Skendleby

by Nick Brown

  “The place is the key; they travelled there for a purpose. It’s a place they kept away from, a place to hide things that frighten them. The rock slabs that weighed the body down weren’t only to keep her from coming back to life but also to prevent her from moving on to the spirit world. They put the tomb here because it was a place where no one would ever come and release her. This was an evil place long before the tomb was built.”

  “That’s pure crap, Giles. You can’t be certain of any of that, you can’t be certain that the villagers left immediately after finding the tomb, it could have been months or even a couple of years after. The evidence would equally support either hypothesis.”

  “Yeah, OK, it’s not possible to date it exactly but don’t you think it’s strange that this is also when the Lindow sacrifices started?”

  He didn’t want to talk about his certainty that the entity on the film was the face in his dreams and the voice on the disc.

  “You’re working too hard, Giles; you need to get out more. Listen, ancient history deals with sources full of references to the supernatural or religion; it was a catch-all for everything that couldn’t be understood. Come on, lighten up. I only showed you the film because I thought it would be an entertaining way to end the day.”

  He faltered, unconvinced by his own logic then continued in a softer tone.

  “It’s late, you go home, Giles, I’ll lock up; you look pretty well done in and I’m sure when we examine this in the morning there’ll be a rational explanation. I don’t think any mention of ghoulies or ghosties will cut much ice with our professional colleagues when we publish.”

  Giles grunted goodbye, collected his coat and left the Unit. In the quad he paused to phone Jim but before he had time to key in the number, the phone rang. This time the voice at the other end was Claire Vanarvi and he remembered why the face on the camera had seemed familiar. But this was replaced by a flood of relief at hearing her voice, the strength of which surprised him.

  “Giles, sorry to have run off and disappeared like that but I needed to check that disc out. I’ve given it to someone with more experience in these things, someone I think you need to meet.”

  “Fine, but where are you?”

  “On the way back from Shrewsbury. Can you meet me at the house later tonight? About eight thirty – I could fix us something to eat.”

  “Yeah, I’d love to. I’ve got to meet someone first but I can do that en route.”

  “Great, see you later, bye.”

  He phoned Jim who asked to meet him at The Hanging Man, explaining that he’d rather not have the conversation at home.

  When Giles arrived Jim was seated at a table in front of the fire talking to a group of red faced men in suits obviously stopping off on the way home from work. Seeing Giles, he got up and met him at the bar.

  “Thanks for coming, Giles, I’ll get you a pint and then we’ll go into the lounge, it’s quieter in there.”

  The lounge shift had obviously gone home as the room was empty. Jim carried in the drinks and they sat in the furthest corner like conspirators.

  “What’s up Jim?”

  “I’ve had a strange evening.”

  He paused then said brusquely,

  “Look, we’re not going to do a feature on the site. I’m sorry but it’s clear that someone doesn’t want us there. More to the point Lisa’s had a relapse; it must be due to what happened in the the chamber. Steve should never have let her in there on her own. Now she’s out of control. She disrupted Derek’s party prancing around like it was a pole dancing joint; she was drunk, barely wearing anything, and in the car when I dropped her off she did this to my bloody earlobe.”

  Giles had noticed the red puncture marks on Jim’s right ear and been idly wondering whether it was some mid life crisis induced attempt at ear piercing gone badly wrong.

  “I had some trouble explaining it at home although the kids seem to think it’s funny. Derek’s worried about her. The neighbours in her flat called the police out yesterday because of the noise and odd goings on. He thinks she’s had another breakdown but this time it’s manic rather than silent. Derek’s actually frightened of her; and he doesn’t scare easily. I’ve never known him like this. He even suggested that perhaps something’s got at her because of his plans to develop that land. Now he’s trying to get her to go and see that pleased-with-himself vicar again.”

  He stopped and finished his pint and looked so unlike his normal self that Giles felt moved enough to thread his way through the crowd to the bar to buy refills. He had to wait whilst all the regulars were served first, the barmaid using their first names, and began to think longingly of Claire Vanarvi’s house. On returning to the table Jim charged on with his story.

  “But what really decided me to pull out of this business is the practical joker who I ran into the other night after the party; almost gave me a heart attack. Something’s going on at that site. I don’t know if it’s some sort of protest over Derek and Carver’s plans or what but I don’t want anything more to do with it.

  “Look at the reports we’ve carried in the Journal these last days: random attacks, cut up animals, buildings broken into and defiled. I couldn’t sleep last night, all this was going round my head. Then I began to think about these attacks that the police can’t work out; not that they’re telling us half the story; they’ve even doubled up patrols for their own safety.”

  He picked up his glass and took a swallow and Giles saw his hand was shaking.

  “I wasn’t going to tell you this, Giles, but now I can’t stop myself; my chief crime reporter says if you plot these attacks on a map they stretch from the university to Skendleby. It’s true; I tried it last night, a trail of random vicious attacks linking the dig with the diggers. You’ve started something running and I don’t want anything more to do with it, I’ve got family.”

  Giles thought of the crime scene only a few yards from his front door. They drank up and left the pub; in the car park without really knowing why, Giles said,

  “There was some weird footage on Lisa’s camera.”

  “Well, if I was you I’d get rid of it Giles. Someone has an unhealthy interest in that site and it’s brought nothing but bad luck. Someone is warning us off and I don’t think it’s only Carver. Perhaps that mad woman of yours is part of it.”

  He paused for a moment then reached out his hand and gently held Giles by his left shoulder for a moment in a hesitant but genuine gesture. Then he finally got out the thing he’d brought Giles to the pub to tell him.

  “Listen, something very wrong is happening, something that you started; it’s scaring me and I’ve covered plenty of atrocities in my career. I’m out of this, I can walk clear but I don’t think that you can, there’s a chain of events and you’re part of it. Watch out.”

  He got into the 4x4 and drove off. Giles felt relieved for Jim in a way, almost glad he hadn’t told him that something that shouldn’t exist outside of comic books was tearing his modern existence apart. He didn’t want to think any more in case he conjured something worse, so he stood for a moment taking deep breaths looking out over the fields at the outcrop of the Edge picked out in harsh relief by the rising moon.

  CHAPTER 16

  QUIS CUSTODIET IPSOS CUSTODES

  About the same time Jim was driving home, his connection with the dig severed, Reverend Ed Joyce was sitting in his study nervously fingering the box containing Heatly Smythe’s final epistles. It had been several days before he could bring himself to consider re-reading the manuscript. During that time it ate away at him, exacerbated by events at the cricket club where members were refusing to go alone after dark and doubling up for bar duty. Ed thought it was only be a matter of time before he was asked to perform an exorcism. The club president had sent him images of weird pyramids and pinnacles formed by chairs on the table tops when the club house was locked and empty. He’d also sent him a shot of the club house roof, its ridge tiles occupied by a line of grim black corvids whos
e unswerving ghastly stare intimidated members.

  People in this quiet backwater now double locked their doors at night and there was increased demand for crucifixes and ghost hunters on the internet. He’d even been invited by a cable station he’d never heard of to appear in a show that combined cookery and the supernatural. It was hosted by a psychic chef who cooked dishes specifically appealing to the manifestation as an integral part of exorcism. These images tormented Ed as he lay awake at night.

  He suspected the events at the club were connected with the excavation and that Heatly Smythe’s journals contained the key to understanding what was happening in the Parish. He was sure Davenport knew far more than he’d admit: he’d been very unhappy at the refusal to have the site blessed. Ed felt only relief at not having to perform some travesty of an exorcism under Davenport’s steely gaze.

  Davenport was the connection. The squire in Heatly Smythe’s account who warned him off the mound was Davenport’s direct lineal ancestor. They feared the mound then and they still did. Suddenly with a flash of clarity he understood the significance of the carved stone motto in the Davenport family chapel. It had seemed a rather charming example of aristocratic idiosyncrasy. Not now. ‘Guarding the Watcher’ brought vividly to mind Heatly Smyth’s last terrifying words ‘Oh God what is that which stands and watches?’

  That there was corroboration for Heatly Smyth’s disturbed scribblings he found even more unsettling than the manuscript itself. He thought he’d caught a glimpse of a ragged shadow flitting through the trees at the fringe of the graveyard at twilight after evening service but told himself it was just stress-fuelled imagination. This disturbing train of thought led him to the Rectory and, in particular, to the study, where he now was.

  He was getting himself into a state about superstitious belief. He was an agnostic, modernising cleric only because he lacked the capacity to believe and had sufficient understanding and self loathing to admit this to himself. So he maintained the church carried a moral message but needed to be seen as a branch of the social services. It followed that the church’s message was conveyed through parable, or as he preferred to call it, metaphor, and as society became more enlightened the supernatural elements of the church’s role would diminish. But this was no comfort to him when he was scared and in his heart he knew it came a very poor second to the real thing and that he was a worthless priest.

  So why was he so disturbed by a tale that might just as well have come from the pen of M. R. James as from a parish priest suffering from stress? He’d read the document again, but this time more analytically. To prevent any strain to his eyesight he turned on the bright strip lighting in the room. Normally when working at his desk he preferred the softer and more intimate table lamp. Also, he moved his chair so that his back faced the wall and not the door.

  It didn’t work; the second reading was worse. Much worse: because Heatly Smythe, at times, was rational and even optimistic. His descent into terror was quite sudden and yet to the end he was clear about what he saw. After the second reading he felt an overwhelming urge to share the contents of the document with someone, but not Mary; that would be too close to home and she’d assume he was suffering another episode.

  He needed to talk to Nigel Davenport; persuade him to shed some light on this. Once decided on this course of action he felt better. Davenport would probably know of some family tradition that would put a logical slant on this and they would end up laughing and for once he wouldn’t mind being the butt of the joke. He replaced the papers in their box, grabbed his coat from the hall and stepped out into the night.

  The new Davenport residence was a large, modern detached bungalow standing on the edge of what had once been the village green. He strode out purposefully and as he passed under the lych gate he remembered the disjointed phrase of Lisa’s, ‘they tried to hide it from me but soon I’ll see it and know it.’

  The recollection made him shudder and brought back seeing Lisa as he arrived late at Councillor Richardson’s party. She’d been getting into a car with a middle aged man. At first hadn’t recognised her, she had her hair down and was dressed in a skimpy outfit; very revealing and not like her. His attention had been drawn to the shapely long legs when she lifted her skirt to deliberately expose herself to him. He knew she was taunting him but found himself painfully aroused: so much so that he had needed some time to regain control before he could enter the party.

  The memory filled him with shame but fortunately he had no further time for reflection on lust and remorse as he’d arrived at the gate of the Davenport residence. The bungalow was large but without ostentation save for the family crest subtly picked out above the front door, but without, he was relieved to note, the motto from the chapel. Davenport opened the door and Ed experienced the usual increase in his heart rate.

  Not a tall man although strongly built, Davenport exuded command. He was dressed, as usual, in a tweed jacket worn over checked shirt, yellow tie and dark green V-necked jersey. With his thick iron grey hair and the type of neat moustache once favoured by young officers he looked exactly what he was, a scion of the landed aristocracy. Something that had no place in Ed’s vision of a modern society but which when confronted face to face seemed uncomfortably more solid than anything else in his metaphorical cosmos.

  Davenport greeted Ed politely, fixing him with his customary stare, which, as always made him feel inadequate. He was shown into a large living room where two dogs dozed in front of a real-flame effect gas fire and after some pleasantries and parish business, raised the subject that was troubling him.

  “I’ve been wondering about the idea of the blessing for the excavation, Sir Nigel.”

  He hesitated over the use of Davenport’s first name, it felt over familiar and almost impertinent. Davenport, if he had any feelings on the matter of familiarity, didn’t reveal them but clearly didn’t want to discuss the excavation: his eyes bored into Ed’s.

  “You tried your best, Vicar. Not your fault, best not waste any more time on it.”

  “Yes, quite so, but actually there is something else that made me want to…er…to seek your advice.”

  He faltered a moment and then continued, trying to keep his tone as light as possible so he wouldn’t look foolish.

  “Mary cleared out the storeroom in the cellar where the detritus of the centuries has been stored; you know how these things accumulate.”

  At this point he paused and gave a little forced chuckle as if what he had said was amusing but it was clear that Davenport neither cared about how things accumulate nor found it the least bit amusing. So, feeling increasingly uncomfortable, he stuttered on.

  “Yes, well never mind, anyway would you believe it? She found some jottings of one of my predecessors, Heatly Smythe.”

  Davenport’s gaze remained steely.

  “I know that you are well aware of the volume on his writing that I am preparing, Sir Nigel, and have on occasion been kind enough to comment and even encourage.”

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, stop it, Ed’ he said to himself feeling his face colour up at this self induced humiliation He avoided looking at Davenport’s face as he nervously attempted to reach the point of his visit, but had he been looking he would have noticed a brief change in the intensity of his gaze.

  “Yes, it would appear Heatly Smythe became quite agitated about the mound that they have now excavated and he suffered some sort of mental breakdown. The writing becomes deranged and rather disturbing.”

  The combination of the memory of Heatly Smythe’s terror and the steady gaze of Davenport conspired to make Ed’s discomfort grow and he could feel the palms of his hands clammy with sweat. Davenport at last deigned to reply,

  “Well I wouldn’t pay too much attention to that either, Vicar. He was a strange chap by all accounts. I’d get rid of any later rubbish that he wrote when he was ill and confine yourself to his jottings on natural history.”

  “Yes, I am sure I will, but in these last entries he write
s about the Squire, your ancestor, telling him about Devil’s Mound.”

  He found that the local name for the mound came too readily to his mind these days.

  “The Squire warned him off the mound but also hinted that he’d seen someone watching the churchyard. Heatly Smythe felt that there was something troubling the Squire of which he was reluctant to talk, and I was…er…wondering that, bearing in mind your curious family motto, er…you know…perhaps, whether you could shed any light on this.”

  With that he floundered and stopped failing to meet the unwavering gaze of Davenport’s pale blue eyes.

  “Well, if I were you, Vicar, I‘d follow my ancestor’s advice and leave well alone. Stop poking around in the nonsensical rumblings of Heatly Smythe; you have no idea where they might lead you. Anyway time’s getting on and I’m sure there’s a great deal you need to do, so if you have finished your tea, Vicar, I’ll show you out.”

  This was said with finality and Davenport stood up and ushered him to the door.

  “I’ll look forward to hearing your sermon on Sunday as always, Vicar, thank you for dropping by, goodnight.”

  With that Ed was outside the door in the cold night, none the wiser but less composed than when he’d arrived. Davenport had been as authoritative as ever, but once the mound had been mentioned he’d shut the conversation down. However it was clear that his knowledge of the Heatly Smythe incident was greater than he was prepared to admit. Davenport had given him nothing so he’d made a fool of himself as usual. With cheeks still burning with shame Ed returned down the driveway past the swept up piles of autumn leaves now beginning to glitter with frost. Deep in unhappy thought he wandered back towards the Rectory.

  Just by the lych gate a shiny black Range Rover with blacked out windows drove past him, stopped then reversed. It pulled up alongside, the electric window descended and Ed caught a glimpse of a passenger with long, scraped back, blond hair, draped in gold, texting on a smart phone and beyond, a mass of flashing lights on the dashboard. The driver leant across her and Ed thought he recognised him from Richardson’s party. He looked to be in his late 30s with a polished and shiny head, reminding Ed of the Italian dictator Mussolini.