Dark Coven

by Nick Brown

  Long before the estate boundary, the track just petered out. He knew it was the right track so despite all the evidence he continued driving in the hope the track would resume. Then the car ploughed into a grove of olives and refused to move on. He was sweating now, beginning to doubt his hold on reality. He got out.

  Above him he could see the great slab of out cropping rock from which the Vassilis mansion projected. Even that looked different, but it showed him he was in the right place and, slightly reassured, he began to walk towards it. The reassurance drained away with each step. By the time he reached the point where the fences guarding the compound should have been his mouth was dry with fear and his heart was racing. He fumbled to light a cigarette to steady himself as he tried to understand what he was seeing.

  Nothing: seeing nothing; there was nothing and it was obvious from the mature trees and rockslide that there never had been. At least not in this world. No house, no gardens, no chapel, no cricket pitch or helipads: nothing. It wasn’t that it had been destroyed. It had never existed. He sat down on a fallen tree trunk. A lizard basking in the sun scuttled off: the climate had obviously disturbed its routine too. He thought of the Lost Domain in Fournier’s book: it was the closest he could get to an explanation. Like in the book he and hundreds of others had experienced and existed in something that wasn’t real. Without meaning to he started to laugh, a hysterical reaction he couldn’t stop until he choked on smoke and gave over to coughing.

  Some questions filled his head: where had he really been when he thought he’d been talking to Vassilis in the house? Where had all the people at the dinners and cricket matches held here been? What had the mob that believed it had burnt the place down really done? He had no answers. He began to think back over Vassilis and the conversations they’d had.

  Now here, slumped on a real tree in a garden that had never been, he began to reinterpret those conversations. It was clear that what he had taken as metaphor and allusion in Vassilis’s conversation had been literal, if a metaphysical proposition can be regarded as such. The talk of entropy and simultaneous parallel multiverse had been meant. He remembered something else Vassilis had said, which he had taken as hyperbole at the time.

  “Humans are very easy to reprogram.”

  It was as if some type of glamour had been cast over them, a type of projection. This took him nowhere and he felt the hysterical laughter building up again. Sometime later, he was not sure how long, a thought, or rather suggestion, came clearly to him.

  “Go to the beach taverna in Limnionas.”

  Clear, but not his thought. In spite of that he had no better idea and badly wanted to get out of this place. Not that the place scared him, there was nothing here to do that: it was empty. Rather it was the thought of what was missing. He was also very sad and could feel tears on his cheeks. He stood up and looked down the slope towards the sea and was shocked to see the ancient site where the bones had been taken. So that, at least, had been real. He didn’t want to be here so turned round and stumbled back to the car as quickly as he could.

  He must have been in a dream driving to Limnionas because he arrived without knowing how he got there. Near the shoreline, a fisherman sat by his beached boat mending nets. There was no one else around, it was dusk and in the west the sun was turning the sea into a pool of crimson as it sunk. Despite the hot weather, the tourist season was over and the place was dead, suffused with a late autumnal melancholy.

  He trudged down the beach towards the taverna but could see no light. When he walked onto the terrace it was empty, the tables and chairs had been moved inside for the winter. The terrace was covered in a patina of windblown sand; all it lacked was tumbleweed blowing across it to present the complete picture of desolation. What had made him come here? He got out his cell phone to ring Hippolyta then decided what he had to tell her was better said face to face. He turned and noticed that there was a scrap of paper weighted down by a lump of rock on the terrace wall. There was a simple, scrawled note written on it and an arrow pointing to the far end of the beach.

  “Come to boat house.”

  He looked in the direction the arrow pointed. At the end of the bay an olive clad promontory stuck out into the sea, with part way along it a small jetty. Somewhere above it, in the grove, he thought he could make out a faint flickering light. In the minutes it took him to cross the bay the light faded further as a sea fret drifted in across the beach.

  The jetty was rotted through and collapsing into the water. Above it were the remnants of a boat house long since abandoned to its slow decay. There was no one there and he decided to go. Then, on a sudden impulse, he decided to try and find the source of the light and began to walk up the slope through the olives whose branches seemed to whisper as he brushed against them.

  He caught glimpses of the light, like a Will-o’-the-Wisp through the trees as he walked; it seemed to be leading him further into the wood. Then he was in a glade staring at the shell of a long disused wooden summer house, through one of the glassless window frames he saw the light, then it vanished. The place was very silent, very still: numinous. He knew something was about to happen and stood waiting, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling.

  He saw her, thought he saw her for a moment, not the full person of course: that wouldn’t be possible, just a phantom, an outline of what had contained her. He knew who it was, what it had been.

  “Alekka, what’s happening? Where are you?”

  “Where? Now I’m nowhere, although a trace of what was may still register here. Perhaps rebuilding for next time. Here again if needed, or some other world.”

  “Why?”

  “Why here? Before the end I was happy here for one brief instant.”

  Then she faded, everything became indistinct. He was trying to think of the question he should ask when he heard her again, this time inside his head.

  “Where you are going you may never leave, but there is help if you look for it.”

  Silence. He thought it was finished and she’d faded back into the ether, but then, almost as an afterthought:

  “And Steve, later when the time comes, you will need Steve.”

  Then he was alone. Alone and it was fully dark.

  *******

  Something strange happened just after takeoff. The aircraft climbed into the clear blue sky over Mycale then out to sea as it gained height before circling to fly back over the island. Then suddenly, as it passed above the rugged spine of Mt Kerkis, it entered thick cloud. Theodrakis craned his head back for one last look, maybe his last glimpse of Samos, but it was like a pair of curtains had been closed, shutting the island out.

  He was displaced and bereft, remembering his last night with Hippolyta. They’d clung together in bed, miserable and unable to sleep, dropping off just before dawn to be woken almost immediately by the alarm call. She had pleaded to go with him, cried, said she might never see him again. But how could he take her into what he was about to face?

  Even the logistics of the journey were a nightmare. Athens Airport was closed down by political action and tourist flights were no longer running. The only option had been a local flight to Thessaloniki followed by a plane to Vienna, a four-hour wait, and then a flight to Manchester. His worries that the hanging about and airport food would lead to a blocking up of his digestive system were quickly confirmed, and it was a costive and unhappy man who disembarked at Terminal One.

  He trudged along the seemingly endless glandular corridors towards immigration reading the proud claims on the walls that Manchester had won the Airport of the Year award and thinking how bad the others must be. After a prolonged queue at customs control, where half the desks were unmanned, he emerged blinking into the arrivals hall.

  He looked around at the people waiting to meet and greet until he saw a tall, fair-haired man in a cheap suit holding a sign which he recognised at the fourth attempt as misspelt and ungrammatical Greek. Well, at least they’d made an effort. The man introduced himself as
DS Anderson, took one of his cases and they left the building.

  Outside it was cold with a drizzle of sleet and freezing rain that began to splatter his pastel linen suit. He shivered. Just before they reached the car, Anderson’s mobile rang. He excused himself and turned to answer. About fifteen seconds into the call his manner changed and Theodrakis saw the little colour in his naturally pale face drain away.

  “Sorry, Sir, but there has been a change of plan: there has been another attack, close to here and the boss wants us both on site.”

  Theodrakis felt his blood run cold. It had started already and he had been sucked in. Maybe he would never get out of here. He was so overwhelmed by this that he never heard Anderson’s unnecessary next sentence.

  “So, the hotel will have to wait.”

  Chapter 10: In the Pit

  The drive to the murder site reawakened in Theodrakis memories of what a strangely inhospitable country England was. Particularly here. Cambridge had been strange but urbane, here it was too cold, too green, too wet. It didn’t help that on landing he was immediately rushed off to a murder scene. He didn’t like the look or feel of Skendleby Hall from the moment the car turned down the long drive, but there wasn’t much time to dwell on it.

  The car pulled up next to a collection of police vans and cars. Anderson opened the door and he got out into the cold spitting rain. Behind the Hall a gaggle of cops, some in uniform, some in plastic sterile suits and some in plain clothes, milled around a damp, sombre pit. He knew what would be lying in it, could anticipate what had been done to it. This wasn’t new to him: it was what had brought him here.

  And yes, there it was, fragile and broken, sprawled in the puddles of cold wet clay at the bottom. He felt a bitter taste in his mouth as bile rose in his throat. A girl, dark haired, maybe pretty once. This made it worse. He thought of Hippolyta and was glad she wasn’t here. He could see from the distortion of the arms and legs that there had been cutting, harvesting of small bones. So they’d been right; it was happening, it had moved here. He noticed the police had shifted aside to let him look; they knew who he was. What would they expect?

  Anderson was speaking, speaking to him. He tore his eyes away from the pathetic bundle lying on the cold damp ground and saw that a woman was looking at him expectantly. Striking looking and perhaps beautiful in a powerful, angular way. Taller than him, probably heavier too. Anderson had been introducing her but he hadn’t been listening. She held out her hand and said:

  “Syntagmatarchis Theodrakis, I’m Vivian Campbell, investigating officer.”

  He took her hand. She looked tired, unwell. He felt a rush of empathy. He’d been where she was: alone, bemused, afraid. He’d only just got away from it and now he was back.

  “Pleased to meet you, Inspector, permit me to compliment you on your Greek pronunciation.”

  “Thanks, glad I was able to get my tongue round your rank, but it’s all I know and I got that bit from Google Translate.”

  He smiled, her handshake was firm, her palms soft, but there was a trace of sickly odour on her breath that she’d tried to disguise by sucking mints. Before she could speak again he gestured towards the body and said:

  “Would I be correct to guess that there was no sexual assault but that bones were removed using a crude blade?”

  It sounded so dispassionate, almost indifferent in English, made him sound uncaring; in Greek it would have sounded more emotional, came across better. But she seemed almost relieved.

  “Yes, just like that. You’ve seen it before?”

  “Sadly, and it doesn’t get easier.”

  “Do you want to go down and take a closer look? We can get you a sterile suit, save your clothes.”

  “Go down? No, I don’t think so. I know what I’d find.”

  He looked around, then said:

  “But you could tell me about that building over at the pit’s edge. Is it as old as it appears?”

  Viv looked surprised at this. Theodrakis supposed she’d soon learn, probably the hard way, how unnatural this was - just like he had.

  “Old? Yes, I think so, it’s the chapel of the Davenport family, the oldest thing on site.”

  He nodded, flicked at the raindrops spattering his suit, then said:

  “I suspect there are much older things, timeless things, whose significance we can’t even guess the purpose of, deep under it.”

  Viv didn’t reply and Theodrakis could tell that she could make no sense of what he was saying. Also, she was sweating, despite the cold, and he sensed she was unwell: distressed and unwell. He asked:

  “I think it would be a good idea to have a look at this chapel and perhaps even underneath it.”

  “Ok, but why? These attacks are scattered round this area, they’re random and we’ve not attached particular importance to any location. The bodies have just been dumped.”

  “There’s nothing random, it’s just that your thinking isn’t aligned with the intelligence behind this.”

  He could tell from her face that he’d gone too fast, she was rattled; he should have waited until he was less travel weary and dislocated. But standing there, seeing the same horrors in a fresh context jarred his judgement. He’d started so he’d finish.

  “We should look at the building, the ground. Ancient ground has significant attributes, it can’t be ignored. The archaeologist who we spoke about, the one I met on Samos, it might be a good idea to ask him to help investigate…”

  He was interrupted by one of the forensic team working below in the pit.

  “We’ve done all we can here for now, Ma’am.”

  “Ok, send me the preliminary report as soon as you have it.”

  Theodrakis could tell Viv wanted to be away from here. She turned back to him.

  “You’ll have to excuse me, Colonel Theodrakis, I have to go somewhere else. DS Anderson will look after you and we’ll get together properly tomorrow.”

  She looked around.

  “Where’s Jimmy?”

  A uniformed WPO replied:

  “He’s over in the house, helping with the interviews.”

  “Well fetch him and ask him to take care of Colonel Theodrakis.”

  She turned and walked off towards a small Nissan, and, after fumbling for her keys, drove off, leaving Theodrakis to his own devices in the cold, ignored by the other officers. He was watching her car’s rapid progress down the drive when he overheard one of the male officers behind him.

  “Looks like Black Beauty didn’t fancy hanging about too much, eh?”

  He was just trying to work out what the heavily accented English slang meant when there was an explosion of shouting as he saw DS Anderson confront the man.

  “You better keep your mouth shut, Johnston, because if I hear anything like that out of you again you’ll not have a job. Racism, sexism and criticising a senior officer in one statement should be enough to satisfy any disciplinary panel.”

  “Sorry, Sarge, didn’t mean nothing, just a joke like.”

  “Pity to end a career because of a stupid joke, not that your career’s likely to amount to much.”

  Theodrakis could see that the young officer had gone pale and that Anderson’s own pale face was red with anger. He realised now the meaning of the man’s joke and understood the admonishment, but there was something else in Anderson’s reaction, something that went beyond just the professional. Anderson must have realised that Theodrakis was watching intently because he turned to him and said:

  “Sorry about that, Sir, we take casual racism, however it’s meant, seriously these days, even from a stupid young lad like him.”

  But Theodrakis carried the impression that they were both aware that the cause of Anderson’s anger was down to something else, even if he didn’t know what. To move things on he said,

  “DS Anderson, on Samos I met an archaeologist who works near here. I’d like to get him to take a look at that chapel.”

  Anderson’s reply told Theodrakis that he was prevarica
ting.

  “Well, the boss would have to authorise that, Sir.”

  “Even so, it couldn’t do any harm contacting him. I know you’ve already spoken to him; it’s why Inspector Campbell telephoned me in Greece.”

  Whatever Anderson’s reply might have been he never found out. There was a shout from the pit.

  “Sir, come quick, see this.”

  He ran to the edge of the pit and looked down: the earth had opened up. Two officers were struggling to haul one of the forensics team out of a hole that had opened up below him. As his head appeared above the surface he shouted to Anderson:

  “Sarge, you need to see what’s down here, it’s a mass grave.”

  *******

  She couldn’t quite place when it started, but the feeling that someone was watching her was fully realised by the time she parked her car in the cramped bay across the road from the flats. She was uncomfortable and edgy and tried to put it down to it being the wrong time of the month. But it was more than that. She felt threatened, unsafe. She pressed the button to lock the car and the noise of the click as the locks engaged seemed unnaturally loud. Pulling up the collar of her raincoat against the chill she crossed the road and, to take her mind off uncertainty, looked closely at the sprawling block of new flats she was headed for.

  They occupied the entire length of the elongated new road that followed the course of the old rail line, now being converted into the Metro South route. Four stories high, faced in faux Victorian brick with a scattering of faux Edwardian decorative stone effect features. The flats subverted the balance of the old village.

  Over thirty years, Didsbury had shifted from respectability, to boho chic, to centre for stag and hen parties. Now, as the brochure promised to its target of young professionals, these apartments were: