The swelling in the woman’s belly shifted, moving downwards. She arched her body upwards, as if offering herself to the heavens and the thing within slipped smoothly from the lips of her bared vagina in a glistening mass of black fluid and grey tissue. A soft, shapeless lump of ravaged flesh that the woman picked up and held to her, crushing it to her breasts. And now came weeping that was just as soundless as the screaming, but far more terrible.
The mental and emotional anguish of a life lost before it could be fully created and given to the world, far outweighing the physical agony of an aborted childbirth.
Judith stared at herself on the bier, felt herself going back in time to that terrible day when she had lost her baby and began the slide towards breakdown. The skeletal pallbearers stared sightlessly at her, mocking her with their burden. Her burden.
A voice. A gentle but firm grip on her shoulder. She turned slowly, unable to tear her eyes from the grief stricken woman on the bier who was staring back at her with pain an accusation, as if she was blaming Judith for the loss of her child.
Blaming herself…
“It wasn’t my fault!” she screamed. “I didn’t want it to happen!”
“What’s wrong? Wanted what to happen?” The face Judith was screaming into looked at her with concern.
John Franklin tightened his grip on both of her shoulders. She blinked, took in huge gulping breaths of cold night air that ravaged her lungs. She heard a hissing sound, a watery gushing noise that could have been blood pouring from the ravaged foetus. She turned, looked back to where the funeral procession was standing.
The ornamental fountain had come back on. Its cold jet of water was the only moving thing on the lawns.
“Ms Cox, whatever’s wrong?”
Judith stared, uncomprehending, into Franklin’s eyes. Looked back again at the fountain. Turned and buried her head into the porter’s chest.
She felt his muscular arms fold around her, a strong hand stroking her head. “Easy now. Easy, now…”
She stood like that for a long time as the tears wrenched themselves from her, another fountain on the cold and lifeless lawns of the Old Court.
Franklin looked up to the solitary light in the window of the Bursar’s office. Davies stared back at him, his face blank and expressionless.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Phil was quite happy to be let out at Elizabeth Way and cycle the rest of the way home. He told Rob that he needed some fresh air in his lungs after the smells of the van - and Jasper.
Andy Hughes wasn’t fooled. He saw the nervous glance Phil threw in his direction as Rob pulled his mountain bike out of the Transit. Just don’t want me anywhere near Kelly, do you? Just in case your dream was a premonition…
Phil and Rob were speaking quietly, the conversation inaudible over the roar of the heater and the idling of the engine. Finally the rear doors were slammed shut, Rob climbed back into the cab and put on his seatbelt. Andy didn’t acknowledge him, just kept his eyes on the side mirror. He watched Phil pedal away, expertly weaving his way through the lanes of traffic on the roundabout, the rear light flashing and the bulk of the rucksack swinging on his shoulders.
“How old’s his son, Rob?”
“Ten or eleven, I think. Why?”
Andy closed his eyes. Ten years old. Good God. And to think, it could have been him being the father rather than Lotson…
No, don’t think like that. Put it out of your mind. You’ve got more important things to worry about…
“No reason.” He was surprised by these conflicting feelings. His love for Jen was rock solid, he’d never even considered cheating on her - and God knew he’d had plenty of offers from some of the younger women at The Porterhouse.
But now, being amongst the ghosts of his past reminded him of his first love. True what they say, you never forget your first. That love had never really died, in spite of the way the relationship had ended. Perhaps it was just as well he didn’t see Kelly.
He patted the dog’s head. Jasper had recovered remarkably well after Franklin’s assault, but was still somewhat subdued. They’d both keep a careful eye on him, especially for signs of blood in the urine or stools.
“What next, Andy?” Rob indicated, pulled away and joined the traffic on the bridge. “You ain’t eaten all day. Fancy something?”
Andy shook his head. “I need sleep more than anything else, Rob. Just a couple of hours, and then I’m going to phone Pearce, see what he’s got to say for himself.” He wasn’t ready to phone Jen yet. And he hoped that the sleep would be dreamless.
Rob scratched the stubble on his chin. “Why’s he holding out on you? What’s he got to gain by keeping you in the dark like this?”
Andy couldn’t answer.
Rob didn’t say much on the journey back to Thoday Street, but Andy knew he himself wasn’t great company at the best of times. And with less than two hours sleep in the last twenty-four, with a job that was turning into a real mystery and the ghosts of his past crowding around him, he was even less inclined to polite conversation. The radio was turned on, the usual Christmas songs playing. That made the silence between them even more awkward. Andy’s plans for Christmas with Jen were well and truly shot, and Rob…
He glanced at Rob. Both parents dead. He was on his own as well.
Thoday Street was deserted. Apart from the usual kerb-mounted parked cars, their windscreens already turning an opaque white with the falling temperature, the Transit was the only thing that moved.
Rob mounted the kerb outside his house, shut the lights and the engine down and turned to his passengers. In a mock upper class tone, he grandly announced:
“Welcome to the Cambridge Hilton. I’m ha-fraid there is no portering service today…he is too busy beating up defenceless ha-nimals what have been shitting on his lawns.”
Andy smiled as he took his bag out of the Transit. Throwing it over his shoulder, he slammed the side door shut and turned to the house.
Jasper trotted past him, squeezed past the railings of the small garden gate and sat by the door.
“Recovered very well, haven’t we, shitbag?” Rob smiled, pointing the key at the van. The hazard warning lights flashed once with a single beep and a solid click of central locking. He put the Transit key in his pocket and took out the house keys. He frowned as he saw the lump sticking out of Andy’s holdall.
“Your missus didn’t do the packing then?”
Andy glared at him.
“Guess not.”
* * * * *
The house bore the marks of a semi-student dwelling occupied by one single male: dirty plates and cutlery in the sink, carpets that had never felt the suction of a vacuum cleaner and a sculpture in the living room that could only have come from the mind of someone who was still a student at heart.
On the far wall, on a wide shelf besides the television, beer cans were stacked against the wall, tapered to a point where a single silver can of Becks Vier touched the ceiling. And true to the spirit of the season, Rob had thrown some tinsel around the base of his beer pyramid. Andy shook his head and lowered his holdall next to a paper-strewn mess that probably had a coffee table underneath. Jasper sniffed it, eyes bulging with happy curiosity.
“Nothing in there for you, boy. And I see your caretaker didn’t bother getting a Christmas tree for you to piss on…”
“Cutbacks, my friend,” Rob called from the kitchen. He lowered the coffee jar and turned to Andy. “Not much point having a tree for one…well, two, but you know what I mean.”
Andy nodded stiffly.
“Come away from there, shitbag. Santa’s sack it ain’t…”
You got that right, Roberto, he thought. He looked at the plastic swipe card lying on a copy of the Christmas Radio Times.
“This the guest pass that Emma gave you? Mind if I…?”
Rob waved a hand. “Help yourself.”
Andy picked it up, pocketed it and headed for the staircase.
Geoff Michaels’ room ca
me as a surprise. It was dusty but tidy, everything neatly stacked away in cardboard boxes and plastic packing crates. Andy blinked at the smell of dust burning on the light bulb when he flicked the switch - obviously the room had not been entered for some time.
“Parents didn’t take anything away then?” he asked Rob, coming up the stairs.
“The plod took a few items. His old dear took some photos, clothes - sentimental things - but left the rest here. Waiting for his return.”
They stared at each other knowingly.
“Hope springs eternal,” Andy muttered as he took the lid off the nearest packing crate. Inside were lever arch files and ring binders, stuffed with what looked like marked essays and coursework. Andy flipped one of the files open, scanned the title page. A 1500 word essay on the presentation of the sacred and the secular in the plays of Euripides - marked down for typos, spelling mistakes and incorrect references. Andy felt his eyelids drooping just looking at it. But then, that was probably the tiredness catching up with him.
“Not much to explain why he went AWOL, Andy. Believe me, the filth went over everything.” He frowned, a thought striking him. “Unless…”
“Pearce thinks the police were, at best, rather lackadaisical with their investigation. At worst…” he smiled humourlessly.
“Collusion? But why would cops be helping a University college to keep this under wraps?” Rob had a cigarette in his mouth, but stood in the doorway to light it. Andy guessed Geoff had been a non-smoker. Even with him gone, and unlikely to ever again occupy the room, Rob Benson was unconsciously respecting his wishes.
“Perhaps the college is more powerful than people give it credit for. Something’s going on there, without a doubt. Phil’s interpretation of the Master’s meeting is proof of that.”
Rob blew smoke behind him. “Question is…what?”
Andy sat on the bed and rubbed his eyes. “I can’t think at the moment. Some shuteye, a call to Pearce, and then I’ll have some answers.” Or more questions, he thought with a grimace. His shoulders slumped, his head titled forward. He began to unlace his boots.
“Rob, I’m going to crash out for a bit. Can you give me a call in a couple of hours?”
Rob took a deep drag of his cigarette, eyeing him strangely. He nodded.
The light was switched off and the door closed. Andy swung his body onto the bed and lay back. The mattress welcomed him all too easily. Sleep claimed him, and took him to a world of blood, snow and fire.
* * * * *
He was still searching, he knew that. But not for Geoff Michaels. And not at the college of All Souls.
He was no longer even in the city of Cambridge. He was trudging through thick snow in a flat, featureless landscape, heading for the only distinguishable feature. His feet were numb with the cold, his gloved hands thrust deep into his jacket pockets in a vain attempt to keep warm.
He didn’t know how long he had been battling through the snow, how many miles he had travelled. It didn’t matter. He’d finally found what he’d been looking for.
A mound of snow, approximately eight feet long, sloped upwards to form a mound that stood four feet high. When he saw it he knew he was too late. The woman he was searching for was dead.
No, there’s still hope, he told himself desperately.
He knew he was fooling himself. There was no hope, not now. The temperature had dropped to eleven degrees below freezing on the night she had vanished, three nights ago. Three nights of heavy snow, falling on a prone body in an isolated field, layer after layer building up and freezing solid. A cavern of ice and snow, her final resting place.
A frozen tomb.
He knelt down by the drift, ignoring the dull ache of cold ice that penetrated his denim clad knees. He touched the side of the tomb and wondered why tears formed in his eyes, why he was mourning a woman he had never known.
He tilted his head back, eyes to the heavens. The clouds were steel grey, no attempt made by the midwinter sun to break through the leaden covering and give warmth to the land below. He could feel his tears freeze on his cheeks.
“Elizabeth,” he whispered. The solitary word broke the silence of the dead, snowbound field.
And with the utterance of that name, something else was broken. Another sound filled the air as his voice faded and died. A dull, rhythmic pounding, like a dying heart beat. It took his cold-numbed mind some time to work out where it was coming from, to register what was happening.
The snowdrift was breaking up. Soft, fluffy layers of virgin snow that had fallen earlier today, another cold shroud for the woman lying dead in the field, fell soundlessly to the ground. Tiny, barely distinguishable lines appeared on the ice walls, zigzagging from bottom to the top, branching like the dead limbs of a tree. Cracks that widened, opening into fissures as heavy, muffled pounding broke the walls of the tomb from within. Chunks of ice fell to the ground, forcing Andy to back away.
The pounding ceased, as if the occupant was aware that its prison had been broken. It was free to leave.
The hand came first, slim delicate fingers that were unmistakeably female. The blue tinged fingers were clenched into a fist, knuckles bruised and scraped raw by repeatedly banging on the walls of the tomb. Blood that had flowed from the knuckles was frozen, but the fluid oozing from the torn and broken fingernails was fresh. The fist unclenched, sensing the fresh, colder air that greeted it, the palm opening as though in supplication.
Or a plea for help. He moved forwards slowly, wary. He reached out his hand, stretching over the broken wall. A soft, barely audible moan greeted him as he clasped the frozen, ravaged hand.
“Elizabeth!”
He reached into the ice shelter - it was surely no tomb now, she was alive, thank God, she was alive - to take her other hand, to look into her eyes, to reassure her, to thank God that…
There was something clutched in her other hand, something heavy and warm. Something that fell into his hand, a thing he knew was stone - and yet was alive. Elizabeth’s arm dropped, sank back into her ice shelter, her gift given.
It was a carving made from a heavy black rock, with traced patterns of some green and red coloured minerals on the flat, obverse side. A rock that was warm to the touch. A rock that was alive.
The carving turned itself in his hand and he saw the face smile in welcome. A human face; peering through a carved framework of twisted oak, holly and mistletoe leaves. The white mistletoe berries gleamed like pearls, the holly berries glistening like blood droplets. The face itself bore an old man’s features. Aristocratic, commanding. But so old.
Heavily lined, cheeks wrinkled and creased with an age that no human being could survive. But it was the eyes that held Andy’s rapt gaze.
Eyes full of weariness, as though they had seen more than their fair share of suffering and tragedy. And also strangely knowing: possessed of a knowledge that was too great, too powerful - too dangerous - to be shared with others.
Eyes that were exactly the same shade of gold-flecked emerald as Andy’s own. They flashed in recognition, expectation. The lips widened in a smile of gratitude and relief.
Relief. He almost dropped it in horror. Because he suddenly knew what it wanted from him. He tore his gaze from the hypnotic glowing orbs of the carved face and looked at the woman lying in the ice shelter.
He had called her Elizabeth, but he didn’t know why. The face that smiled up at him with blackened, cracked lips and dull grey eyes: the voice that called out to him in a hoarse whisper, they belonged to Jennifer Callaby.
“Charles,” she murmured. “You came for me. I knew you would…”
He tried to call her name, her real name, but it wouldn’t leave his lips. All he could utter was the name he had spoken previously. The words tumbled from his lips, words he had no control over, words that made no sense to him, delivered in a voice that was not his.
“Elizabeth…I am not here. I am still in All Souls. This is Impington Common…the meteorite broke in two. Your horse was sta
rtled, it threw you. You know what has come to pass…”
Her eyes widened. She opened her mouth to scream.
Andy looked at the carved piece of rock in his hands. The piece that broke away from the heavenly messenger headed for the college of All Souls.
“…this is the Divine Judgement. But it is not complete.”
He held the rock closer and examined the carved human features. Carved by whom? It had broken from a rock that had travelled millions of miles through the cold depths of space. It had never been on Earth before.
Around the vegetation that disgorged from the open mouth, all through the crown of thorns and leaves, the traces of red glowed and pulsated like molten lava. It was getting hotter.
You know what must be done. Say your farewells…and prepare yourself.
“I love you, Elizabeth. Please, forgive me. This is the will of God…”
The tracery pulsed scarlet, then orange, then bright, searing yellow. Flames erupted from the open mouth and the eyes, tearing up his arms. The intense heat melted his fingers, skin crackling and burning, fat melting like candle wax, bone turned to charcoal.
His arms collapsed inwards, bringing the carving to his chest where the hungry, unearthly fire continued its devastating work.
The roaring of the fire blotted out his screams of agony. But nothing could deafen the anguished howls of grief that came from the woman in the ice shelter. It was a sound he took with him.
* * * * *
The sound accompanied him back to consciousness, back to the bed of the missing student, back to the darkness of a Victorian terraced house in Cambridge on a winter night - the cry of a woman he had called Elizabeth, but knew to be Jennifer Callaby.
He brought his knees up to his chin, grasping his legs with shaking hands. He could have sworn his trouser legs were sodden and cold with the melted snow of the field he had trudged through. He squeezed his thighs and knew his legs were dry. No snow.
But heat. Still the unearthly heat burned his shaven scalp. He gingerly touched his forehead, wincing at the pain that felt like fresh sunburn.
The source of the heat was still here. He could feel waves of it coming from underneath the wooden framed window, just by the pillow. Relief was a tangible, soothing sensation that seemed to cool his burning body.
The Caretakers (2011) Page 15
