The Waters of Life

by Michael H. Kelly

  When the Twenty-First Century began, huge numbers of magazines and periodicals went to the wall. The public simply stopped buying, distributors went out of business, print shops closed. But Sandra had her finger on the pulse of the future and Otherworld survived. She was merciless in her reconstruction. She made the printing staff redundant and sold of all the print machinery. She made the secretaries redundant, the sub-editors redundant and the journalists redundant – though these latter she retained on a freelance basis.

  Sandra had embraced e-publishing before it caught on with anybody else, distributing her magazine by email in electronic format. She ceased distributing to shops and instead sought subscriptions online, either for the e-zine or for a printed copy which was outsourced to a print-on-demand shop who would print the precise number of issues required to fill the subscription quota. There was no wasted stock, no back issues piling up in corners to sell off cheaply. Sandra had trimmed the magazine back to the bone and had made an even greater success of it in the process, outpacing her competitors at every turn in her streamlining and adoption of new technologies.

  “Morning, Sandra,” said Eric, perching on the corner of her desk.

  She flicked him a slightly annoyed glance over her spectacles, which were slightly too large for her face. “Good morning, Eric.”

  “Well, where else do you expect me to sit?” he shrugged. “You sold all the chairs except your own.”

  “I expect you to be out finding stories, then you can sit at home while you type them up and email them to me,” she said. “Have you got anything for me at the moment, or are you working on your next book? About poltergeists, isn't it?”

  “No,” said Eric, rocking his knee and leaning his hand on the surface of her desk. Sandra looked at it in disapproval, expecting a sweaty palm print to be left on the pristine surface. “I've no leads to decent stories at the moment. Nothing with any bite to it. And the book keeps stalling. I've got all the facts there, but I'll be damned if I can knock them into any kind of shape. Every time I read it back, it's just flat and lifeless. I can't ignite my passion for it. I definitely need a break away from that project till I can really invest myself in it again. So … I thought I'd come along here and see if my darling editor might have a lead for me? Something she's just dying to see covered for Otherworld?”

  “I see,” said Sandra, fixing him with a stare. “So you come into my office, sit on my desk, tell me without any shame that you're a burned out hack, then expect me to give you a lead? Now why would I want to do a silly thing like that?”

  “Because I'm the only loveable rogue with the nerve to come waltzing in here and tell you what a gorgeous arse you've got. You're sitting on a peach, Sandra, and I love it when you put on your stern face and it clenches up real tight. How's that for a reason?”

  In spite of herself, Sandra laughed. She gave Eric a longsuffering sigh, then said, “Well, I suppose there is something I've wanted someone to look into for a while.”

  “I knew it!” said Eric, clapping his hands together. “I'm your guy!”

  Sandra was looking through directories on her computer, opening a series of files. “Yes, here we are. I want you to look into some miraculous healings. There's a spring that breaks the surface in a tomb near the village of Scratchbury – St Wulfred's Well, they call it – and the waters are supposed to be healing. It has a very long history, but details are hard to find.”

  Eric shrugged. “Healing wells? Sacred springs? That's old territory, Sandra. Same old, same old.”

  “Not in the least,” she insisted. There have been two instances of miraculous healings in the last few months, and I'm not talking about someone throwing away a stick they didn't need in the first place. I'm talking about a blind woman regaining her sight and a teenager's spinal curvature straightening itself out. Both live witnesses with real medical records. It's very rare to find proof that something out of the medically ordinary has happened like this. I also want you to really dig into the history of the place. There are lots of references to it, but they're all muted, almost as if the details have been censored or excised. I want you to look back through the church records. There are also the ruins of a monastery close by which are in private hands. See if any records have been preserved from its monastic days. Dig deep on this one, I think it's something special.”

  Eric chewed his lip and said nothing for a few moments, swinging his leg idly back and forth as he mulled things over. “Okay,” he said at last. “Miraculous healing shrines are ten a penny and they nearly all turn out to be smoke and mirrors, so that doesn't grab me. A couple of contemporary witnesses? That makes it slightly more interesting, but I'll need to see real evidence before I get over excited. But there is one thing I do find curious, which is why I'll accept the assignment.”

  “And that is?” asked Sandra.

  “In nearly all cases of healing springs, sacred wells, or saints' relics, you find a long line of people all cashing in on it, starting with the church and working all the way down. So why are they being so secretive about this one? Why aren't there busloads of pilgrims, all paying to enter the shrine and buy tacky souvenirs?”

  Sandra smiled tightly. “Well, that's for you to find out, isn't it, Eric? Make your travel arrangements, I'll meet your expenses. I'll print out all the files and information I have and get it in the post for you so you'll have it by tomorrow.”

  “Great,” said Eric. “I'll read up on it and then set off for Scratchbury the following morning. Thanks, Sandra.” He flashed her a smile and slid off her desk, heading for the door.

  “Just one more thing before you go, Eric,” she called after him.

  He looked back over his shoulder. “Yes?”

  “Please be thorough, but keep me posted at all times, so that we can put an article together at short notice if need be. Apparently a film crew are going to be arriving in the village shortly to make a documentary about the well. We may want to get our story in ahead of theirs, or on the other hand we may want to publish simultaneously to ride on the coat tails of their publicity.”

  “I see,” smirked Eric. “So you want me to keep an eye on what they're up to as well, to figure out how we play off against them?”

  “Precisely,” said Sandra, smiling sweetly.

  Eric grinned to himself as he strolled back to his car. Typical Sandra! She'd probably been sitting on this story for months and only flagged it now because she saw a possible opportunity for boosted sales. Still, she was smart and she knew precisely what she was doing, every bit a winner in a world of losers.

  Eric slept late the following morning, so that he'd feel refreshed and ready to read through the sheaf of printouts Sandra was sending him. Also, he wanted to get an early start the next morning so that he'd still have near enough a full day to nose around and get his bearings when he reached Scratchbury.

  The post had already been delivered when he went downstairs and as expected there was a hefty, large envelope from Sandra's office. He picked it up and sauntered into the kitchen, ripping one end off the envelope and spreading its contents across the table. He picked his way through these, speed reading, as he ate his toast and drank his coffee, occasionally lingering over some of the more interesting bits.

  The paperwork was pretty much what he had expected. There were maps and directions to Scratchbury, plus a few surprisingly vague references from internet articles about 'miraculous healings' at St Wulfred's Well. Many of these, which mostly lacked dates and names, were obviously second or third hand reports, but some linked to other websites for fuller information. Eric wondered why Sandra hadn't included printouts from these in her package; it wasn't like her to be anything less than thorough. The more recent information was more promising: names and addresses of two very recent cases of healing, one from blindness, the other from spinal problems. A further report concerned a film company named Tels' Star Productions, which would be filming two movies back to back in Scratchbury over the next six weeks: one an 'entertainment
' with no further details specified in the report, the other a documentary on the healing spring. Finally, there was the name of the address of the man who owned the ruins of the old monastery: a David Stoker, who lived locally.

  “Should give me enough to get started,” muttered Eric. Before he got dressed, however, he opened his laptop and set about looking up the links that Sandra had neglected to provide. He pulled up each of the reports she had provided him with, then clicked on the links for further information. But in every single case, the link led to a dead site, or to a blank page, or a page with a large gap where an article had once been.

  “How very interesting.” Eric muttered to himself. “It's not a case of no information. The information was once here, these links once pointed somewhere. But it's all been deliberately removed. But why?”

  Eric sat for a long while, deep in thought, tapping a rhythm on his teeth with his pen. He was a great believer in the validity of the old question, 'Cui bono?': 'Who benefits?' Investigative journalism was nearly always a case of following the trail of the money. But who could possibly benefit from this concealment? Supposed healing sites were notorious scams and brought in big money. But this one was being deliberately taken off the grid. But by whom? And why?

  Eric dressed, then phoned Scratchbury's only hotel to make his reservation. But he discovered that there were no rooms available; they had all been booked up by the film company, who were arriving that day. Given Sandra's insistence upon being first with the news, Eric had hoped to have a few days' start on them, but it appeared that wasn't to be. He would have to work fast. After a little searching online and some phone calls, he located a small bed and breakfast and arranged to spend a week there.

  The following morning, Eric rose early, threw his travel bag and laptop in the boot of the car, and made the drive to Scratchbury. It was a pleasant journey to begin with and he made good speed down the motorway. Then it was a pleasant change when he turned off and began following the B roads deeper into the countryside. But these roads wound on for a long, long time until it started to become oppressive, surrounded by hedges at every turn on narrow, constricted routes with rarely a sign of life.

  By the time he passed through the first of the smaller villages that surrounded Scratchbury, he was feeling quite unnerved and he pulled over to pop into a little village shop just to ground himself with a little human company once again.

  Eric bought himself tobacco, papers and – on a whim – a bag of toffees. He felt much better in the shop, surrounded by the sights of civilisation.

  “Stopping in the village or just passin' through?” asked the shopkeeper idly. He had greasy hair, slicked flat, a little moustache and old-fashioned round glasses. He was actually wearing an old brown grocer's coat that looked like something from the 1970s (and probably was).

  “I'm passing through,” said Eric. “I'm not going much further, though, just as far as Scratchbury.”

  “Oh, you with the film people?” the shopkeeper asked.

  “No,” said Eric. “You know about them, do you?”

  “Everyone knows everyone else's business round here, mister. They're not altogether above board if you get my meaning.” He winked awkwardly. “They're here to shoot a nudie movie, so people are saying.”

  “I see,” chuckled Eric. “So, I guess you'll know all about the healing well too, then?”

  The shopkeeper looked blank.

  “Saint Wulfred's Well?” prompted Eric. “I heard a couple of local girls had their illnesses healed there recently. One of them was blind and had her sight restored, something like that.”

  “Hmm, maybe that rings a little bell,” shrugged the man. “There was something in the local paper a while back, I think. Don't know about any well, though, or any Saint Wulfred either.”

  “He was Abbot of a monastery nearby,” said Eric.

  “Well, there are the ruins of an old monastery sure enough. Maybe someone in Scratchbury will know something about it?”

  Eric made his way back out to the car, musing upon the surprising lack of local knowledge. It seemed as though the allegations of a blind woman recovering her sight may have made the local press, but the supposed healing well was presumably not mentioned. This was a very peculiar state of affairs. Even when knowledge was suppressed, you could usually expect at least the locals to be aware of it, and the village shop was surely where most of the gossip would take place?

  Feeling more certain than ever that something was amiss with this story, Eric started the ignition and drove on to Scratchbury.

  The village of Scratchbury was a bit of an anti-climax when he reached it. It was a little larger than the other villages in the region, but not as picturesque. Some of its houses were old, but they were just whitewashed and bland, without the quaint features that city folk associate with the countryside. Also, several terraces of newer, identikit houses had been built between the older parts of the village and the lake, which detracted from any scenic beauty the area might otherwise have had. Even the gardens were dull. The surrounding villages had all made an effort, with great beds of multi-coloured flowers in every garden, and hanging baskets. Scratchbury was just plain, mowed lawns, green but featureless, the only occasional splash of additional colour being some child's trike left outside in the garden. Despite being the central hub of the local villages and the largest of them, based on first impressions Scratchbury actually seemed to be the poor relation. It was duller, drabber and just seemed to be a rather dismal and depressing place, where the occasional pedestrian to be seen in the village centre just dragged their feet and shuffled wearily along, without energy or enthusiasm. It was as if the place had been sucked dry of all real life and vitality. Despite the little playground and school and the toys strewn in gardens, no children could be seen or heard playing. It filled Eric with a sense of oppression and melancholy.

  Eric passed the village's sole proper hotel as he drove to the bed and breakfast he had booked into on the outskirts. He saw a couple of black vans parked outside with 'TEL'S STAR PRODUCTIONS' painted on their sides in white. “Not the most classy or professional of outfits then,” he muttered to himself. Maybe that seedy shopkeeper had been right about them just making a sleazy film?

  He stopped the car on the road outside the cottage displaying a bed and breakfast sign, annoyed to find that there was no proper provision for off road parking. Still, beggars couldn't be choosers. He grabbed his bags, walked up the short garden path and rapped the door knocker a couple of times.

  He was just about to knock again, when he saw a shape approaching slowly on the other side of the door's frosted glass. A couple of moments later, the door opened to reveal a plump woman with her greying hair in a bun. She was about five feet tall, her skin looked clammy and she was wheezing heavily as if the journey from couch to door had been a severe ordeal. “Mr Turner, is it?” she gasped. When he nodded, she stood aside. “Come in, please.”

  Eric sidled past her into the cramped hallway, which was cluttered with chairs, a side table with a telephone upon it, an umbrella stand, coat hooks and a grandfather clock. All of the bric-a-brac that people expect to see accumulated in an old house was gathered here in a single narrow hall.

  “You must be Mrs Stoop?” said Eric. “I spoke to you on the phone.”

  “Yes, you did,” she wheezed. “You're very lucky, you know, us having a room available. We're often busy at this time of year.”

  “How many rooms do you have available for guests?” asked Eric.

  “Just the one,” she said, a little huffily. “Follow me, please.”

  She opened the first door on the right and Eric looked through into a tiny living room which was almost completely filled with an overstuffed two seater sofa, a wooden dining chair, a display case of ornaments and a television. A skinny, wrinkled little man sat staring unblinkingly at the television, on which an old black and white war movie was playing. He was smoking a pipe, the odour of which completely overpowered the confined space.
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  “That's my Harry,” said Mrs Stoop, “and this is the sitting room. You can join us down here any time you want to watch the telly.”

  She closed the door again on her unresponsive husband and led Eric further down the hall to the kitchen. This was at least a modest size, though the ceiling was very low and wood-beamed. Eric noticed patches of damp on the walls, its odour pervading the room.

  “Breakfast is served here at eight o'clock,” said Mrs Stoop. “If you want to make yourself any other meals, you can use the cooker to prepare your own food, but if it takes more than twenty minutes to cook, we'll have to ask for a contribution to the electric. Now, follow me please and I'll show you up to your room.”

  She led Eric to the foot of the stairs, lurched heavily up a couple of paces, breathing heavily, then evidently decided that it was too much for her. “First door on the left,” she wheezed, motioning him past. “Bathroom is right at the end.”

  He squeezed past her, wrinkling his nose as he passed. Her heavy, sluggish frame smelled just like corned beef, a mixture of stale sweat and musty clothing. “Thank you, Mrs Stoop,” he mumbled, then climbed the stairs as rapidly as politeness allowed. He heard her bump slowly down the two steps she had managed to ascend and shamble back to the sitting room to slump down next to her catatonic husband.

  “Fucking hell,” he whispered, “what have I landed myself in here?”

  He opened the first door on the left and entered a tiny bedroom, which contained a single bed, a dressing table and a narrow wardrobe. The room was so narrow that he had to turn side on to walk between the bed and the other furniture and the wardrobe doors wouldn't open to their full extent because the bed was in the way. There wasn't even room for a bedside table or lamp. It was a good job he had a torch in his bags, otherwise he would have had to grope blindly into bed after switching the main light off at night.