by C. J. Waller
“Oh, yes, people like this sort of thing,” said Mrs Kelly. “They like this sort of thing a lot. What you folks who pander to them don’t realise, is that we have to live with it! Coming here, dredging up the past, opening old wounds… Why can’t you all leave it be? Find another town that wants this kind of attention – just leave us out of it!” She didn’t sound as much angry as upset, which in turn made Paul feel ashamed. Judging the uneasy looks the others shared, they pretty much felt the same way.
“We’re sorry, Mrs Kelly,” Decker said. “We don’t mean anything by it.”
“No. Of course you don’t. No one ever does.”
“Does… does this mean other people have come here investigating the legend?” Paul said. “I only ask, because there’s so little out there about it. If it wasn’t for Decker, we would never have heard of it.”
Mrs Kelly let out a little sigh that might have been a sob and picked up the teapot. “Look, you have to understand…” she stopped. Her hands shook, making the lid of the teapot rattle. As if to mask it, she set it back down again. “People don’t come here much. In fact, they don't really come here at all.. We don't like it, don't like to see... don't...” She hid her mouth behind hand.
“Mrs Kelly...what are you so afraid of?” Paul hadn’t meant to say this out loud, but still it fell unconsciously from his mouth.
“What?” she snapped. “I’m not afraid, young man!” But her hands betrayed her true feelings again. “Look - you don’t live here,” she continued in a low voice. “It doesn’t matter what is true and what isn't – just living with the spectre of that story is enough to make any good, God-fearing soul shudder. That’s why we like to keep it quiet. It may have been over a century past, but shame’s still shame, and we don’t like to talk about it to strangers. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I’ve chores to attend to.” She straightened up, her demeanour stiff once again. “I hope you have a nice stay.” Just don’t stay too long. She didn’t have to say it – every line in her body screamed it.
They watched her retreat to the sanctuary of her kitchen out of the corners of their eyes. By silent agreement, none of them spoke until the door swung shut, and even then, no one raised their voice above a whisper.
“Fuck,” Mags said. “I wish we’d had a camera out to film that. She’s scared shitless!”
“Eloquently put,” Paul said. “But, yeah, I agree.” He felt a shameful thrill of excitement. “Seems like there’s more to this than meets the eye. I say we go and interview Malcolm Allen asap.”
“What, today? It’s already gone two… Why don’t we wait until tomorrow?” Piers asked.
“Because if we wait until tomorrow, whatever has got the wind up Mrs Kelly’s skirt may well have blown Malcolm Allen’s way, despite what she said about his affection for spinning yarns. We need to get to him before anyone else does.”
Everyone but Yolanda nodded. “Jeez,” she said, looking a bit concerned. “Are you guys for real? Does this happen often? This is a little Highland village – you’re talking as if the Mafia has rolled in with a truck-load of horses' heads. What are they going to do, threaten to kill his wife? If he wants to talk, he’ll talk. Everyone just needs to chill out.”
Although she spoke what, on the outside anyway, sounded like common sense, Paul’s gut told him otherwise. The sheer, naked fear he had seen in Mrs Kelly’s eyes was enough to tell him all he needed to know; that this town had a secret, and if he could drag it out of someone it could be the one thing that saved his dream from the curse of ignominy. This was his scoop, his Number One Chance, and he was going to grasp it with both hands, regardless of what anyone else said or thought.
“Drink up,” he said. “Decks, grab your camera. Yolanda, as our new anchor-woman, you’ll need to be there to ask the questions.”
“Uh, what questions?”
“Don’t worry – we’ll sort them out on our way over there. Your main job is to keep him talking.”
“What about me and Piers?” Mags asked.
“Shouldn’t need you two. We don’t want to spook him. Maybe you could dig around elsewhere – see if there’s a local records office or something. Although I get the impression that anything of real interest won’t be available for public perusal.”
“Heh, you ain’t jokin’ there, bub,” Mags said. “Ready to do some meddling, Piers me old mucker?” She slapped his knee and grinned.
Piers grinned back. “As ready as ever, Milady.”
“Good,” said Paul. “Since there's no mobile phone reception, we’ll meet back here by, say, six? That way Mrs Kelly can’t complain we’re late for dinner.” He raised his teacup in the parody of a toast. “Here’s to uncovering unspeakable truths, people – this could be the big one, after all.”
o0o
Mrs Kelly watched them leave from the comfort of her kitchen.
Why did he have to bring them? The time was nigh, she knew that much. They all did. They'd been waiting to find out who had been chosen, and many of them had begun to worry when no one stepped forward to accept the honour.
Then he'd shown up.
Given he had travelled from so far away meant he was definitely the one... but why bring friends? What had compelled him to tell them? Now it was only going to get harder.
She sighed. In the past, it had been easy. It had been kept very much in the family. That way, they all knew the purpose. No one questioned it, because there was nothing to question. One way or another, it had to be done. But outsiders? Outsiders didn't understand. Even when investigators were sent in, when they saw the truth of their ritual and how important it was they didn't get it. Outsiders only complicated things. She could only hope that Allen would give them enough of what they wanted so they would leave quickly. As insufferable as he was, Allen really was the best storyteller the village had.
But would they leave without him? She worried at a thread that dangled from her apron, inadvertently crafting it into a loop so it hung like a noose. Did he really know why he was here, what his true purpose was? Judging by how pale he looked, how confused he seemed, the chances were he didn't. Not the full extent of his obligation, anyway. In one way, that made this easier. He wouldn't tell, because he didn't know. But on the other hand...
Something in her mind clicked into place. Mrs Kelly scuttled over to the check-in desk and pulled out a battered address book. Her hands shook as she thumbed the pages over to ‘D’. She dialled the number and waited with bated breath for someone to answer.
“Hullo?”
The voice was commanding, the voice of a woman used to being listened to and obeyed.
“Sadie? It’s Audrey Kelly here. Sorry to bother you, but he's here…”
Chapter Four
So this was the place. Not exactly the kind of tourist trap they were used to; there was a distinct lack of brightly coloured plastic buckets and tacky figurines declaring love for said trap. Plus, the ice cream selection was, quite frankly, appalling. Instead, there were everyday knick-knacks – cleaning products, batteries, ancient chocolate bars – piled high on shelves. In the corner, a prehistoric drinks cabinet wheezed.
The whole shop reeked of neglect, but then again, so did the whole village. There was nothing new to be found: no billboard advertisements, no evidence of anything even approaching modern technology, not even a new car. Everything was at least twenty-five years out of date, like the whole village had taken a look at the present and said 'nope' and scuttled back to the past. Even the magazines on the shelf dated back to 1987.
Behind the counter a sullen young man sat reading a faded copy of ‘Smash Hits’. Wham grinned toothily from the cover. Paul frowned. Jesus, they really had turned being behind the times into some kind of art form here.
“Hello there.” Paul strode over to the counter. The youth looked up which sent his flock-of-seagulls hairstyle bobbing, but said nothing. Paul stuck out a hand. The youth didn’t take it. The smile Paul had plastered across his face faltered, and behind him came a splutt
ering as Yolanda tried not to giggle. Paul knew why: it was almost like that movie ‘Deliverance’ had come to life. If the boy picked up a banjo, he was getting the hell out of there.
“Uh, we’re staying at Kelly’s Guesthouse,” Paul continued, undeterred. “We’re researching the Beast of the Hollow. Uh, I mean the 'Bèist an t-Sluic'?” He looked self-consciously at Decker. “Did I say that right?”
Decker winced, but nodded.
“Whassat? Tha' a camera?” the youth asked, his attention on Decker. His accent was so thick it took them a minute to translate it into something they understood. “You from the television?”
“Uh, well, no – we’ve made a series of vlogs for the internet – “
“Vlogs?” He rolled the word around his mouth, as if to taste it. “Internet? Whassat?”
Paul's eyebrows shot up his head and gave Yolanda and Decker a ‘what the hell?’ look before turning back to the boy. “Uh, it's, er, it's... never mind. It's not important. We're here to speak to Malcolm Allen. Mrs Kelly said we would find him here. Is he in? We were told he might talk to us about the legend.”
The youth carefully folded the corner of the page he had been perusing and nodded slowly.
“Uncle Malc is out the back. You wait here a moment.” He shuffled off, through a doorway obscured by grubby-looking tendrils of coloured plastic.
“Wow,” Paul said in a low voice. “And you come from here?”
“Hey, why do you think I wasn’t about to shout it from the rooftops?” Decker muttered. “Mam vowed we’d never come back after my father died, and now I see why. What a dump.”
Judging by the look of distaste he gave it, Paul knew he was referring to the shop, he couldn’t help but wonder if that sentiment also extended to the town as a whole. Beyond its initial neat façade, there was an undeniable hint of decay, like rising damp hidden behind an old but respectable wardrobe. Everything here felt ancient, like the inhabitants thought they could hold back the tide of time by sheer will alone, and in many ways they’d succeeded… but at a cost. The town was stagnant. Yes, that was the word. Stagnant. Like a pond left to fester.
“Why, hello there!” The ebullience of the greeting catapulted Paul out of his thoughts. Malcolm Allen grinned at them, his hand held out expectantly. Paul paused. He had been expecting an old crank with mad hair and thick glasses; in reality, Malcolm Allen was a tall man of around sixty, athletically built but going a little to seed. He shook each of them by the hand enthusiastically, nodding when they each introduced themselves.
“Aye, aye, pleased to meet you. So… the boy says you’re from the television and want to know about the legend?”
Paul nodded, looking guarded. Allen clapped his hands together and rubbed them in what could only be described as glee.
“Excellent. Excellent! My pet subject.” He looked towards Decker. “Do you want to film me?”
“If that would be all right, sir,” Decker said.
“Oh, now, none of that ‘sir’ nonsense – it’s Malcolm, everyone knows that. Say, how’s about we retire to the back room and I show you my collection? You’d like that. Good stuff for your interview. Come on – follow me. You want a cup of tea? Aye, of course you do. Now don’t be shy – right here. I’ve got interesting stuff. You’ll see!”
o0o
Mags and Piers walked side-by-side in a companionable silence. A little while ago this would have been awkward, and before that it would have been hand in hand. It had taken them a little while to get to this point, where they finally felt comfortable again. From friends to lovers to friends again – it wasn’t something everyone could do, but they seemed to have managed it.
A few enquiries had directed them to the local pub, a tidy place that might have been fashionable around fifty years ago. The scarred wooden tables were old but clean, and a log fire crackled in the grate; after the dives they’d been used to frequenting, this place felt almost wholesome.
The barman regarded them with the same sense of suspicion as Mrs Kelly, but didn't voice his obvious concerns when they ordered a beer before sitting at a corner table. Their initial conversation was light, nothing more controversial than whether someone would finally spank Chelsea in the Premier League this year. Neither of them made any reference to why they were there and to a casual observer, they looked like nothing more than a young couple enjoying an evening out.
Usually, Mags liked to discuss what they were investigating. She might be just the electrician (yeah… 'just'. She’d like to see how they’d cope without her. As soon as a fuse blew or something needed recabling, she was all of a sudden numero uno in everybody’s world), but she liked to listen to the stories locals spun about whatever legend they were looking in to. This one, though… this one was different. There was something odd about it, something she couldn’t put her finger on. People often misjudged her, thinking her brash, but underneath it all she was a sensitive soul and even without talking to anyone, she knew there wasn’t something quite right about this place.
She took a moment to sip at her pint and observe. There weren’t many locals and those that were there didn't pay her or Piers much attention apart from the odd sullen glance, but that was enough for them to know they were not welcome here. It even shut Piers up, a feat in itself. They drained their drinks in silence, both of them mentally debating whether they should cut their losses and leave. Her mind made up, Mags defiantly picked up their empty glasses and headed back over to the bar, where the barman nodded and asked if they wanted the same again. Despite the ice in his eyes, she smiled and said yes, tapping her fingers on the bar whilst the beer flowed. No one was going to chase her out of a pub; not here, not anywhere.
“So… where you from?” The barman's question sounded more like an accusation. “We don't get many visitors here.”
Mags was usually more than happy to indulge in small talk – it made a change from talking football with Piers if nothing else – but now she wished she had given in and left.
“We’ve come up from London,” she said, feeling a little trapped.
“London? That's a long way to come to such a small town.” The barman placed one full glass in front of her and started pulling the next. “What’s got you up here, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“'Course not,” Mags said. She picked up her newly pulled pint and took a sip. “Now that hits the spot. Local brew?”
The barman eyed her for a moment and then nodded. “Aye. We don’t bother much with the big breweries. Too industrialised, if you get my meaning.” He passed over the second drink. “But I'm thinking you haven’t come all this way just to taste my beer…”
He asked the question lightly, but the hairs on the back of Mags’ neck stood to attention. She took another sip to mask her discomfiture.
“I don’t think you could blame me if I did,” she said. She offered him a grin. For some reason, she felt uneasy at the thought of sharing information with this guy. Normally she would have put his questions down to just being friendly, like bar staff desperate to keep drinkers happy and therefore spending money the world over, but the coldness in his eyes, similar to the that which lurked within Mrs Kelly's, gave her cause to pause. She chewed the inside of her cheek, conflicted. Should she say anything? She thought of the others interviewing that Allen bloke. Well, one way or another, he was going to hear about it soon enough, so was there any real harm in being truthful? “We’re here to take a look at the Legend of the Hollow. You know, the Bèist an t-Sluic?”
“So... you’re looking into the Beast, are you?” He softened his sharp tone with a quick smile. “Now who’s got you on that goose-chase? Seems to me you get anything bigger than a puddle and everyone thinks it’s going to be the next Loch Ness, know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Mags didn’t see any harm in agreeing with him. People often told you more that you (or, indeed, they) were expecting when they thought you agreed with them. “But the legend is there, and we’re part of a small fi
lm crew – we make vlogs about things like this, and so – “
“Vlogs?” the barman interrupted her. “What's that? You mentioned a film crew? Are you with the television?”
“Well, no, not exactly, but we’re hoping-”
The barkeep frowned as he picked up and glass and started polishing it. “So I take it you’re those folks stopping with Audrey Kelly?”
Mags took a sip to mask her surprise. News obviously travelled fast round here.
“Yes, we are-”
“Oh. And so I guess you're intending on staying awhile, then?”
“Well, no, not too long, anyway. Depends on how it goes, really. Usually legends like this one end up being nothing more than a big fish, or even just natural conditions in the water – we debunk more than we believe in to be honest.”
The barman said nothing as he continued his polishing, a small, but deep, crease forming in between his eyes.
“Hey, you just going to let me sit there whilst my beer gets warm?” Piers asked. Mags suppressed a little jump; she hadn’t heard him get up.
“Ah, no – sorry. Just got chatting to, uh…” she paused, inviting the barman to supply his name. That he hesitated before supplying it spoke volumes to her.
“Henry,” he said. “Henry McCormack.”
“Chatting with Mr McCormack here about the legend.”
Piers raised his glass and took a long swallow before nodding at McCormack in approval. “One hell of a legend you've got here, you know? Harder than hell to find anything about it, though. All we have to go on are vague tales of something to do with lights in the water and some kind of floating blob, which led us to even vaguer stories of pacts with the Big Guy Downstairs and then the church being drowned… We were up by the loch this afternoon, and I tell you, even if the legend turns out to be complete shit, that church spire sticking out of the water like that has to be one of the creepiest things I've seen in a while – and, believe me, I’ve seen a few creepy things in my life time.” He took another pull of his drink. “So, off the record – what d’you think? Does the devil live in the loch, or is it a load of crap?”
