by Neil Spring
I tried to ignore the thick scent of musk which permeated the gloomy little post office and gave her what I hoped was my best smile.
‘I want to ask him about the articles he’s been writing,’ I said cheerfully, ‘about what happened at the primary school. Official business.’
The sluggish blue lips parted and her weighty gaze dropped to my stained shirt and creased suit. ‘Funny sort of official business, if you ask me. Been some trouble?’
She already knows what’s happened, I thought. She just doesn’t trust me.
I noticed something else. She was wearing a small golden lapel pin with a wheel and the word ROTARY, which struck me as a little peculiar because she didn’t seem at all the sort of woman who would donate her time to support good causes in the community.
‘We’ve had quite enough trouble in these parts lately,’ she continued, tilting her pillow face to one side. What with that Jackson couple, poor sods! Shouldn’t be a wonder if they never find out who’s behind it,’ she muttered. ‘Truth is, they just don’t know. And with all these Yanks round the place, we don’t know either. Bloody Americans! Overpaid, oversexed . . . and over here.’
I hadn’t noticed any Americans. Had barely seen a soul, not on the wide stretch of beach nor outside the short strip of shops on the seafront. It was as if the entire village was asleep. But I did remember the Jackson case. The murder of the English holidaying couple was one of the last things Selina had mentioned: The police are going to re-interview the locals. If I get the new job you’ll have to stay close to this one.
‘Perhaps I could use your phone?’ I said, thinking about the journalist I needed to meet.
The postmistress, looking sour, shook her head. ‘The lines are down. Being so far west out here, we get the worst of the weather that blows in off the Atlantic. Ninety-mile-an-hour winds sometimes.’ After a moment’s thought she added, ‘With all the so-called communications experts we have around here you’d think they’d have found a solution that works by now!’
‘Experts?’
Her eyes fell shrewdly upon me as she pursed those horrible lips. Even though she didn’t trust me she obviously couldn’t resist telling me her opinion on the matter. ‘You know, from the base – Brawdy, I mean, across the bay. Those Americans.’
‘What do you suppose they’re doing across there?’
She raised her head into the yellow light, face hardening. ‘Scientists, I suppose. They stay here in the Havens from time to time. Up there.’ She had turned her head towards the window and was staring at the Haven Hotel at the top of Skyview Hill. ‘God knows why! Place hasn’t seen a decent run of guests in years, and no wonder! Dusty beer bottles, threadbare curtains. And you know what? Nothing’s felt right in this village since that bitch’s family moved here.’
‘Araceli Romero?’ I asked, surprised.
‘You know her?’ The woman’s eyebrows pulled up.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I grew up around here.’ It was the truth, but somehow it felt like a lie.
‘Ah, well no harm telling you then. She’s cut from the same cloth as her mother, if you ask me,’ the woman said. ‘There’s a reason they buried the old cow in the corner of the churchyard with a skull on the gravestone. She was a recluse – odd woman – that’s all I’m saying. And her daughter’s the same.’
‘Araceli?’
The woman nodded. ‘Never comes down from up there, never mixes with the village.’
‘Do the villagers ever go up there?’ I asked. I vaguely remembered Araceli’s mother; as children we were convinced she was a witch.
‘People aren’t welcome up there, that’s the point. If they are –’ she added matter-of-factly – ‘they’re the wrong sort of people.’
‘Right, well anyway . . . ’ I responded politely, ‘if you could tell me where I could find Frank Frobisher?’
‘Probably still sniffing around that school, I shouldn’t wonder.’ Pushing up a hinged section in the shop counter, she heaved past me and stopped in front of a grimy window. She pointed into the gloom. ‘Come out of here, pass the Ram Inn, up the hill over to Broad Haven. School’s on your right. You won’t miss it.’
Of course I already knew how to find the school, and I thought it highly unlikely that Frank would be there.
‘Thanks.’
I was about to be on my way when something she said earlier surfaced and snagged at my curiosity. ‘You said another visitor asked about Frobisher. Who?’
‘Some fella, middle-aged. Some sort of psychologist; said he was down here doing research for some book. Looked like a wanderer to me.’ She shook her head disapprovingly and the shop counter slammed in a puff of dust. ‘Another stranger. Like you.’
‘You’re sure you can’t recall his name?’
‘Dr something . . .’ After a long moment she nodded her head in the affirmative. ‘Yes, that was it. Dr Caxton.’
*
A gust of wind swept the surface of St Brides Bay. There was nothing I would have liked more than the warm indoors, but I was curious to see the school as soon as possible.
Keeping my head low and squinting into the drizzle, I made my way along the narrow road to the school gates, still wondering what I would say to my grandfather if I happened to bump into him. The playground was deserted, and beneath a red and rusting climbing frame crumpled leaves swirled. Notwithstanding the depressing weather, I couldn’t help but think that the kids who went to school here were pretty damn lucky. So much open space! I had been lucky too, though this hadn’t been my school; by the time I was living at Ravenstone Farm, I was walking two miles each day to catch the bus to Haverfordwest. I felt a sad smile on my lips, scanned my surroundings in quiet appreciation: the small sports field flanking the tarmacked recreational area, the folds of land beyond, breaking into crests of fields.
‘Yes? Can I help you?’
The grey-haired woman emerging from the main school building had her arms folded defensively across her chest.
Why is everyone here so guarded?
I strode over to her and said cheerfully, ‘Robert Wilding. Hello.’ The chances of catching Frobisher here were slim, so I asked for the headmaster instead.
I don’t know what I was expecting – words of welcome, a smile, a handshake at least – but at first she said nothing, merely looking me up and down through her spectacles.
‘Wilding?’ she asked pointedly.
‘Yes, from the office of Paul Bestford, MP.’ I gave her a reassuring smile.
She met it with a disdainful look, as if amazed that someone my age could be working in the House of Commons. Then she nodded and said, ‘Come with me.’
Already feeling deeply unwelcome, I followed her down a bright corridor lined with wooden benches and pegs for hanging coats, passing the assembly hall and heading towards a door plastered with children’s paintings.
From the instant I entered the classroom, with its scratched desks spotted with ink and its diminutive ladder-back chairs, I felt like Gulliver in Lilliput.
‘Where are the children?’ I asked.
‘School’s closed today on account of the storm. I’m Delyth Cale, classroom assistant. Wait here, please.’
She disappeared for a minute and returned with an older gentleman who looked every bit the headmaster. A tall man with a narrow studious face. ‘Howell Cooper, hello.’
His handshake was firm, too firm. And although he greeted me with a confident smile, I did not feel the same confidence when I looked through his horn-rimmed spectacles and into his eyes. They were hard eyes, scheming and quick. I think it was those eyes that prevented me explaining my childhood connection to the area. Remembering why I’d come to the school in the first place, I explained my interest in recent events.
I thought of telling him that I’d quit Parliament – remembering how many of the locals didn’t see eye to eye wit
h Bestford – but I didn’t think Cooper looked the sort of headmaster who would take kindly to a stranger admitting to calling at his school under false pretences. ‘I’d be glad to know the details of the sighting and to help – if I can.’
‘Help?’ Cooper let the word hang between us as he reached into an open drawer and withdrew a half-empty packet of cigarettes. He gestured at me to sit with him at the imposing desk at the top of the classroom. With the scratch of a match, his cigarette was glowing and he was inhaling deeply.
‘Do you know,’ he said eventually, ‘how long I have worked in this school?’
His dark moustache and side-parted grey hair made him difficult to age. Seeing my hesitation, he said, ‘Thirty-two years, Mr Wilding. I must have been near your own age when I became a teacher.’ Those hard eyes swivelled over my shoulder. ‘And in all that time I thought I’d seen it all, heard it all, learned the ways of children.’
He shook his head and straightened against the back of his chair. ‘Well, I’ll tell you this: I’ve learned enough. Enough to know when a child is lying.’
His gaze fastened on me, and with unmistakable solemnity, he said, ‘Mr Wilding, I hope you have an open mind.’
– 15 –
Broad Haven Primary School, Marine Lane, 2 p.m.
The story was as remarkable and unusual as any I had encountered. Cooper had been in his study preparing a letter concerning the forthcoming parents’ evening. From the playground he heard familiar sounds: squeals and laughter and playful taunts. The thump of a booted football, the rhythmic thwack of a skipping rope. Then, nothing. He knew most of the school was on a trip to the local caves, but even so thirteen kids can make a lot of noise. And now there was none. He hadn’t heard the bell ring. Why were the children suddenly so quiet? He checked his watch – there were still ten minutes of lunch break remaining.
Rising from his desk, he went to the window, peering out into the drizzle. And felt panic surge through him.
‘It’s like all your worst nightmares coming true at once,’ he told me. ‘I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.’
The playground was empty.
‘You didn’t imagine the kids had come inside to play?’
‘I would have heard them! I stood here in my office staring out over the playground for perhaps ten seconds or more, before the door behind me burst open and in stumbled little Tessa, bawling her eyes out. “Sir, sir –” she was crying “– please, you must come and see. Now!”
‘I thought there had been an accident or something. I crouched down, over there by the door, gripped her shoulders and looked her straight in the eye and asked her what was wrong. But she just kept crying and pulling at my arm and begging me to go and see. Well, what else could I do?
‘She led me out around the back of the main school building, facing the hill, and that’s when I saw twelve of the boys, running towards me, hysterical. I held my hands up and told them to stop, to get in line. But they bolted right past me. I found them in the classroom, Mr Wilding. Cowering at their desks, crying.’
He hesitated then, frowned, and I saw I had a way to go before winning his trust.
‘Tell me the rest, sir. Discretion is my forte.’
After a few moments he nodded, rose and led me to the nearest window. ‘It seems one of the boys spotted something moving in the field up there near a telegraph pole.’ He was pointing to a gap in the hedge between the school and an adjoining field which rose steeply. ‘The boys had some difficuly getting nearer because of a stream on the other side. But they all claimed to have a good view of the . . . object.’
‘Why weren’t these kids on the school trip?’
‘Oh, various reasons,’ he said hastily. ‘Now when the children described the object, I couldn’t accept it. Wouldn’t accept it. So I separated each child and asked them to draw what they had seen.’
‘Very sensible,’ I said. ‘And the results varied hugely, I suppose?’
‘On the contrary.’ The headmaster’s eyes sharpened, and after a brief moment he reached for a large paper folder, opened it and drew out the pictures, presenting them in a line on the tops of a row of desks.
For a moment I could hardly believe what I was looking at. My surroundings – the classroom, the moan of the wind outside, even Mr Cooper – seemed to withdraw. Thirteen drawings. Each near identical.
‘Tell me, Mr Wilding,’ said the headmaster, ‘what does that look like to you?’
I studied every drawing, transfixed by their similarities. In every one something silver and cigar-shaped was resting on the ground. There were some variations, but in most of the pictures the object had a central dome with a light on top.
That the children had seen something I had little doubt, but what was it? I knew what it appeared to be but couldn’t accept that. There had to be a better explanation, a rational explanation, and if I was to find out what it was, I needed to see the landing site myself.
‘Do you think you can show me the place where they saw it?’ I asked the headmaster.
He looked momentarily startled then adopted a more composed expression. ‘Really, Mr Wilding, I hardly think now is a good time.’
‘Now’s the perfect time!’ I cut in, peering out into the wet weather. ‘If that craft left anything behind – tread marks, imprints, anything – it needs to be protected.’
But Mr Cooper was shaking his head. ‘We must keep this as quiet as we can, Mr Wilding. There’s been some concern over the potential threat to the public from these UFOs. Father O’Riorden has called a public meeting for tomorrow night. It’s not easy running a school at the best of times, but in the last few days we’ve been besieged by journalists, television crews. If you took this information back with you and news got out in London that . . . Well, it would be a circus and make my job impossible. No more, you understand!’
Memories flashed: Room 800 and the boxes of files deep beneath the Hotel Metropole, the speedboat powering its way towards Parliament, Selina in her hospital bed. I imagined her here now, what she’d say to me: You must find out what they saw.
‘This is bigger than you,’ I said to Mr Cooper. ‘Perhaps bigger than all of us.’
I said goodbye. As I strode across the playground Delyth Cale caught up with me, full of concern. ‘I really wish you hadn’t upset him; he’s struggling to hold things together. I worry about him. He’s been so distant these last few weeks. They make such demands on him.’
‘You mean the children?’
She looked bewildered at the question but nodded without any hesitation.
I stopped as we reached the end of the tarmac and looked her straight in the eye. ‘Where were you when it happened?’
I heard her take a deep sigh.
‘Were you in the playground? Did you see it?
An expectant silence opened between us and I saw undisclosed thoughts crowding her eyes. ‘Tell me, please.’
‘I know that spot well,’ she replied finally. I noticed that she didn’t look at the place in question directly, but rather flicked glances at it from the corners of her eyes. ‘I walk there frequently. There’s a sewage works up there . . .’
‘Then perhaps they saw a tanker or some other industrial vehicle?’
She just looked at me, raising her chin. I tried to decipher the expression on her face. Reluctance? No, more than that. She looked frightened. ‘You saw it, didn’t you?’ I asked.
‘You must understand that I have to live in this village,’ she said in a low, taut voice. ‘You can just walk away, while the rest of us suffer.’
‘Suffer? It’s not as bad as all that, surely?’
She glanced at the sky, then shot me a cold glare. ‘You’re not going to give up, are you?’ Finally she nodded and said quietly, ‘Very well. I was talking to one of the chefs in the kitchen and came out of the school by the side door, there.’ She pointed bac
k at the building. ‘I was facing the field, and I saw the children who hadn’t gone on the school trip huddled in a group, up at the top of the hill. Then something shiny caught my eye.’ She took a breath and I watched her eyes scan the field. Whatever she had seen, she was seeing it again now. ‘It was a large object, oval shaped, with a slight dome. The colour of metal. The whole thing was sharply defined. There were ridges on its surface.’ Her eyes were bulging now, and her head was shaking as if the gesture could deny this recollection. ‘It was just sitting there in the rain. And then it glided away, into the trees.’
‘That’s it?’ I pressed her.
She nodded quickly. But although she maintained eye contact I could see she was trying hard not to blink.
‘Were there any people around? Controlling it, or nearby? Please, whatever you tell me, I promise it will go no further.’
‘I saw something,’ she said reluctantly. ‘A strange figure with a blacked-out face. Dressed in silver.’
‘How long was it in view?’
‘Seconds. It appeared rather suddenly from behind the trees, then climbed into the machine through an opening in its side.’
I scanned the marshy little field, most of which was hidden by banks of fog.
‘Please, Mr Wilding, leave it. For all our sakes.’
A fence and a rapidly flowing stream would prevent me from accessing the field with ease, but I wasn’t about to let them stop me. I gave her once last glance, then climbed over the fence and peered into the wet gloom.
*
In five minutes I had made it to the top of the field and the telegraph pole next to which the children had seen the silver object appear.
I looked around the slope for any sign that something had been there, but there was nothing. No tracks, no prints of tyres. Directly behind me was a hedgerow, beyond which lay a narrow road. Mounting the stile in the hedge, I immediately saw the sewage works that Mrs Cale had mentioned. I crossed the road and headed towards them. There was no one about, so I rattled the gates until a man in overalls appeared.
