Skendleby

by Nick Brown

  “So we have prima facie evidence of a suicide in the Middle Ages which names your site. Also archives of the old Macclesfield Gazette record a disproportionate number of suicides in the vicinity, for instance in 1922 a local JP who was an amateur local historian and archaeologist hanged himself in virtually the same place and for no apparent reason and there’s plenty of others.

  “In all the records I have not found one shred of evidence of habitation or life but plenty about death about which there is a great deal more in the report. Odd for a deserted spot, don’t you think?”

  The silence which followed the presentation of the documentary evidence was broken by the entrance of Sophie, the Unit’s secretary, with a tray of coffee. Giles noticed the streak of white in Steve’s hair was spreading; it wasn’t dust, the hair had lost its colour overnight.

  Steve led the next stage of the review and Giles, who knew most of it, let his attention wander. Suddenly, irritated, Steve paused pushed his grimy fingers through his rapidly whitening hair and snapped at Giles,

  “Perhaps you might try and listen to this bit: I’ll keep it short to match your attention span.”

  Giles thought it best to let this go and Steve continued.

  “Neolithic cairns take ages to make, fact! They’re in use for centuries, fact! They are in high visible positions in the centres of population, fact! Well this one was thrown up in one season using a ragtag of materials and techniques in an area where no one lived. It was used once in a way that no other ever was and then it was hidden. Short enough for you, Giles?”

  Giles said nothing, just let him carry on.

  “And get this: these features are usually orientated so they face the rising sun at midsummer yeah? Well, ours is orientated at the setting sun at the winter solstice. This was special magic. Think of this too: our Iron Age tribe is so frightened when they find it they carry out some of their own propitiation rites then they re-bury it and move. I think they move to Lindow Moss because contemporary with this are the sacrificial bodies we found there. In other words they had to keep on sacrificing because something still scared them shitless.”

  Giles had heard enough.

  “Steve, get on with it and stick to the facts you seem so keen on.”

  Steve started to react then controlled himself and continued in a more measured tone.

  “Fine, I hope this is factual enough for you. These features are traditionally associated with ritual, but it’s as if this one deliberately seeks to pervert the ritual. It’s got nothing to do with any idea of rebirth. This isn’t about dying, it’s about being kept dead.”

  Tim Thompson, who’d never been on site, unlike Giles, was enjoying this and chipped in,

  “Just like an M. R. James ghost story like ‘Oh whistle and I’ll come to you my lad’– spooky, spooky.”

  “You wouldn’t joke if you’d been there yesterday.”

  Giles could see Steve was angry, his face drawn and white.

  “See how funny you find what they found today. When the team from the university went in to record the interior they realised the body had been weighed down by two massive stones placed on its chest. Now why would they have done that?”

  “To keep it locked in there” Giles replied quietly.

  “Got it in one; to make sure whoever it was they buried stayed that way. We know whoever was put in was already dead or about to be killed, but they still feared her resurrection. I know this is unscientific but I could sense that fear when we excavated the chamber, we all could.”

  Giles put his hand on Steve’s shoulder, an unexpectedly sympathetic gesture.

  “Take it easy, Steve, getting so tightly wired isn’t going to help.”

  Steve shook the hand off but calmed down enough to light cigarettes for him and Giles, took a couple of deep drags and continued.

  “I’m OK now but listen, I have seen something similar to this but not in this country. Whilst finishing my doctorate I was working on sites in Cyprus and Crete. I worked with Le Brun and the French team on the Neolithic settlement of Khirokitia. It was a large village settlement of stone built houses on a hill, far larger than anything here but also much, much earlier, the village started off in about 7000 BC. They buried their dead in pits either outside the huts or often under the floor of the huts, their idea of keeping it in the family I guess.

  “But in some of these graves the bodies had a large stone quern which had been deliberately broken placed across the chest before the grave was filled in. Le Brun reckoned this was to prevent the dead from returning to the world of the living. Some of the Cypriot archaeologists were scared enough to wear charms to ward off evil. I’ve still got one; I think I’ll try and find it. But that site didn’t feel anything like this one does and I should know, I contributed to one of the published papers on the site, Fouilles Recentes a Khirokitia, 2001. You can look it up if you like.”

  “Yeah, I think you may have mentioned that once or twice.”

  Giles managed not to smirk.

  “So we have a unique archaeological feature which its builders went to extreme lengths to keep hidden. Maybe it’d be better if we hadn’t found it.”

  “Yes, but we have found it.”

  Steve ignored him and continued.

  “Have you seen my hair, it’s bloody well turning white, you can see it happening and look what happened to Rose. She went on and on about excavating and once we begin she gets attacked, like her usefulness is ended.”

  “Come on Steve, she slipped.”

  “Have you seen her recently, Giles, bothered to visit? Can you explain those injuries? She’s off her head raving about not daring to close her eyes for fear of what she’ll see when she opens them.”

  Giles didn’t want to think about it so didn’t reply, leaving Steve to continue.

  “I can analyse the evidence but I don’t really want anything more to do with the site until I’ve had some decent sleep and got myself back together; we’ve been overdoing it.”

  “Steve, look at it rationally; there was a freak storm, some hysterical behaviour and you got some dust in your eyes. Yeah, we’re dealing with a ritual feature and the people who built it were obviously frightened by it. But it’s easily the most exciting find of the decade, and we don’t want anyone else getting the credit for it. So we can put up with a few unusual happenings until we’re done. You’ll feel better tomorrow so let’s go to the post grad club for a few pints and plan finishing it off. Once you and Jan excavate that ritual pit we can close down the site and spend the rest of the winter writing up one of the most important excavation reports of the century.”

  Giles bought drinks but couldn’t stay as he had a preliminary planning permission meeting regarding the use of the site post excavation. So, having calmed Steve down and persuaded him to excavate the pit, he headed for the council offices.

  The meeting started badly when he realised Councillor Richardson was in the chair, and got worse as he had to sit through a flashy presentation on the benefits of developing the site by two highly paid consultants from an advertising agency. Giles watched as Richardson skilfully asked them a series of questions purporting to dispute some of the ad-men’s claims but actually giving them an excellent opportunity to provide further proof of the scheme’s benefits.

  He was then given only five minutes to present the case for preserving the archaeological evidence before Richardson questioned him.

  “So, Dr Glover, you’re telling us that all the economic and social benefits, not to mention jobs, in a time of recession are outweighed by a small pit with some bones in it? I wouldn’t try saying that to a bloke who’s been out of work for years if I were you.”

  The other members of the panel were still laughing at this when Giles replied weakly,

  “That’s not what I’m saying. What I am informing the committee, Chair, is that there is much about this feature we don’t yet understand.”

  Richardson sniggered,

  “So you want to prevent essen
tial social and economic regeneration to preserve something that you don’t know about. Listen we’ve heard an excellent and detailed proposal of the undoubted benefits of this private capital scheme. You’re opposing it on the grounds that you don’t know what you’re talking about. Well, that’s why we’re so happy to pay the high taxes that subsidise your department.”

  This produced another laugh round the table as intended and Giles realised there was no point in losing his temper so said as calmly as he could,

  “That is not a fair representation of what I was saying.”

  Richardson cut him off.

  “Talking about what’s fair now, are you? Tell us what’s fair about all the trouble your dig’s caused. You should see the complaints we get, what’s fair for the people who need work and homes? What’s fair for Mr Carver, whose land you’re sitting on and who is prepared to invest good money in the public interest?”

  Giles realised the questions were rhetorical; he’d be given no chance to answer and this was confirmed as Richardson announced there would be a five minute comfort break followed by the next agenda item. Giles picked up his bag and left but Richardson caught him up in the corridor.

  “Hey, you remember who pays your salary. Because if you get in my way again I’ll make sure you don’t have one. I told you in the restaurant there’s winners and there’s losers. The winners have the power and the money and the losers like you - archaeologists and the rest of the work-shy public sector, well they’re the past. And you can’t afford enemies like me, especially with your record, understand?”

  Richardson said this with a contemptuous smile on his face. Giles felt himself blushing with embarrassment, he wanted to wipe the cocky grin off his face but he’d been intimidated and humiliated so he just nodded and slunk away. He was leaving the building ashamed and furious when his mobile rang but it wasn’t Claire like he’d hoped, it was Jim.

  “Giles I saw something at the site last night, something bad is happening, I need to talk to you.”

  CHAPTER 14

  THE SHADOW FROM THE PAST

  After the final shriek of hate and terror screamed from the speakers Claire sat paralysed in mortal dread. She wanted to get out of the room and not come back, but she couldn’t and anyway it would follow her.

  So, heart pounding, she forced herself to stay in the room until she was controlled enough to lean forward and press play. Familiarity didn’t make it easier; it was worse even though this time she anticipated the increase in vehemence and the terrifying end. It was a curse but how had this foul, long dead, entity escaped onto the disc?

  Her house, painstakingly created as a haven of spiritual healing, was violated and abused. She couldn’t deal with this alone. There was only one person she could turn to in this crisis: she needed Gwen. She thought briefly of Giles sleeping upstairs; he wouldn’t wake for several hours. She checked her watch and was surprised it was nearly four in the morning. She’d sat down to listen to the recording before midnight, where had the time gone? Leaving a note for Giles, she slipped the disc into her pocket and silently left the house.

  Just after five she reached Oswestry without realising how she’d got there. It was far too early and she was mentally dislocated, so turned the car onto the forecourt of an all night truckers’ café. Outside there was ground frost and she shivered as she stumbled towards the entrance.

  The place was empty except for an unshaven man in a dirty leather jacket dozing in the corner. She sat for an hour as her tea grew tepid and her life unravelled.

  She thought she’d managed to submerge or lose her psychic awareness or ‘the gift’ as her mother had called it. But the disc had brought it all back in a rush of shock and fear. The last ten years she’d devoted her life to trying to establish a spiritual peace and calm and share it with others. Now something was reaching for her, something far worse than the restless dead that blighted her youth.

  As a child she had been what Gwen and her friends termed a ‘sensitive’. Her only awareness of this had been a series of terrifying dreams, or would have been dreams if they’d occurred when she was asleep. But they didn’t, they happened at any time of the day prefaced by a feeling of dread, a clamminess of the skin and a sick headache.

  These experiences led to bizarre behaviour ranging from self harm and attacks on others to bouts of solitary weeping. Her mother referred her to a series of doctors and specialists who diagnosed a range of ailments covering the spectrum from brain tumour and epilepsy to pathological disorder resulting from the early disappearance of her father. Nothing worked and as Claire grew older the more disturbed she became. By her teens she’d been expelled from three schools for a variety of offences ranging from aggressive sexual behaviour and bullying to threatening her teachers, most of whom regarded her with fear and loathing. At sixteen she was beyond all control and, although academically bright and, during her quieter periods, capable of being charming and generous, was regarded as a threat to herself and everyone else.

  But before the authorities organised themselves sufficiently to section her she absconded from the temporary care home and disappeared. The eighteen months that followed were the darkest Claire experienced. Life on the streets of London led to petty crime, abortion and being run by an abusive pimp and only ended when her volatility and capacity for violence proved too much even for her clients. She joined a caravan of New Age travellers and anarchists but her concept of freedom was too extreme even for them and, during a free festival on the Welsh borders, they dumped her and fled. It was there, crouched in the entrance of an alternative lifestyle tent, drugged and feral, that Gwen found her.

  The years that followed she scarcely remembered, but gradually she calmed down and the appearances began to diminish. She started to regain some control as the cocktail of therapies, natural medicines and spiritual techniques that Gwen used to counter her disturbances took effect. By the age of twenty one she was part of the loose association of psychic healers that composed Gwen’s collective, and one who was understood to have particular skills. However, Claire was reluctant to push these skills too far, for her the main purpose of the process was to keep calm. This worked. Over the years she succeeded in building up a circle of clients and a strong reputation in the psychic healing community. Now this finger from Hell had tracked her down, the horror had returned. Here she was once more; panicked, lost and on the run.

  This time, however, she had someone to go to. She fastened her raincoat against the cold wind and left the sterile yet somehow comforting shelter of the cafe. After having lost herself in the one way system of Shrewsbury town centre she reached the house tucked away in a maze of old streets by the fallen church of St Chad’s.

  Gwen seemed strangely unsurprised by her turning up unexpectedly and ushered her inside. She inhaled the familiar slight smell of cat pee that always seemed to linger in the house. Gwen led her through to the kitchen, took her coat, made her sit down. She sat on a pine chair in the Victorian kitchen and watched Gwen as she made the tea. Gwen looked just the same, dressed in a charity shop man’s black suit with a white open necked shirt and Dr Martin’s boots. Claire had never known how old she was but people reckoned that it must be near seventy. Tall and bulky with short cut grey hair; everything about her appearance was belied by the sound of her voice, which was delicate and refined. Gwen brought the tea to the table, rolled up and lit a herbal cigarette.

  “So it’s back then?”

  Claire choked out a few words then, fumbling about in her pocket, produced the disc and passed it across.

  “Somethings terrible is loose; its essence is on this disc, it’s hunted me down – listen to it.”

  “Finish your tea, dear, then we’ll listen together. Two heads are better than one.”

  They sat in an uneasy silence and listened as the chilling voice began to reach out into the four corners of the room. Gwen hit the off button.

  “No, I can’t listen to this, but I know someone who might.”

 
She took it out of the machine, put it in its box and then into a drawer, which she locked.

  “No real need to lock it in, the disc itself is neuter, but the message is dangerous. You look dead beat and need to sleep but first you’d better tell me everything that’s happened so we can work out what to do.”

  Haltingly at first and then with growing fluency, Claire related the story of the dig and Giles. Being able to talk to someone who wouldn’t react with scepticism or incredulity was a relief. Beginning with the burial dream she explained how, on first meeting Giles, she knew he was the unwitting agent of the entity inside the mound and that his life was linked with hers. She found it difficult describing the opening of the chamber and the paralysing stab of terror she felt when Lisa directed that foul gaze, full of hate and recognition, at her. More difficult to explain how Lisa’s eyes formed her mental image of the thing on the disc. Then, when she’d finished, she felt tears welling up and cried for the first time in years at the relief of no longer being alone with this burden.

  She hardly resisted as Gwen led her upstairs and ushered her into the well remembered bedroom where the rehabilitation of her youth had begun. Gwen helped her undress and get into bed and stroked her head as she drifted to sleep. A sleep resulting partly from nervous exhaustion and partly from Gwen’s knowledge of the herbal remedies that Claire had, hours earlier, applied to Giles.

  Leaving the door open Gwen went downstairs to think. When Claire had appeared damaged and wasted at the entrance of her healing tent so many years ago, Gwen knew it wasn’t chance. Although not possessed of Claire’s gift, she was highly perceptive and sensed the thinness of the curtain separating the material world from the one that could only be intuited.

  She’d taken Claire in and tended and loved the unlovable and vicious being until, bit by bit, the gifted, caring and beautiful young woman beneath the surface was slowly excavated. Partly because her own youth, which had fluctuated between Crowleyesque sexual magic and Gardnerian witchcraft, could have gone the same way, but mainly because something deep inside told her it was predestined that she find the girl. After sitting and thinking she began to make phone calls.