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Copyright © 2015 by Mark C Sutton
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
‘The Black Pathway’ is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s
imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
First published 2015.
Cover photo: Mark C Sutton
Cover model: CJ Charles as Howard Trenton
Cover Design: Zeelund
This book is dedicated to Charlie-Joe. For making my world such a brighter place.
The Black Pathway
Prelude
A young man, who was almost nineteen years of age, stood on a large slab of black rock at a location known locally as Wildbridge Hill, looking out at the view before him. He had a scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face, hiding his nose and mouth. The youth had medium-length, dirty blonde hair, and cold, pale blue eyes, that were almost oriental in shape. Indeed, it was an occasionally whispered rumour, amongst the residents of Coldsleet, that the young man’s father had been of oriental extract, but this wasn’t correct. The young man was of average height, five foot eight tall, and had a skinny frame. He wore a long, thick, grey overcoat over an unfashionable jumper and jeans, together with sturdy hiking boots. In one of his coat pockets was a knife. The young man, whose name was Howard Trenton, took the weapon from his pocket and examined the blade for a few moments, before putting it back into his coat. He smiled softly, gazing back towards the moors and the mountains that lay not too far away. Above the landscape before him, the morning winter sky was crisp and blue.
“It’s gonna be another cold one.” Howard said to himself. He stepped off the blackened chunk of rock and onto some grass that crunched under his feet. He looked down at the grass, which was covered in a layer of white frost. “Yep… it’s gonna be another cold one.” He repeated.
Howard Trenton walked across the top of Wilbridge Hill, past an old and broken wooden bench, and towards the edge of the summit. When he arrived there, Howard looked downwards, to his hometown of Coldsleet that was spread out before him. Beyond Coldsleet was the Irish Sea.
“Wouldn’t want to be out there today.” Said Howard, before turning away from the edge of the hill, and strolling back towards the bench. This is where they found you, lying just by this bench here. Or, at least, that’s where you told me they found you. Sometimes… sometimes I’m not sure if you ever really told me the truth about anything. Maybe it felt like the truth to you, as if it all really happened, but perhaps it never really did. I know that you weren’t well… capable of imagining all sorts of nonsense… so, does that make you a liar? I guess not. Not if you really believed it, pondered Howard. He ground the sole of one of his walking boots slowly along the grass, leaving a dark line across the frosty surface of the floor. For what it’s worth, I don’t think you imagined what happened up here at all. If it was all in your head, then why am I the way that I am? No, you were troubled, mom, you were really fucking troubled, but that night, up here on Wildbridge Hill… it happened. I’m a testament to that, surely?
***
1997
The young woman was carried, on a stretcher, from off Wildbridge Hill by two paramedics, with a third person - a policeman - steadying and assisting them as they negotiated their way down the badly worn stone steps that led back to the main Coldsleet to Elman road. As the paramedics and their patient disappeared from view, two more police officers remained on the summit of the hill, standing close to a wooden bench where the woman had been found just half an hour earlier, by an elderly man who had been taking his dog for some early-morning exercise. One of the police officers, a thirty four year old woman called Diana Marsh, looked over towards the stone steps, wearing a sad expression on her face.
“I know that girl. Her name’s Loretta Trenton. She’s a regular.” Said Diana. Her colleague, a burly, tall, dark-haired newcomer to Coldsleet constabulary called Peter Taylor, looked at Diana, slightly puzzled by her comment.
“What do you mean, a ‘regular’?” He asked. Diana Marsh smiled.
“Loretta gets herself into a lot of… how do I put this nicely… awkward situations around the town. She’s not a well woman.” Diana advised.
“Why? What’s wrong with her?” Peter Taylor was curious to know.
“Mental issues, I’m afraid. Loretta is a diagnosed scizophrenic. She spends a lot of time down at Hingley-Edge… there’s a psychiatric hospital there.” Diana informed her colleague.
“Yeah, I’ve heard of that place.” Peter replied. “One of my relatives, on dad’s side of the family, he ended up there, back in the nineteen seventies. He had a nervous breakdown… tried to top himself… then ended up getting sectioned. He was in Hingley-Edge for a couple of years, from what my father told me.” Said Peter. “I remember dad telling me that it wasn’t a very nice place.” He added.
“No, it isn’t.” Confirmed Diana Marsh. She gave Peter another smile, then took in a deep breath of the early morning air.
Diana Marsh looked down the hill, back towards the town of Coldsleet; her home and birthplace.
“So, what do you think actually happened to Loretta up here?” Wondered Peter. Diana shrugged her shoulders.
“I’m not sure… she looked as if she’d spent the night in a refrigerator. I could actually see ice in her hair. It’s as if it were freezing up here last night… except it couldn’t have been.” Diana pointed out.
“No… it certainly couldn’t.” Agreed Peter Taylor. “Me and Vicky had to throw the bedroom windows open last night, it was so hot and humid… just like it’s been for the past fortnight.” He said. Diana nodded.
“I fell asleep with an electric fan on… woke up at half two this morning, turned the thing off… except I was too hot and couldn’t get back to sleep, so on went the fan again. I reckon last night was one of the hottest so far this summer.” Suggested Diana Marsh.
“Yeah, it probably was.” Replied Peter.
“So, that being the case… why did Loretta Trenton appear to be half-frozen to death?” Diana asked. It was an interesting question.
***
Loretta Trenton stared up at the roof of the ambulance, then turned her head to the left. A kind-faced, plump lady was smiling at her, and holding Loretta’s hand.
“We’re nearly at the hospital now, love. How are you feeling?” Asked the woman.
“Like I’m coming out of deep-freeze… I feel like a defrosting turkey on Christmas Eve!” Loretta managed to joke. The plump lady smiled.
“Well, you certainly haven’t lost your sense of humour.” She said.
“No. Just my innocence.” Loretta snapped, with a sudden anger in her voice. There was a silence for a few moments, and then the female paramedic softly squeezed Loretta’s hand.
“My love, do you remember what happened up on the hill? How you came to be frozen like that?” She asked, with curiosity.
“I was attacked.” Loretta Trenton replied, calmly. “I was attacked, and I was raped.” She elaborated. Loretta half-smiled at the paramedic, and then turned away from the woman, staring back up towards the ambulance roof. For just a few short seconds, Loretta’s large blue eyes turned a dirty-yellow in colour.
PART ONE
- HOWARD AND MARY
Chapter One
It's hard to believe now, but Coldsleet was, back in the earlier part of last century, a thriving holiday destination; a seaside town where people from as far afield as Ruthley, to the north, or Salegate, to the east, would flock to, especially during bank holiday weekends. Of course, back then, in the years between the Great and Second World Wars, Coldsleet was served with a railway line, making it an easy to reach destination. Many of the local residents blamed the closure of that line, in nineteen sixty three, as the beginning of the end for Coldsleet. But it wasn’t just a rail-line closure that represented the origin of Coldsleet’s slow and steady ruination, for at the same time, people began to holiday for longer durations, the likes of which Coldsleet could not really cater for, and in addition, holidaymakers were finding it easier to access foreign climes. Truth be known, they were already turning their collective noses up at the town of Coldsleet (and others of its ilk, dotted around the British coast) long before the local railway line was closed for good.
One type of visitor that did remain consistent in visiting Coldsleet, despite the seaside town’s slow decay, was the enthusiastic hiker; the location of Coldsleet had, for many years, been the starting point (or finishing destination, depending on which direction you were heading), for the 'Black Pathway Trail', a thirty mile walk that had had a lasting and enduring popularity with walkers. The pathway began in Coldsleet, starting in the car-park next to Saint Bernadette's church, just off the steep and winding Leeton Lane, which served as one of three main road routes out of the town. In the corner of the car-park was an old wooden signpost, just to the right of a rusted and squeaky kissing gate, with the following words carved into it, accompanied by an arrow:
Coldsleet Moor - 5 M
Knighton - 8 M
Knighton Mountain - 14 M
Hoffen - 19 M
Hoffen Mountain - 23 M
Salegate - 30 M
Once through the kissing gate, the Black Pathway Trail began to climb gradually, leaving behind the town of Coldsleet, and gently winding its way first alongside Sleet River, and then, a mile further on, across it, via an old, humped, stone bridge that had straddled the water beneath it for more than two hundred years. Once over the bridge, the Black Pathway twisted sharply to the right, veering dramatically away from the River. There then followed a lengthy hike through flatlands, the likes of which that could, in bad weather, become hazardous, trapping and stubbornly retaining any heavy rain falling upon them, and turning the whole area into a swamped, muddy quagmire. Following its journey across the flatlands, the Black Pathway began to twist upwards once more until, finally, it reached the dark and threatening slopes of Coldsleet Moor.
After snaking over the northern edges of Coldsleet Moor, the Black Pathway would gently descend for a mile, and then skirt around the small, welcoming, market-town of Knighton. Knighton was the usual place for most hikers to end their first day of trekking along the pathway, and offered several guest houses in which walkers could rest themselves for the evening. Knighton was, very often, a finishing point for many who were interested only in partially walking the Black Pathway; the rest of the trail was significantly harsher, taking in two separate mountain ascents, which were certainly not suitable for the more casual rambler, or indeed those that found themselves pressed for time, and without the luxury of two more spare days in which to complete the hike fully.
Once out of Knighton, the Black Pathway continued a steady descent through pleasant fields and meadows, gradually edging towards Skerrington Forest. The forest, named after the wealthy, and much-loathed eighteenth century landowner, Lord Edward Stephen Skerrington, seemed to mirror the soul of the black-hearted man that had bestowed his name upon it. Skerrington had been an individual that, owing to his position of power, believed himself to be above the law. However, the Lord had been wrong in this foolish assumption. Lord Edward Skerrington had ended his days exposed as both a fraudster and murderer, and paid the ultimate price for his crimes at the old gallows that lay within the confines of nearby Salegate Prison. Skerrington Forest was dark and grim, and offered the rambler little in the way of scenery to enjoy. Here, the Black Pathway could be notoriously difficult to follow, especially as it criss-crossed several other nature trails that were exclusive to the forest. Many a less-experienced navigator had taken the wrong turning, which usually led to that unfortunate individual finding themselves, at some point, back at the Skerrington Forest Nature Centre, which was in the complete opposite direction to where they were meant to be going. Other unfortunate souls ended up accidentally heading first south, and then west, emerging back onto Coldsleet Moor, except now without the benefit of the Black Pathway for navigation.
Eventually, the Black Pathway left behind Skerrington Forest, and began to climb steeply as it traversed the western slopes of Knighton Mountain. The ascent was usually a straight-forward affair; any difficulties in negotiating Knighton Mountain usually occurred after reaching its summit. Once at the top of the peak, the Black Pathway not only descended and narrowed harshly, but also ran uncomfortably close, for half a mile or so, along the edge of a rocky ridge that was known locally as ‘The Fool's Gauntlet'. Over the years, many walkers had accidentally stumbled or fallen off the ridge, usually when attempting the descent of Knighton Mountain in foggy or slippery conditions. Such a plunge usually meant certain death, as most of the ridge hung more than five hundred feet above a lonely, boulder-strewn valley below, that bore more than a passing resemblance to a distant lunar moonscape.
Despite its dangers, the descent from Knighton Mountain into the town of Hoffen was an extremely picturesque one; to the south of the Black Pathway, and near to the base of the mountain, ran Sleet River. To the north, lay the peak of Hoffen Mountain. Beyond that, the hostile, and generally inaccessible slope of Gerrett mountain could be seen. The Black Pathway trail wound its way gently down the eastern slopes of Knighton, edging ever closer to Hoffen, which would finally come into view following a short hike through a small, but densely-packed, mountainside forest known locally as ‘The Friery’. After another two or so hours, the town was reached. Most individuals walking the entirety of the Black Pathway trail would spend a second night bedded down in Hoffen, though this wasn't always the case; there were a small number of extremely hardy, and highly experienced ramblers, who had completed the walk along the Black Pathway in a day, though these were extremely few and far between. Our story begins with a young man who, upon stumbling into the town of Hoffen, decided that he couldn't go on anymore; his name was Alex James Crennell, and he most certainly wasn't either an experienced, or hardy, rambler at all.
Alex, a spikey blonde-haired, brown-eyed youth of nineteen years, together with his friend, Gary Ackley, a twenty two year old who had gained some notoriety in his hometown of Coldsleet, simply for sporting a long, blue mohican haircut, argued as they finally came off Knighton mountain, and onto the streets of Hoffen.
“That’s it, man, I’m fucking done with this shit. I’m not spending another day on that sodding trail.” Cursed Alex, his whole face flushed, and soaked in sweat. “Two days… two days of hell. Well, no more, I’ve had enough. I never want to see another fucking mountain in my life.”
“Oh come on, man, don’t be a wuss. We’ve gotta finish it now. We’ve only got one more day of hiking left to do.” Replied Gary.
“Yeah? Well you can go ahead and finish the walk on your own, but me, I’m catching the next bus back to Coldsleet. Oh, and don’t call me a wuss again either, you silly, blue-haired twat.” Growled Alex, his patience at breaking point.
“Just chill a bit, Alex, take it easy. Look, how about we just crash in Hoffen for the night, like we’d planned… you know, have a few beers, get some decent grub, enjoy a good kip, then maybe you’ll feel better about everything in the morning?” Suggested Gary, who had been looking forward to climbing Hoffen mountain the next day.
“I told you, I’m not walking another inch of the Black Pathway
. I’m fucking done with it, do you hear me? Done with it.” Snapped Alex. Sweat ran into his eyes, stinging them. Alex rubbed at them, which only made things worse. “FUCKING SWEAT!” He screamed. “I can’t stop fucking sweating.” Alex went on.
“Calm down, Alex, just cool it.” Said Gary. In a fit of temper, Alex Crennell took off the backpack that he had been carrying over his shoulder, and swung it at his friend’s head. Fortunately for Gary, the backpack missed its target.
“STOP telling me to calm down. How the fuck can I? Look at the fucking state of me! I’ve got sweat pissing out of every pore on my body, my frigging feet are covered in blisters, everything… EVERYTHING aches. Screw the Black Pathway Trail, and bollocks to stopping overnight in this shit-hole of a town. Like I said, I’m catching the next bus out of here.” Alex stormed.
Gary Ackley held his hands out, trying to placate Alex Crennell.
“Okay, Alex, okay. I get the message. Let’s just find the bus stop, and you can go home.” Said Gary, giving up on persuading his friend to try and finish the Black Pathway Trail. Alex took a long breath.
“Thank you, Gareth, for finally making a suggestion that makes some sort of fucking sense.” He said.
“Don’t call me ‘Gareth’, Alex. My name’s Gary, and you know it.” Replied the blue-haired punk, with moderate hostility.
“Bollocks, mate. If I want to call you Gareth, then I will.” Said Alex, in defiance of his friend. “Right, now where’s the fucking bus-stop around here?” He asked. Alex glanced further down the street that they found themselves walking along; all he could see were residential properties and parked cars.
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