaped point. A metal plaque with the name of the college and an engraved image of a boar’s head in gold was affixed to the right hand section. When open, it was wide enough to allow entrance for delivery vehicles, but this morning not only were the gates closed but the gravel path leading up to them was blocked by a metal bollard supporting a No Entry sign.
Rob leaned over and peered at the words underneath the red circle. “Well, that’s new.”
ALL DELIVERIES AND VISITORS - REPORT TO EAST ENTRANCE, KING’S PARADE.
“Awkward,” Rob muttered around a fresh cigarette. “Bollards have been put up on the East Entrance as well. Have to park up and walk the furniture. Still, no problem.”
Andy stared at him. You don’t want to go through the woods, do you? Frightened of what you might remember? Well, tough shit Roberto.
Rob’s thumb froze on the lighter’s wheel as Andy Hughes jumped out of the cab.
The bollard was one of the pull-up, fold-down variety, with a padlock securing the top ring and preventing anyone but key-holders laying the obstacle flat. Well, that was the theory anyway. The top loop was too long. With one impatient upward pull and a disdainful shove, the bollard crashed down onto the gravelled pathway. He pushed the gates aside and returned to the van.
Two stony faces glared at him.
“That might cause problems, Andrew. I’m meeting the Master, don’t forget. I’m sure they closed this off for a reason.”
“Probably because of Rob’s little adventure here last night.” Andy said. He closed the door and put the van into first. “Anyway, I’m doing you guys a favour. I don’t think either of you are up to walking much.”
He released the handbrake and put his foot down.
“Welcome to All Souls, gents.”
* * * * *
At the top of the right gatepost, a security camera swung round from what Andy had thought was a fixed position, overseeing the access via Queen’s Road. It circled a full hundred and eighty degrees, then rose, following the van’s progress as the vehicle ignored the twenty mile per hour speed limit and sped up the gravel path to the rear buildings of All Souls College.
In the porter’s lodge, Head Porter John Franklin stared at the West Gate monitor with cold, mounting fury.
“That the van that was here last night, Street?”
A gruff Yorkshire accent answered from behind the door. “That’s the one, Mr Franklin. The guy in the passenger seat was here last night.”
The same that hit one of Her children, Franklin thought. He toggled the joystick, bringing the van into focus. Then a frown creased his craggy features. His steel grey moustache twitched as another thought struck him.
He pressed the rewind button, back to the point where the bollard had been pulled down. The driver of the van was in the bottom left hand corner of the monitor, only just there.
But the digital image was unmistakeable. He recognised the shaven head, the cold, deep-set eyes with their unnatural shade of green, and the fixed frown. After fifteen years, he was back.
Franklin went cold. He leaned forward, ran his index fingernail down the frozen image of Andy Hughes’ face. Just over the eyes.
Perhaps it was anger at the prospect of the danger Hughes’ return represented that made him press too firmly on the CRT screen.
Or perhaps the physical energy he had expended on the woman had made him forget his own strength.
The screen cracked. His finger remained, immobile, fixed on the emerald eyes of the driver long after the image vanished and the blood ran to the white cuffs of Franklin’s shirtsleeves.
“Hughes.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Gravel and snow were scattered by the Transit’s wheels as the van sped up the path leading to the bridge. The stone chips bounced up and rattled in the wheel arches, sounding like machine gun fire.
Jasper had both paws up on the dash, nose pressed firmly to the cold glass of the windscreen. Excited at the speed and rocking motion of the van, his tail whipped back and forth again.
“Christ, Andy! Slow down!”
Comes to something when Mr White Van Man is scared of a little speed! Andy said nothing as he drove over the bridge, but reduced speed. Gravel hit the stone balustrades of the bridge, fell through the pillars and sprinkled the icy Cam below.
He was tense. His fingernails dug deeply into the vinyl of the steering wheel. He felt his heart hammering and adrenaline coursing through his body
For the first time in fifteen years, he was back in the place that had destroyed him.
In the side mirror he saw the camera turn and follow the vehicle’s progress. He frowned. You know we’re here, don’t you?
They left the bridge and the gravel path ran ahead in a straight line for about thirty yards, before it disappeared into a line of oak trees.
A heavy shroud of snow covered the skeletal branches. Leaf litter and rotting acorns formed untidy heaps that peeked through the snow, and he wondered why the gardeners hadn’t been sent to clear them away when they fell in the autumn.
A breeze sprung up, forcing the topmost branches to shed their snow, and it was at that moment that Andy could see there were four of five rows of similar tress behind.
Remnants of the original, ancient wood that was cleared to make room for the college. He smiled grimly. A local history module from one of Phil Lotson’s classes. Some of his teachings he would never forget.
Andy noticed that Rob had become silent. He had shrunk back in his seat, his eyes half closed as though trying to sleep - or trying not to remember what happened last night.
As they drove through the wood the gravel driveway shrank, narrowing on both sides so that the lower branches scraped noisily on the van’s bodywork. The screeching forced Rob’s eyes open, and put Andy’s teeth on edge.
The path became narrower, nothing more than a frozen dirt track, the gravel disappearing altogether.
“I guess this is why they don’t want delivery vehicles down here,” Andy murmured as the rear wheels of the Transit spun noisily on the freezing mud.
They made slow progress through the wood. These trees were ancient. Judging from the huge gir
th of the trunks and the increasing number of boles jutting like open sores, these oaks had been here for hundreds of years. Above the ancient canopy the sky seemed darker, the trees taller and more closely grouped as they progressed, casting deep shadows. The college buildings disappeared from view. And all the while, the teeth-grating shriek of wood on metal accompanied them, branches smacking against the windscreen so loudly that even Jasper jumped back with a startled whine. As though the trees were following a command to halt the unauthorised passage of this metal intruder. As he forced the van deeper onwards, Andy had a strange sensation, a feeling that they were being watched. And not by camera lenses or human eyes
He told himself he was imagining it. There was no sign of life - not even any birds fluttered from the trees as they advanced. But the feeling remained. And he could tell by the silence of the others that they felt it too.
Finally, the exit materialised. The track widened and the traction improved. The skeletal fingers of the ancient oaks retreated, leaving the bodywork in peace. The light improved and the winter oaks became no more than shrinking reflections in the side mirrors.
A quick glance at Rob and Phil confirmed Andy’s suspicions, that they had been just as unnerved by this strange passage as he was. Jasper’s ears were back and nothing more than a low whine escaping his closed lips. Quiet and subdued.
Andy turned his attention to the buildings in front. The stone facade was about ten yards away, a carved archway in the wall allowing access.
“Cloister Court,” Phil remarked. It was impressive, but unsettling. The medieval range of cloisters and covered walkways were made of the same blackened clunch stone that made up Old Court. The buildings were too tall and close together to allow much sunlight to fall on the whitened lawn. The midday sun made little impact on the gloom.
The cold, stone cloisters were empty, the lancet windows dark and inscrutable. No lights were on in the rooms beyond. The atmosphere was still, timeless. An ecclesiastical structure abandoned by man and God alike…shit, where did that thought come from? That wasn’t from Phil’s class.
A gateway in the centre of the facing range ushered them from the claustrophobic court and into New Court. Larger than Cloister Court, the lawn twice the size, less enclosed, less oppressing thanks to the presence of newer architecture.
To the right was a jumble of late nineteenth century buildings of crumbling red brick and unknown purposes. Smoke billowed from narrow chimneystacks that Andy remembered belonged to the college kitchens. Rob’s nervous face confirmed it. He shrank in his seat as they passed the loading bay and the open service doors. A fat, white-overalled figure stood by the rubbish skips and glowered at the vehicle.
“Say hello to your friend, Rob.” Andy turned the wheel, grinning at the dirty look Rob gave him, and entered the last gateway. The one leading to Old Court.
The gateway was too narrow, the stone walls curving inward to form a tunnelled roof that would do serious damage to the van’s bodywork. Or so it seemed.
“Go on, Andy. It may not look like it but you can get a bus through there.” Rob smiled thinly.
“You been this way before?” Phil asked nervously, involuntarily cowering in the seat as the stone tunnel came closer.
“Yep. This is the way I came last night, when I saw Emma.” A pained expression crossed his face. Andy gave him a knowing look.
And the same way you left, isn’t it Roberto?
He had to hand it to Rob, though. The tunnel was a tight fit, so Rob had done well to get the van through without scratching it, the state he was in last night.
A loud, plastic-sounding smack reverberated around the cab. Andy cursed when he saw the nearside mirror suddenly snap back on its hinges into the window pane.
“Amateur,” Rob grinned. As soon as the van exited the archway he wound the window down and folded the mirror back. He grimaced and shook his fingers theatrically at the cold contact.
The enclosure of Old Court was not as claustrophobic as its fellows. The sun had managed to climb over the turrets and ramparts of the front range and was in the process of adding some light - if not warmth - to the chilly enclosure. Andy shut the engine down and climbed out.
On the pathway frozen snow - still frozen despite the midday sun - crunched under their feet. The only sound they could hear. It was hard to believe they were in the centre of a bustling university city.
He scanned the arrangement of buildings in front of him. Similar to the range they had seen in Cloister Court, but the huge Gothic facade and medieval fortress-style double doors of the Great Hall were the obvious difference. As they walked past Andy saw the doors were firmly bolted shut. Ice coated the extra long, elaborately wrought hinges. Another barrier, another layer of defence, he thought. No entry. He turned and stared at the octagonal stone fountain in the centre of the Court - and the snow covered mound of earth next to it.
“That’s where they bury the boar after the Feast,” Phil said quietly. The black and yellow striped ribbons rustled softly in the breeze. Andy glanced at the hole the hazard-warning tape barricaded and shook his head.
Phil pulled his jacket closer around his body in an attempt to keep out the chill breeze.
“Andy. Don’t you ever feel the cold?”
“Of course.”
“So why don’t you wrap up? At least wear a hat. The amount of heat you must lose through your head…”
Andy didn’t reply. Through the gateway he could see Jasper standing on the dash, peering mournfully through the windscreen.
“Hold on a bit, boy,” Rob called. “Back soon. I’ll let you have a scamper over the lawn.”
“No, you bloody won’t!” Phil snapped. He pointed to the KEEP OFF THE GRASS sign on the edge of the court. A rule Phil was determined to respect, Andy realised as he watched him stick to the flagstones that surrounded the grass. He smiled. Of course, walking on the lawns in college is a privilege for Fellows only. Academic courtesy, eh? Well, when in Rome…
His smile faded when he saw the footprints that led to the chapel. Two sets. One quite small and obviously formed by a woman’s shoes, trainers probably; the others larger, heavier. A trail made by a man’s heavy boots.
There was something else that wasn’t right. The larger footprints went to the chapel and back out again. The woman’s footsteps only went one way. Into the chapel. And yet…
He squinted his eyes against the harsh glare of the winter sun. There was no mistake. The small wooden doors were closed and padlocked shut. No-one was going in.
Not now, anyway. But those footprints are fresh, they were made less than two hours ago.
“How long will this meeting take, Phil?” he heard Rob ask.
“Not sure. An hour, maybe two.”
“That’s probably how long it’ll take us to set the furniture up.” Andy turned and examined the delivery note in Rob’s hand. “I’d be very surprised if your mate Kiss-arse actually bothers to help us out.”
“Oh, he’ll piss off the minute the ticket’s signed.” Rob snorted. “Phil, we’ll be in the van when you’re finished. Give us a call when you’re ready.”
Phil nodded absentmindedly, not even aware of the bit of paper with a scribbled mobile phone number pushed into his jacket pocket. Andy could see that his mind was on his surroundings and his imminent meeting with the Master.
They entered the porch of the Main Gate. Ahead Andy could see through the open gateway to Trinity Street, the entrance they were supposed to have used. Now he could hear sounds of normality - pneumatic drills and diesel generators, road works, and the ringing of bicycle bells.
The door to the porter’s lodge was wedged open, as though the inhabitants were unaware of the cold. Or relished it. He took a deep breath and fought to control his shaking.
Keep calm, Andy. It was a long time ago.
The lodge was just as he remembered it. Heavy oak panelling, a bare stone floor. Dingy lighting. Pigeonholes took up one side of the lodge. Normally stuffed with internal ma
il and memos to students and Fellows, they were mostly empty for the Christmas vacation, apart from one or two that had some unclaimed Christmas cards. Cork notice-boards took up the opposing side, covered with notes ranging from rowing fixtures and adverts for recitals to stern notices from the University administration regarding disciplinary procedures for various acts of misconduct. Two tiny Christmas cards were pinned to the nearest board to Andy. He flicked one open, noting the scrawled seasonal greeting To Franklin and Co.: Have a good “un! First VIII
A few strings of thin tinsel were draped over the top of the corkboards, along with a one-foot high, sparsely decorated Christmas tree on the counter, a half-hearted attempt to bring some seasonal cheer to the gloomy, Dickensian office. Scrooge would’ve loved this, he thought. Fifteen years on and nothing’s changed.
Even the old cash register, used for the sale of postcards and pens, feeble souvenirs of the college, was the same one from the 1960s.
The only nod to modernity was the flat panel PC monitor and the bank of CCTV monitors to the left of the counter. Six monitors, each one given continuous feed by the dedicated cameras mounted at strategic points around the college. Andy noticed that the one covering the Queen’s Road access point - the access point they had used without authorisation - had a large crack running down the centre.
Behind the counter the lodge stretched back to reveal three men. Two porters, thickset men in their late thirties, sat in reclining chairs, drinking coffee and reading newspapers. Their heavy black coats were buttoned up against the cold, but they were obviously not going to ask the head porter to put the heating on or close the door.
The head porter himself looked far older than Andy Hughes remembered. The neatly trimmed moustache and swept back hair were steel grey now, and the lines in his forehead and around his eyes were deeper, more pronounced. But those cold blue eyes hadn’t changed. They were still bright and sharp; watchful, appraising. They blazed: lighting up with icy malevolence when they met the cold, clear gaze of Andy Hughes; a blaze of recognition and hatred.
Go on Franklin, say it. Just bloody say it.
The Caretakers (2011) Page 9
