Dark Coven

by Nick Brown

  “Poss pas, ese kalla?”

  “Ne, ne, poli kala, k sis?”

  Then they laughed and this time did shake hands. She knew neither well but even so it was like looking at two different people, and suddenly it made things seem easier. Not for Anderson apparently, he was scowling as if Theodrakis had defected. She seized the moment to move things on.

  “Thanks for agreeing to see us at such short notice, Dr Glover, I appreciate this must be difficult for you.”

  For a moment he seemed about to make some complaint but instead said:

  “I’ve got the bones, the ones from the pit, and some others from below in the meeting room, it’s more private in there.”

  The meeting room was even less welcoming than the general office, if such a thing were possible. One table, a scattering of classroom style plastic chairs, no widows and in the centre of the table - seeming to dominate the room - a green plastic collecting tray, which contained a selection of stained off-white bones.

  They arranged themselves round the table beneath a humming strip light, Theodrakis and Giles sitting across from Anderson and Viv.

  “I can offer you coffee but wouldn’t recommend it.”

  She declined, then asked:

  “What can you tell us about the samples, are they relevant?”

  “Depends what you mean by relevant, they all predate your case by hundreds of years.”

  She knew he was cagey, reluctant to say anything that might incriminate himself, and said:

  “We know from Colonel Theodrakis that you helped him materially in Greece, we know you have no connection to the killings, we’ve apologised unreservedly, but we need your help now. Please help us understand the context of the evidence.”

  He nodded and laid the bones out in front of him like a card dealer in a casino.

  “Well, the most interesting thing about this collection is the assemblage.”

  He must have noticed their blank looks.

  “I mean, it’s not the individual bones, it’s that they’re all together in one context. These bones cover several thousand years. This one here’s the most recent, probably late Tudor, and they get progressively earlier until we get to this. This isn’t natural.”

  He gently picked up a fragile and degraded sample about the same dimension as a child’s finger.

  “This is over five thousand years old, Neolithic, same as on Samos. Here, take it.”

  He passed it across and placed it gently in the palm of Viv’s hand. It was light, as if it had no substance. Then she began to feel it, not physically, more like it was burrowing into her mind, seeding pain and terror. Everything else in the room diminished, the walls seemed to recede, the voices faded. Then the feeling had gone. Giles was standing over her with the bone in his hand.

  “Sorry to snatch it from you but it looked like you were going to drop it; it’s very fragile and incredibly rare.”

  She didn’t respond, just sat there watching the room return to normality. He was still speaking, but now in a concerned tone.

  “Are you ok? Do you want some water? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Jimmy was hovering over her.

  “Ma’am, do you need to get some fresh air? We can take a break.”

  “No, I’ll be ok in a minute, I just felt a bit dizzy. Perhaps we should have that coffee you offered.”

  Giles left the room to get some. She noticed Zorba staring intently at her and made a mental note to stop calling him that, even in her head. His expression was somewhere between concern for her and alarm at something else. Something he knew that she didn’t. What was going on here? The coffee came in: it was as bad as Giles had predicted. He resumed his analysis of the bone sample; this time avoiding any class participation. She found it difficult to concentrate; something inside her was already repelled by these bones.

  Giles was concluding when Jimmy asked:

  “So, all these bones were cut from different bodies?”

  “Yes.”

  “Over thousands of years?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So why do they all end up jumbled together?”

  “I’m not stating the obvious, but they’re together because they’ve been deliberately put together.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s what I can’t tell you, sorry. But you might be interested to know that there’s a strong possibility that the cutting-out was performed while the donors were still alive.”

  “And always the same bones: fingers, toes?”

  “Always straight bones, but not always extremities. Some of these bones would have been very difficult to harvest. On Samos there were bones from the shin and forearm as well as ribs.”

  “The same pattern across thousands of years and the same technique as in our murders. Why?”

  Viv saw that Giles looked away briefly before answering.

  “Don’t know, frightening isn’t it?”

  After they dropped Theodrakis off at his hotel, Anderson said what they’d both been thinking.

  “Our silent Greek friend’s more intimate with Glover than we knew.”

  It puzzled her too, she nodded.

  “And I know we’ve got nothing on him, Ma’am, but Glover knows more than he’s saying. What’s he got to hide?”

  She didn’t have the answer but she felt frozen inside: they were being sucked into something they couldn’t handle, something unknowable.”

  *******

  When Giles got home the house was in darkness. Claire didn’t get home for a couple of hours, during which time her phone was switched off. When she got back she seemed excited, he thought he detected the trace of a different perfume on her dress. He poured her a drink and began to tell her about the police visit.

  “Theodrakis was with them, felt good to see him again, someone who understands. There was no time to ask him about Steve, thought we’d invite him round for dinner.”

  “Maybe later on, he’s heavy going. Tell me the rest.”

  When he’d finished she got up and took his hand.

  “Come on, let’s go to bed, it’s an auspicious night.”

  He didn’t know what she meant by that but followed her up the stairs. As they reached the bedroom she said:

  “Forget Theodrakis, I think the woman sounds more interesting, let’s invite her”

  Chapter 14: Olga Alone

  It took some time for the frightened, ferrety man and Ed to get the unconscious driver loaded into his van and then driven away. Olga considered suggesting that she and Ed repair to the pub, he looked as if he could use a strong drink, but reckoned that, as this was his parish, he’d be compromised. So instead they agreed he would ring her tomorrow to discuss what to do next. It was probably better to get back home as her right hand was beginning to hurt and she suspected that she might have chipped a bone in her index finger. She’d found it quite satisfying managing to knock the man threatening Ed out with one punch, it was something she hadn’t done for some time and she was pleased she’d not lost her touch. It might be a problem explaining it all to Margaret, however.

  She needn’t have worried about that because she arrived home to something more serious. As she pulled into the drive she saw Claire coming out of the front door looking pleased with herself. She made no effort to acknowledge Olga, just got into her car and drove off. Margaret was in the bedroom smoothing her hair down: she looked flushed and acted embarrassed.

  “Hi, Olga, love, you’ve just missed Claire.”

  “I know, I saw her drive off.”

  She kissed Margaret, detecting the vague scent of an alien perfume. For a moment they just stood looking at each other. This was a first: their relationship was loving and supportive, with an ease of communication bordering on telepathy. Olga teetered on the brink of asking something that could smash all that beyond repair, and she knew Margaret was thinking something similar. So they stood in silence, feeling as if the house itself was holding its breath. Olga blinked first.

  “
I’m going to make some tea, do you want some?”

  “Thanks, that would be lovely. I’ll help you make it”

  They went through to the kitchen where Olga saw two wine glasses in the sink.

  Later in the evening the community came together for their regular house meeting. Candles were lit on the plinth and they sat on cushions in a semi circle, sipping from goblets of white wine. They were seven again as Jan had newly arrived and this was her first taste of house ritual. Olga couldn’t make her out, she was different from the other two archaeologists: the bitter Rose and cynical Leonie. She was nice, eager to please but edgy, haunted almost, something compounded by premature streaks of grey in her hair.

  Olga and Margaret hadn’t spoken since the wine glasses in the sink incident. They hadn’t agreed not to talk, just stayed in different parts of the house, and now, as Margaret opened the meeting, Olga could feel a tiny tangible fracture growing in the spine of their partnership.

  The three archaeologists sat next to each other, which was understandable but not good for the balance of the community. But why were they here? Why should three women who’d been damaged by Skendleby and tried to escape it opt, a few months later, to join a community almost within sight of the place that scared them? Why choose a Wiccan lifestyle? Had the three of them made an individual lifestyle choice, or was something else linking them?

  Olga was suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of loss for Kelly and missed the first part of what Margaret said to open the session. By the time she picked it up she realised they were debating ways to oppose the Skendleby development and Jenna was speaking. Olga had never really taken to Jenna. There was something competitively feral about her, a disposition to be against things, to hate rather than love. She was certainly against the development.

  “Now they’re talking of a bigger slice of the green belt: two thousand five hundred houses, not just nine hundred, on top of the leisure centre, hotel and shopping mall. Can you imagine how that’s going to change the peace of the place, never mind the fact that the roads won’t cope?”

  Ailsa, who always tried to be fair and balanced, interrupted.

  “Yeah, but there’s going to be some affordable houses built, you know, starter homes.”

  “Don’t be so naïve, Ailsa, it’s about profit.”

  “But it’s still got to get planning consent.”

  “And you think that’s not going to happen? Get real.”

  “Well, since all that stuff came out after Councillor Richardson’s suicide, it’s seems to have slowed down.”

  “And you think that he was the only councillor ready to put his hand out? Between Carver and the council they own all the land. That last propaganda leaflet we got from the council said the project was shovel ready.”

  Olga saw Rose and Leonie nodding encouragement as Jenna made her points; this wasn’t how the community was meant to be. Ailsa made one last try.

  “Perhaps what just happened on his estate might make it more difficult for him.”

  “For Carver? Do me a favour! I wouldn’t be surprised if that pig didn’t kill the girl himself.”

  The mention of the killing was too close to home. It brought back Kelly; Margaret held up her hands and said:

  “I think we agree that we’ll oppose the development, but the killing of that poor girl is connected to what I want to propose next. We can’t be sure if there’s a connection with what happened to poor, dear Kelly, but something terrible is happening here. First we had the threats; the foul stuff smeared on the front door, the Hex fetishes. When we lost Kelly, we lost the baby that would have been the centre of our community, the sign of our renewal. Now…”

  She paused and Olga saw that she was close to tears.

  “Now we’re rudderless and threatened. Why would people want to threaten us? What have we ever done to deserve this?”

  Rose said:

  “I thought we’d already established that it was your ex-husband behind all that, dear, you know what men can do.”

  Olga saw that Jenna was nodding like she was enjoying this. But what Margaret said next chased any other thoughts from her head.

  “This afternoon I had a consultation with someone you already know. Someone with more experience of this than any of us, who was closely involved with whatever it was that happened in Skendleby last Christmas.”

  With a sinking feeling in her stomach, Olga worked out where this was leading. She tried to catch Margaret’s eye but Margaret averted her gaze.

  “Someone with powers of psychic healing, someone who can put us back on track and help replace what we lost in Kelly. Someone who understands what our community needs and is prepared to help us.”

  Olga knew what was coming next, couldn’t believe it, and just sat speechless as she heard Margaret say, like someone pulling a rabbit out of a hat:

  “Claire Vanarvi.”

  Olga found herself protesting before she’d thought it through, precipitated by hurt and something stronger, which gnawed away inside her.

  “Why Margaret? We hardly know her; she never showed any interest in us until what happened to Kelly. It’s not the way this community works.”

  Margaret still wouldn’t meet her gaze but said:

  “Olga, you know how threatened we are, you must understand we need some help; something’s targeting us, you know that as well I do.”

  Before she could begin to answer, Jenna cut in.

  “And who would you suggest, Olga? That pathetic little priest who made a fool of himself here the other day?”

  “No, obviously not, I’m just saying that…”

  But Jenna hadn’t finished yet.

  “And, by the way, what happened to your hand, Olga? You’ve not taken to fighting again, have you?”

  While Jenna was getting her jibe in, Olga watched the faces of the archaeologists. They knew Claire, how would they react? Some of the telepathy with Margaret must have survived because she called out.

  “Please, please, we mustn’t be like this; we have to support each other. I’d like to hear what our newer members think about Claire’s offer; they’ve known her the longest.”

  Rose shook her head.

  “You’ll have to rely on Leonie and Jan, I only saw her from a distance. I was in hospital when she got involved with the excavation.”

  “Yeah, and I only saw her a couple of times. Jan’s the only one who really knows her.”

  All eyes turned to Jan; she looked nervous, like a child cross-legged on her cushion.

  “Well, I don’t know her that well and most of what I do know comes from Steve.”

  She blushed and glanced towards Leonie. Olga thought: there’s a history here we don’t understand.

  Leonie said:

  “Don’t worry about that on my account, Jan, as far as I’m concerned you were welcome to him.”

  Jan took a deep breath.

  “She was around the dig after the excavation of the mound. Giles relied on her a lot. In fact, he moved in with her. When I saw her she seemed really nice. I left the dig soon after, went back to live with my dad in Glasgow, I wasn’t well and it was getting to me.”

  She looked round at them and Olga guessed she wasn’t sure how much to say; obviously there were things that no one outside that dig was supposed to know. Margaret coaxed her gently.

  “Please, Jan, it would be really helpful if you’d tell us as much as you can.”

  Jan nodded, then continued.

  “Ok, Steve got quite badly damaged by what happened to him at Skendleby. He had a sort of breakdown and came up to Glasgow on Christmas Eve. That was such a lovely surprise, well, at first it was.”

  She pulled a tissue out of her sleeve, dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose, then looked at Margaret and tried to smile.

  “Sorry, this is difficult for me. Steve said that if it hadn’t been for Claire something terrible would have happened to him and Giles. He said they and some others owed more to Claire than anyone else could ever imagine. He
didn’t say what, he didn’t want to talk about it, so I didn’t ask. In fact, I didn’t want to know, the little bit I’d seen was enough to stop me sleeping for weeks.”

  Olga, like the others, was hanging on her every word; there was something awful and authentic in the broken and partial account of the Skendleby excavation. It cast a dark spell over the room. So much so that Olga thought to herself: if it was so terrifying and did that to you, why are you here? Why did you come back?

  “Steve had been through so much, the physical effect of the attack on him was bad enough, but the mental scarring was worse. I thought he’d be all right after a bit and that we could be happy, but it didn’t work out that way.”

  She paused and snuffled again, dabbing at her nose with the fragmenting tissue. They waited for her to continue and the candles lighting the room flickered. Jan pulled herself together and carried on.

  “The horrors came back, he felt watched, haunted really. He used to ring Claire every night for reassurance. Then...”

  Her voice faltered and silence covered the room. She looked like she was going to cry but with an effort said:

  “Then, just before Easter, he disappeared, went to the Greek isle of Samos. Last I heard of him was in a letter from Giles saying he’d retreated into a monastery out there. While he was on Samos, Tim Thomson, the archivist who worked for us on the Skendleby dig, was murdered in Nice. Sorry, I’m rambling, it’s meant to be about Claire.”

  Margaret walked over to her and topped up her glass. Olga and the rest sat in trance-like silence. After she’d filled the glass, Margaret placed her hand on Jan’s diminutive shoulder saying gently:

  “Go on, Jan, love, take your time.”

  Jan gulped down half the glass in a couple of swallows, spluttered then picked up the thread.

  “All I’m trying to say is that Claire’s good, Steve trusted her, Giles loves her and she did something at Skendleby that seemed to hold back the dark. But despite that it seems she couldn’t save Steve or anyone else. So how can she…”

  She came to a stop and finished off the wine. Out of the intervening silence Margaret said: