The Vertical Plane

by Ken Webster

  KEN.

  I had tagged something on before:

  IF TIME IS SHORT WE MUST CHOOSE … BUT HOW CAN WE AS WE KNOW SO LITTLE OF YOUR PURPOSE. I DARE NOT APPROACH THE FUTURE I CAN ASK NO MORE AND MERELY ADMIT CONFUSION. I DO NOT REALLY UNDERSTAND THE CHOICES SO HOW TO CHOOSE??

  … and after:

  MYNE FREEND JOHN THOU SHALT LEARN THOSE THYNGS THAT YOU SO DESIRE IN FOWR OR FIVE DAYES. BE PREPARED.

  KEN

  … and looked again. It was hardly an improvement. If these were important decisions I was making they looked raggy and inadequate. I was going to admit defeat; I had done! Even the spelling had slipped. The only purpose I could see that would justify keeping the computer going was to enable SPR to witness a message, poltergeist activity, anything, and to keep Lukas’s friend hanging on. That was my final objective. A pretty lowly one compared to destiny perhaps but it had a kind of logic.

  John replied within minutes, which in itself was interesting:

  NOWE

  I laughed. It erupted from deep inside. ‘The greedy little bastard,’ I said over and over with varying emphases. Almost childishly trying out the sound of my voice in the short echoes of the kitchen. John, too, was being childlike. The illusion he suffered: that we had a power! ‘Let me tell you,’ I said to the dumb screen. ‘Don’t think that because we are the future we have gone so far. We’re not gods, you creep!’

  ‘Who are you talking to?’ Deb’s gentle voice floated down from the studio.

  My mood was much improved; I strode off around the village leaving Deb alone once more. So much better to be out in the evening air. Saturday night at the Red Lion, the same voices, the same faces glimpsed through an open door. I did not go in. The churchyard was a better, quieter place. I walked its gravel paths from yew to pine, from wall to wall and, slowly now, to the church gate and home.

  NOWE

  The bastard wasn’t giving up. I replied:

  NO … A FEAST IS WORTH A FAST. KEN

  It felt good, for all the shabbiness of my last communication to 2109, to have decided in that moment that I would not allow anyone to communicate with them again. It was my prerogative to run away from the problem. Peter, I knew, would have liked it to go on but there was no fascination in it for me, just embarrassment and confusion.

  I flicked through a few files, not expecting anything but a few memories, a few regrets. This was dangerous complacency. Nothing was ever simple or predictable with this damnable business. On the file opened on 17 May, below the reminder ‘time is short’, was a new jumble of letters; it got clearer as it progressed.

  FRENDTHYSBEAFRENDOFLUKAS YE MAYE CALLE THOMAS MY NAM IF THEE FINDE THYS RIGHTLY

  I AMM KNOWEN TO ALL MEN OF EVERYE MANNER IN THYS PLAS LUKAS WHO BE IT A GOODLIE MAN DIDST TAKES TO ASKS ME TO TEL THE KYNG OF HENRY MANN I AM ALSA TAKEN TO WANDER WHAT BE THYS QUESTION TO THE KYNG SO THAT I MAYE TELL HIM AS IS ASKED

  THOMAS

  I called Debbie down. It wasn’t shocking. I can remember that. With the events of recent days in mind this communication was just one more for the collection. It could easily be ‘John’ trying another tack. I sketched out a few lines as a reply the same night. As an afterthought I tried a guess at who it might be if it wasn’t ‘John’:

  BEE YOW THOMAS FOWLESHURST

  Within twenty minutes, before I had time to get myself ready to go out there was the word:

  YEA

  The sheriff himself, Thomas Fowlshurst. Well, this was a nice surprise – our first man of history. Because of the effort to save Lukas we had dug up what we could in the library on Fowlshurst. He was based in Nantwich and was a beneficiary of the dissolution of the monastery of Combermere, very much a King’s man.

  I asked him what change of heart was this, to put a man to death and then to communicate with the very ‘devylls’ Lukas loved. Perhaps he too dreamt of power.

  20

  Dave Welch huffed and puffed his way to and fro with a reel-to-reel tape recorder, bags of wires, rolls of sticky tape and other assorted items. John Bucknall detailed the plan for the evening. In the studio they would set up a ‘listening post’ with a microphone run out of the window across the kitchen roof and through a slightly open skylight into the kitchen itself. They would set it running and wait in the living room. Debbie would wait with them. Peter, Val and myself would spend our time in the lounge at the Red Lion. We got the hard work.

  All windows and doors abutting the kitchen would be taped up. If a message was received it would not eliminate us from the enquiry but it would eliminate an intruder and suggest some sort of bugging of the computer or that the computer had been ‘seeded’ with the information, i.e. the messages had been left hidden in the disk, or in the computer’s memory itself, waiting to emerge when prompted by an internal timing device or external trigger.

  This all seemed very reasonable but my technical knowledge wasn’t up to understanding the detail so I merely repeated the procedure for obtaining a computer from the Maths and Computing Department: choose one to hand, add a disk drive and monitor, put it into squeaky foam covers, sign for it, load into the car. The disks were my own purchases. John asked whether it was possible for a member of the Maths and Computing staff to prime a suitable computer. I said that the choice of computer was mine and so there was a good chance I would not select a suspect machine. Prime them all? I didn’t think they’d have the time …

  This line of enquiry was duff. We alone had the ‘motive’ and the opportunity to prime the computer or disk drive. SPR were after us. I felt it was useless to put my hand on my heart and swear that I didn’t know anything technical about computers. I didn’t know anything. I felt as if I were under wrongful arrest.

  It was now even more important to show that these events were genuine. I needed to clear my name! Naively, I had let these people come along and expected them to start from my point of view. Peter Trinder, however, remained pleased at the proceedings. He admired the direct, honest methods of SPR. ‘We are the prime suspects,’ he said. ‘They’re absolutely right in their approach.’ I gave him a puzzled look.

  Later that evening there was a disturbance of some sort, a noise from the studio. John and Dave were unwilling to investigate at first hand so Debbie crept upstairs and peered round the door. Looking at her from the corner was a round, furry, stripy creature. ‘Koshi!!’ She put the cat out and apologized to John and Dave. It had jumped in through the window and knocked over some equipment. Smiles all round.

  A greeting to Fowlshurst and ‘John’ had been left on the screen since 7.00 P.M. By the time SPR concluded their session it was about 9.30 P.M. There had been plenty of time for a message. My frustration when I discovered nothing new was intense. The SPR tape would be analysed but I doubted there’d be anything on there.

  Tea and biscuits followed. The atmosphere was most cordial. SPR were not discouraged and promised to return in a couple of weeks time. I stressed the importance of absolute quiet and appropriate behaviour. I believed what I said but it must have sounded like an attempt to restore confidence and I regretted speaking almost as soon as the words were uttered. I wanted it proved. I knew it was real in my own mind, perhaps that was dangerous but since the messages came every few days and in similar circumstances they had to happen when SPR were there, if those circumstances were recreated often enough. John and Dave said they’d come again on 3 June.

  Peter kept at the main issue: ‘It is in their hands. John has promised to write up all his findings.’ It was ‘something positive to look forward to’.

  ‘Even if it’s us?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  About 10.00 P.M. on Saturday 27 May the sheriff wrote describing how Lukas behaved in court during the trial:

  … HE CRYE NOTT FOR MERCYE BUTT DID SAYE THE COMMUTER COULD ONLYE HAVE COMME FROM GOD AND THAT THEYE WERE NOE MORE THAN IRREGULOUS HALFWYTTED BOTCHES WHO BEEITT THEME TO BE SNEKKE UP …

  It seemed that Lukas was suggesting that it was the court t
hat needed hanging.

  At that stage I felt tired enough to be indifferent to what Fowlshurst was doing. I fixed in my mind the date of SPR’s next visit and was satisfied with that. ‘Can I leave this to you and Debbie to carry on while I’m away next week?’ Peter readily agreed, promising he would come down after the weekend.

  21

  28 May

  The tyres rattled over the white lines and the Catseyes reflectors as I turned from the M56 toward the M6. A dull sort of day but my mind was on Scotland and my eye on the fuel gauge. Speeding northwards, the wind, the sounds from the stereo: the grey-green of the Cumbrian mountains. Shap summit. Across the border, and down to two lanes, I needed to stop. Ecclefechan was the next township. A sign said ‘services’ but apart from the house where Carlyle lived and a sad little garage there did not seem to be anything. I growled through onto the bridge across the M74 then I stopped and got out. With a half-full bottle of Perrier in my hand I looked from the bridge at the traffic. Glancing over at the Coupe I noted with satisfaction the grey colour of the exhaust pipes. We were 180 miles from home. It was far enough to feel that it was safe to look back. I raised the Perrier in triumph. No one was looking.

  Meadowhead Cottage is reached by a bumpy track between the green forest and the yellow of oilseed rape fields in flower. Magnificent beech avenues presented themselves as I looked across the Deveron valley. The car edged forward. Rod Emberton, John Cummins’s friend, had already made up the fire in the cottage and smoke rose vertically from the chimney.

  More than usually tired, I was glad to ease myself from the car and stretch my legs before settling in front of the fire. The cottage is stone, with a slightly damp but very reassuring smell. I planned to stay until Friday. Rod and I went for a walk along the path which leads to the main house. Rod wanted to know the latest on the ‘hoax’, so I told him at length, and to his evident amusement, that SPR had so far discovered or confirmed nothing. Greater amusement still when I indicated that they suspected, if not us, then neighbours or even property developers keen to push me off my land. His insensitivity grated on me. I was trying to be straightforward and report on developments as requested but, striding through the meadows and parkland with his nose in the air, Rod took it for entertainment. ‘But Ken, where’s your proof … eh?’

  Where indeed?

  29 May

  A few shreds of mist hung around the mid-point of the valley but the beeches were clearly visible on the hill above me. It seemed as though the whole land was exhaling. Its breath tasted sweet. Buchan is blessed with an exceptional quality to its light. Across the Deveron, crows circled a copse, a vehicle moved along a lane a mile away. My thoughts, so disturbed by the strange events at the cottage in the last months, now began to flow more freely. I imagined them taking to the morning air and brushing the leaves off the beaches as they turned northward and eastward then, sensing the sea, fell back to the rich soils of Buchan.

  I took stock of myself: I was physically heavier, slower, my wits were duller but my enthusiasm was returning. I chose to read Orwell’s Coming Up for Air, it kept me looking to the future. George Bowling went back in search of his past and discovered it wasn’t there. I would not but I had a need to find out how I had changed, where I was … I was coming up for air in Turriff between the infinite sky and the endless rolling hills.

  Here too ran the road we’d take down to the sea. And sea meets river at Banff; the Deveron slides quietly into the waves. Across the small estuary from the castle mound there is MacDuff, a curiously religious, dour tenor to the place as opposed to anglicized, livelier Banff. Rod said he would like an office in the creeper-encrusted tower adjunct to the grassed castle moat in Banff. I could see him holed up there in a kind of Dickensian fusty gloom, poring over plans for granite-grey fish markets or museums for those who collected fragments off this land. Oh, and he was still muttering, ‘Humbug.’ ‘Naïve realist,’ I muttered to myself. ‘He belongs in that tower.’ Though in deference to him as my host I spoke little more of the affair at the cottage.

  TFSPEAK

  DebI CANNOT ’TIL MY MAN RETURNS OR ’TIL I HAVE PETERS WORDES : DEBBIE.

  TFWY THYS BEE HAUE THOU NOE TUNGE PRAYE

  DebI AM BUT A HUMBLE GIRL WHO MAY CAUSE YOU TO BE UPSET BY MY ILL-SCRITEN WORDES FOR IT IS TREWE TO SAY THAT I HAVE NOE TUNGE, THAT IS, IN WORDES OF YOUR TYME. DEBBIE.

  TFMETHINKS THOU MUSTT SPEAKS MORE OR ME SHALT THINKS YE TO BE A HALFFWITT WERE IS YOUR MAN KEN ANDD THE LERNED MAN PETER PRAYE

  DebMY MAN IS IN SCOTLAND AND PETER IS IN HAWARDINE METHINKS.

  TFWHATT DOE THOU KNOWETH OF THE LEEMS HOWW MANYE DAYS SHALT YE BEE ALOON

  DebI AM NOT ALONE FOR TOO LONG, I HAVE MANY FRIENDS WHO DOE VYSYT ME AND IF I NEED MY MAN HE SHALL COME QUICKLY. WHY DOE YOU MOVE SO MANY THINGS IN THIS ROOM?, I CANNOT THINKS WHAT IS TO BE GAINED BY THESE SILLY TRICKS YOU PLAY, IT DOES MAKES MY MAN ANOYOUSE, WE DO NOT MOVE YOUR THINGS ABOUT, DOE WE?!. TELL ME, HOW DID YOU LEARN TO USE THE LEEMS WITH SOE MUCH HASTE, I THOUGHT ONLY LUKAS KNEW, BUT IF YOU ARE THE SAME MAN I SHALL UNDERSTAND AND NOT TELL MY MAN IF YOU TELL ME WHO YOU REALLY ARE, YOUR NAME AND THE DATE!. DEBBIE.

  TFYE BEE RIGHTLY SAYD THOU HATH NOE TUNGE INN ME WORDES MEE BIDDS GOOD DAYE

  DebHAVE I SAID SOMETHING WRONG, WHAT HAVE YOU TO HIDE? I SHALL THINK YOU ARE THE SAME MAN, AS LUKAS AND JOHN, IF YOU PLEASE TO NOT ANSWER!. DEBBIE.

  The light, such starkness even at noon. The swash rumbled up the beach towards the washing lines, the old net lines, quite bare along the sea front. We were at Pennan, a village clutching on to a cliff, which had been one of the locations for the film Local Hero. The car was parked about five yards from the now mildly notorious phone box (from which the film’s main character would ring Hacker, his boss, in the USA). The bonnet was up and the distributor cap hung by its plug leads while the publican tried to sell me his Lotus between snatches of sympathy. I rang Jaguar dealers and Debbie from the mildly notorious phone box. Some wag had written above the dialling codes: ‘Phone Hacker, Houston 763882’ (or some such number). Debbie was also another world away. Or at least in touch with one. She quoted me the latest.

  I continued my travels with Rod: Aberdeen, Fraserburgh, Pitmedden Gardens, cafés, endless fields, lanes and hills. In the Forglen estate there were deer and red squirrels. This was not just any port in a storm.

  On Friday I left Turriff early. Many hours later, tired and irritable, I sat in traffic near Warrington as the temperature rose steadily inside and outside the car. Welcome back. Debbie turned out to be depressed and unhappy because her landlady had on some pretext attempted to evict her from East Green.

  An exchange between Peter and Fowlshurst had taken place over the few days with varying degrees of confusion. One message was received whilst Peter, Val and Debbie sat in the living room discussing the latest turn of events. I wrote in my diary, ‘… leaves me out of it at least.’ This is one short example of that exchange:

  SHERRIF WHERE MUST YOU GO TO NOW? WHO LIVES IN THE HOUSE OF LUCAS NOW HE IS NAMORE? PETER

  MOSTE NOBLE SIRR

  I AM TO CAST AIM AND THINNKS YE KNOWE NOTT OF LUKAS FORR THOU SAYE LUKAS NAMO YE BEE NOTT A MANN OF VANITEE FORR YOURR WORDES ARE WISE MEE TAKES TO THINK MEE AKNOWE YE DELITS TO THE LEEMS IFF THYS BEE NOTT YE UNDERSTONDIN FORR MEE TOO AMM STRANGED BY THYS. THIRE BEE THYMME EYNOGH TO SPEKES WITH YE ANOTHER DAYE WHENE TYMME BE MY CHOYSINGG TELL THE WOMAN THATT I HAVE NOTT TO CAUSE TO HAVE THREAFUL WOREDS WITH HER NORR WITH THYNSELFFS

  LONGG LIFFES THE KING

  FOULESHURST T.

  Most noble sir

  I will take a guess and say that you know nothing of Lukas for you say Lukas is no more. You are not a man of vanity for your words are wise, it occurs to me. I know you have a strong interest in the ‘leems’ even if you don’t understand it. I too am confused by it. There will be opportunity enough to speak with you another day when I have time to spare. Tell the woman that I have no reason to have harsh words with her nor with yourself.

  Long l
ive the king.

  Fouleshurst T.

  No one was particularly interested in Fowlshurst’s unpalatable words, and this message was only half-digested before being passed over. I certainly did not read it with care. Had I done so I could hardly have failed to notice that our good sheriff was no longer as sure as he had been that Lukas was dead.

  22

  On 3 June, a Monday, the SPR were back.

  This looked fun, little bits of tape on doors and windows, secretive little traps to catch the ‘intruder’ out. They’d given up on tape recorders and so forth. The house was quiet and the green screen glowed all alone on the kitchen table. We were in the Red Lion eating and drinking. Debbie commented that this was becoming an expensive habit. John and Dave repeated their suggestion that we were being fooled by someone in the village, by the neighbours possibly.

  Peter calmly accepted this suggestion as a serious one and probed for more detail. The crux of it was that somebody had to be doing it and perhaps a boorish character in the village, a property developer, was scheming to frighten me off my property in order to increase his empire. It was my fault for mentioning this Machiavellian rogue at the previous meeting. John and Dave were on the hunt for a motive.

  That someone in this time and at this place was the culprit was already beyond question as far as they were concerned. What little comfort I could take from the implication that Debbie and I were innocent victims was dispelled.

  ‘So you don’t believe we are doing it?’

  ‘Oh, we haven’t eliminated any of you yet.’

  Peter was disconcerted and sensing it I came to his defence. Not Peter. I always resisted the spreading of the net to this man.

  One hour, two hours. Sometime between two and three hours later the house was opened up. John and Dave went in alone. Standing outside my own cottage while strangers nosed about gave me a strange feeling – a little like indecent assault, I imagined, perhaps inadequately. There was no message.