The Caretakers (2011)

by Adrian Chamberlin

  The offering lies for twelve hours, sustained by drugs and intravenous injections. The cruellest stage of the Song and not just because of the agony endured. When the human body loses one sense it compensates by sharpening the remaining four. The blind can hear more acutely, the deaf see with more clarity and focus. What then, for those who lose all five senses, all five methods by which we perceive and interact with the universe around us? What compensation can the body offer?

  The only compensation can be full shut down of the brain, divorcing itself from the horrors inflicted on the body. That is when the power Andraste hungers for is revealed.

  Little is known about the sixth sense, or why it is more powerful in some individuals. Many parapsychologists believe each human has it, that it lies dormant, unused in a plane of existence that relies so heavily on the other five levels of perception. But those that Andraste selects to sing for her have it in ways even they are not aware of. And when the other five senses are stripped away, the sixth shines like a beacon in the darkness.

  A beacon that summons her. The sixth sense is our direct link to the other, hidden levels of existence that are denied to us. To the sources of power in the universe that engineer the whole of Creation. It is, to be blunt, our link to God. It is our soul.

  It shines when we are close to death, when our senses have shut down and the body is ready to expire. It shines to God as a message, a plea for Him to take us to the next stage of existence.

  But when it shines in the cellar beneath the chapel of All Souls, when its glory is corrupted by the manner of the ritual, it finds its way to Andraste rather than God. Because in that terrible, everlasting twelve hours the offering is still alive, in a state of agony and total sensory deprivation. The sixth sense cannot allow the mind to shut down and instead shows the Offering the hidden powers that work all of Creation, a sight that was not meant for mortal minds. All of this, with the Dark Whispering that speaks directly to the mind without need for aural communication.

  The Dark Whispering is formed by the previous souls that Andraste has in her thrall, that come before her, announcing her coming much the same way a light show precedes a meteor before it alights and begins its devastating work. The Offering is in Hell and the voices of Andraste’s Selected make it clear that this is only the beginning, that worse agonies await those who are forcibly denied access to the path of God.

  The offering has sung to Andraste, and has brought her to them. But she cannot take them yet. The life is terminated by the severing of the head from the body, the skin is flayed to remove all traces of covering for the soul and the remains of the Offering are taken apart and prepared.

  The song has been sung. Now Andraste must accept the Offering and agree to depart. This is done by Communion with her children.

  Andy lowered the page. It was trembling in his hands. “Communion?”

  Phil stared at him despairingly. “The physical remains of the offering, fed to the beasts of the wood. The children of Andraste are -‘

  “The same thing Rob hit with the van .” Andy frowned. “Fed to the boar…and then that boar is consumed at the Feast. Jesus. That means…”

  “Yes, Andy. The offering is consumed three times. Eaten by the boar. Eaten by the Fellowship. And the soul is consumed by Andraste.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  “So what made Freeland realise that the ritual has the opposite effect?”

  In answer to Andy’s question Phil lifted a small padded envelope. He lifted the unsealed flap and removed a small black notebook.

  “Careful,” he said as he handed it to Andy. “It’s over two hundred years old and it hasn’t fared well. But it did its job.”

  Andy held the small book gingerly. The leather was faded and heavily creased. It smelled of dampness and rot. He turned the cover gently, wincing at the sound of splitting leather and crumbling binding.

  The pages were yellow and stained almost sepia in parts, which made it even harder to decipher the spidery handwriting in faded black ink. He could just about make out the cover on the flyleaf. His breath left his lungs as quickly as if he’d punched in the gut.

  “Charles Harvey.”

  Phil nodded grimly. “Wilkins told you, then. Charles Harvey, Elizabeth Woodcock, the Divine Judgement…and you.”

  “Hold on.” Andy handed the diary back to him. Phil glanced at it but made no attempt to take it from him. “That vicar had no proof Woodcock had a kid from Harvey that moved to Wallingford. And even if he did…it’s no proof that I’m related to her. To him.”

  “The Green Man is proof enough, surely.”

  “Come off it,” Andy snapped, holding the book further out to Phil. “You’re a historian. You of all people should know the importance of hard, documented evidence. A piece of moon rock in Rob’s van that looks like the thing nutcase Franklin calls The Elder…what does that prove?”

  “Think about it this way, Andy. The Fellows of All Souls are forbidden to have children, a condition of the covenant between them and Andraste. Freeland thinks it is forbidden because children of the Fellowship have a power that Andraste is scared of - a power they’re not even aware they possess. It’s a dark power, though - and it can destroy them, just as much as it can be used against her. Jason Franklin’s madness is proof of that…and so is what you are capable of.” And what you’ve done, his eyes added.

  Andy took a stiff breath. Phil continued, unafraid.

  “Whatever power passed on to the child of Harvey and Woodcock, it didn’t die with them. It passed along that child’s descendants, waiting for the one who would return it to Cambridge.

  “Who knows, Andy? Fifteen years ago you might have done it…but the Green Man wasn’t ready for you. Where it was at this time - and how it finally ended in Wallingford - is anyone’s guess. But your…darkness got the better of you. I think the followers of Andraste were greatly relieved that you were out of the picture.”

  Andy’s head was spinning. Too much, can’t take all this in…he dropped the diary onto the gap between them.

  “Jason is the son of the head porter though - and Franklin isn’t a Fellow.”

  “No. Jason is the son of the Master, David Searles. Looks like Franklin pretended to adopt him, and would have made sure he was offered to Andraste when the time was right. Which should have been last year…but it seems Searles wasn’t having any of it.”

  “They offered Geoff Michaels instead. And I guess Andraste isn’t happy, is she?”

  “More than that, Andy. She’s frightened. Think about it. The only two children of the Fellowship are here in Cambridge at the time she feels strong enough to return. One she could cope with - but two?”

  Andy shook his head. “I’m not buying this. It’s bloody crazy. How come you’re so convinced?”

  Phil spoke quietly. “Because I’ve read the diary.”

  They heard footsteps coming from the hallway. The door was pushed open slowly and both men looked up.

  Rob looked the worse for wear, Andy thought. The eyes were bloodshot and he was swaying on his feet. He hadn’t had much sleep either, but…Andy narrowed his eyes at the smell of dope breathed into the room.

  “Chaps. I gotta go now, some of us have work.” He hiccupped.

  “You’re joking,” Andy said flatly. “Work, now?”

  Rob raised a hand. “No lectures, Andy. I know I’m not at my best -‘

  “I’m not talking about that!” Andy roared. “People are dying here, we have proof - ‘

  “Spare it, Andy!” Rob looked angry now. “I’ve had it with this bullshit. You’ve all lost your fucking marbles. ‘Specially you, Phil. Listening to mentalists like Freeland and Franklin rather than your missus.’

  Andy reached over the coffee table and picked up the photo of Geoff Michaels. “You think that’s the product of a mentalist, do you?”

  Rob didn’t take his eyes off Phil as he replied.

  “Matter of fact, yeah. Amazing what you can do with Photoshop these days.”<
br />
  “For God’s sake, man!” The picture crumpled in Andy’s clenched fist and Phil put his head in his hands.

  “Get a grip, the pair of you! Freeland knocked those snaps up, pasted Geoff’s face on it to make it all look real. And you’ve bought into it. You’re going to look a right pair of twats when you go to the police with this.”

  Andy didn’t reply. His burning eyes narrowed, searching Rob’s. Rob held his glare, looked back angrily. And then Andy saw it.

  “You don’t want to believe, do you? Don’t want to face the fact that your mate’s dead…that Emma went the same way.”

  “Emma is not dead! She’s got a mug on with me and ain’t answering her phone…that’s all!”

  “Well, if that isn’t denial I don’t know what is”. Andy glared. His burning glare followed Rob as he waited at the front door for Jasper. A thumping of paws on carpet followed with an excited yap, then the door closing. Andy sighed when he heard the Transit’s engine start up. He shook his head and picked up the diary.

  “Does this have all the answers, then?”

  “I wish it did. But it does clear up certain things. What happened to Harvey, how The Elder showed him the way…and what he knew he had to do.”

  “Hang on. Harvey was killed in the fire that was caused by the meteor strike, yes?”

  Phil shook his head. “There’s more to it than that, Andy. Harvey wasn’t killed by the black rock’s fire. The Fellows offered him to Andraste, they tore him to pieces. But…he tried to kill himself before that.”

  “Now you’ve lost me. Say that again?”

  “Just as the ritual, the song, brings Andraste closer to us and…feeds her, so another sacrifice will vanquish her. A self-sacrifice, just as the ancient priesthood enacted when Andraste was first known on this world. Jason Franklin drew a picture of it. That’s why Harvey tried to immolate himself - and why Andraste is still here. The Fellows of All Souls stopped him in time.”

  Andy pondered this. Of course, the vicar had told him this last night but it sounded just as crazy coming from Phil’s lips. The far from level-headed history lecturer, prone to getting carried away with his own enthusiasm for the past…he could see why Rob Benson wasn’t convinced.

  And I can’t say I’m convinced either. The killings, yes, I’ll accept that - even Pearce suspected this. But this bloodline thing, this connection to a college Master…no, that’s bollocks.

  Phil smiled grimly. “Just read the diary. Harvey’s own words. Then tell me what you think.”

  Andy noticed the small business card tucked into the back of the book like a marker. An address of an organic farm, supplying exotic meats, specialising in wild boar…he grimaced as he held it up to Phil.

  “Did you check this out in the end? Find out it was all bollocks?”

  Phil nodded.

  “We know where they get their boar meat from now, don’t we? Explains why they close off the West Gate entrance for the winter. Bet Roberto didn’t think of that.”

  * * * * *

  As Rob pulled away he frowned at the Toyota parked in front of Kelly’s Rover. It looked familiar, somehow. He peered over the steering wheel, trying to see if there was anyone inside. Probably was, there was a hell of a lot of condensation inside.

  Ah, fuck it. I’ll be seeing ghosts next…he turned on the radio as he waited in the queue of traffic on the Elizabeth Way roundabout. He occasionally glanced at the Green Man, all too aware of the strange glances it was getting from oncoming motorists. He wound down the window and tossed the butt of a cigarette out, then promptly lit a fresh one. He coughed, hawked and spat something green onto the road.

  A weather report on the radio. More heavy snow forecast tonight, possibly two or three inches. Then clear skies and sunshine. It would freeze again. The bookies had slashed the odds against having a white Christmas, but with all the accidents - including the horrific A14 snarl up yesterday - it seemed that people had had enough of the festive winter wonderland and were almost hoping for good old-fashioned British rain.

  “Never happy, are we shitbag?”

  Jasper yawned.

  Rob tried to keep his mind blank as he got closer to the warehouse. All that “evidence”: the photos, the meetings with two mentally ill people…Christ, how could Phil be taken in by it all?

  What about the boar, Rob? That wasn’t make-believe, was it?

  He shrugged his shoulders. Simple explanation, some student prank. The carcass stolen from the kitchen and put it in his van when he was trying it on with Emma.

  You know that’s bollocks. All the students went home. And what about that dent in the van? That wasn’t a human being you hit, it was one of the things in the wood - the same thing that attacked Andy!

  “Bollocks. Pure and simple. Too much weed and absinthe. Nothing more.” He closed his eyes and repeated the words over and over again. But with eyes closed darkness had him. And then he could see the black woods of the college and the creatures that chased his vehicle…the one that came charging towards him…the explosion of flesh and blood as it bounced over the bonnet.

  He opened his eyes and repeated his mantra.

  He checked his watch as he pulled alongside the closed door of Granta Office Supplies. Eight o’clock - normally open by now, but perhaps it was too cold for Jim.

  He shivered as he shut the engine down. He looked warily at Jasper. Then at the Green Man. In the side mirror he could see a face appear in the upstairs window. A face that frowned and disappeared.

  “Harrison…don’t give me any grief today, sunshine. I ain’t in the mood. C’mon, boy.”

  He dragged open the sliding door and beckoned for Jasper to enter. Jasper sniffed at the doorway and whined; he sat down and looked beseechingly at Rob.

  “C’mon, shitbag. Get in there.”

  Jasper followed Rob in slowly, unwillingly. He waited by the door, as though ready to make a swift getaway. He sat with his tail beating feebly, disturbing the fine layer of black ash that coated the grey concrete slab of the warehouse floor. It eddied and whirled like dust clouds, and Rob could see now why Jim had kept the warehouse door shut. He turned and dragged the exterior door closed again.

  At the far end of the warehouse, Higgins and Harrison stood, staring at him.

  “Morning, gents,” Rob nodded. “No Jim today?”

  Harrison was trying, not very successfully, to hide his smirk. Higgins at least had the grace to look uncomfortable.

  “He’s upstairs. I asked him to leave us, so that we could have a word in private.”

  Rob noticed a small brown envelope in his hand. “What’s that, Christmas card?”

  “It’s a card of a sort, Benson,” Terry Harrison’s grin was wider. “It’s your card, and it’s been marked.”

  “Fuckin’ what?” Rob roared. “You sacking me? Why?”

  “A formal complaint from the college of All Souls - from the Bursar, no less. Didn’t like your attitude when you delivered the toner.”

  “Bursar? I didn’t deliver that, And - ‘ oh, fuck. What did you do, Andy?

  “And what? As if that wasn’t enough the desk delivered to the Master was broken - damaged in transit? Rubbish. I know deliberate damage when I see it.” Higgins’ cheeks were red. “I had to go out personally to help Terry pick it up. Then eat humble pie and promise the Master we’d get it replaced before the new term.”

  Rob was no longer listening. His eyes were fixed on the black ash on the floor. It was darker, no longer a powdery grey. It was a thick, almost viscous black - and it was moving.

  “You’ve had enough warnings, Benson,” Harrison said smugly. “I said that if you -‘

  Now he was aware of the black ash. All three men watched the streams of coarse powder flowing into the centre of the warehouse. From behind the returns cages, from underneath Jim Maskell’s desk, from the charging generator of the forklift truck…the black ash was flowing rapidly into the area where the three men stood. Almost liquid in its movements, a black sea tha
t was taking shape.

  Harrison’s rage diminished, fading into confusion as the ash flowed over his Oxfords. He yelped as though a snake had crawled over him and jumped backwards, banging his elbow on one of the returns cages. Rob stepped backwards and glanced briefly at Higgins. Higgins met his eyes and a look of fearful understanding passed between them. Because like Rob, he knew where this ash had come from.

  It blew upwards, into the air, into their faces, swirling like a miniature desert storm. Rob coughed, feeling nauseous at the taste of cremated pork.

  He felt even more nauseous as the cloud of ash settled: the particles less animated as they formed a shape in the air. Like one of those “invisible man” films he remembered watching as a kid, where dust or sand is blown across an unseen intruder to give him a definite outline, the ash cloud formed the image of a pig-like creature, a sculpture made entirely of black sand. And then, as though the force behind it was intent on making its creation as realistic as possible, textures were added. Hollows and lighter patches, concave sections: a perfect three dimensional sculpture. Then the ash settled further, became darker, more dense. Rob blinked, and in that split second the ash was indistinguishable from the black bristles that raced along the animal’s spine.

  A few seconds passed, the only sound the terrified barking of Jasper, and then the ash was gone. Every part of the thing was now coated in glossy, thick fur that bristled as it took its first deep, shuddering breaths of air.

  Black fur parted on two equidistant points on the beast’s head, and Rob Benson found himself facing again those terrible black eyes of the boar he had run into in the woods of All Souls the night before.

  * * * * *

  “Hello? Pearce…wondered when you’d call.” He looked at Phil meaningfully, and stood up. He wanted this conversation alone.

  Walking through the hallway to the kitchen, the mobile clamped to his ear, he pulled open the kitchen door and stood out in the garden. Blood red sunlight reflected off the snowman that Nick had made at some stage.

  “Yes, I know where Geoff Michaels is. He’s where you suspected he is - or rather, his body is.”