by steve higgs
‘That will all cost money, Tempest.’
‘Which I will pay as my baby shower gift.' Even though I was fairly certain men did not traditionally give gifts for baby showers, this seemed like the most efficient way of avoiding a tearful sister sitting sharing soggy egg sandwiches with her friends, shoehorned into my parent's lounge.
The discussion ranged for a few minutes more while we finished our tea and biscuits. Like a boxer sparring with a particularly gifted opponent, I danced around the topic of gifts but could not find an opening where I could strike. In the end, I gave up. I had scored some points, although with my mother one had to do it so surreptitiously that she thought any new idea was, in fact, hers all along. In essence, I quit while I was ahead and left the remaining topics to be broached another time.
I had one more question though. ‘When is it to be?’ Mother looked at me blankly. ‘The party, mother. What date?’
‘Oh, next Saturday.’
‘Of course, it is.’ I already knew all of this. My purpose in asking the question was simply to check mother was not organising something completely different.
Just then my phone rang. It was Jagjit, so I answered. He wanted to confirm the time and place we were meeting and if it was okay to bring Hilary along. Hilary's real name was Brian Clinton, but… well, guys are dicks basically. Anyway, Hilary was one of the regular Friday night pub chaps and had spoken before about coming along on one of my capers just because all the other chaps had. I had never pursued it with him because I suspected his wife would not let him, but if he was free to come the extra pair of eyes would help. I confirmed all the details and disconnected.
Mum and dad were gathering their things to leave. I hooked a finger through the three empty mugs and grabbed the biscuit tin with my other hand.
I saw them to the door and bid them a pleasant evening. The Dachshunds were in their bed with just the tip of one tail showing out from beneath the blankets. I liked to believe that goodbyes made them melancholy and that this was the reason they greeted people but never saw them off. It was more likely though that they knew there was no food in it for them so saw no reason to move.
I closed the front door on the cool October air and went upstairs to get ready. Then heard a knock at my front door again. Mother must have forgotten to tell me or ask me something. I opened the door expecting to see her, so was momentarily caught out when I found Frank outside. His arms were full of books and folders in which sheets of paper had been stuffed.
‘Hello, Frank.’
‘Phantom.' he said giving no further explanation. He sort of indicated the arm full of books with his head so that I would understand that they were about the Phantom. He was loaded down by them, the awkward stack threatening to slide out of his control at any moment.
‘Is that all you could find? I joked.
‘Oh, goodness me, no. I have twice this much still in the car. Your dad is getting it for me.’
Sure enough, coming down the path towards my house was my father carrying another stack of books.
‘And there’s more.’ Frank beamed.
I took the pile he was holding from him and deposited them in the kitchen while he went back for more. Dad came through the door a second or so later to dump the second pile on my kitchen counter.
‘He is an entertaining fellow.' Dad said, referring to Frank. ‘Is that the bookshop owner you were telling me about.'
‘The very same.’
‘Is he safe?’
‘I think so. He just has an alternate view to most people. Frank sees a shadow and assumes it has been caused by an evil spirit left on earth in the aftermath of a battle between a fairy prince and a goblin wizard.’
‘What is all this then?’ Dad asked indicating the pile of books?’
‘It is research into the Phantom of Barker Mill.' Frank said coming through the door, his arms full of books again. ‘It is evidence of other phantoms gathered over several centuries, catalogued material on the theories regarding why phantoms form, what motivates them, how to fight or repel them and the third pile that I am holding now provides alternate theories on what the entity might be.' He dumped the heavy pile of books on the kitchen counter next to the other two. Sticking out of the pages were dozens of little, coloured flags where he had no doubt marked a passage that was pertinent to the case in hand.
‘Michael.’ Yelled my mother from the front door.
‘Coming, dear.’ he replied to his ever-patient wife who had been made to wait and was now keen to get home to the snooker or something. ‘Catch you later, kid.’ he said on his way out of the door.
‘So, Frank. What have you got for me?’
‘Perhaps, Tempest, I should start by laying some groundwork definitions. Please tell me if I am teaching you to suck eggs. A phantom is the spirit of a dead person believed by some to visit the living as a pale, almost transparent form of a person, animal, or other object. It comes from the ancient Greek word phantazein which means image or apparition. Phantoms differ from ghosts in that they are always grounded to a specific place. Tragedy or trauma, not necessarily one that causes their death, but one that becomes the focal point of their life, fixes their ethereal form to that place. Acts as an anchor if you like. There are many famous reports of phantoms in the UK. When one considers the whole planet, the numbers of recorded incidents becomes immeasurable.'
Frank paused while he fished out a particularly thick book. ‘Here, in Baron's Guide to the Dead he has recorded phantoms in different categories. There is a whole section on phantoms that haunt roads. The records do not go back very far, of course, little more than a century and most are linked to fatal car accidents. There are a few reports of much older phantoms on our roads such as this one.' He indicated with his finger. ‘Which is a Phantom monk that appears on the A6003 near Corby. Baron suggests that he found evidence of his appearance recorded as far back at 1514. It is most likely that the road he was killed on was a bridle path that became a major thoroughfare and then a road as the years went on. This one,' he pointed again, ‘is on Bluebell Hill just a few miles away.'
I leaned in to read the passage. The author claimed there was a phantom that appeared as the image of a woman in a bridal gown. She would jump in front of cars, causing drivers to swerve and in some cases crash, but she would then vanish. She was always seen in the same spot and the reports went back decades.
‘Moray and Blithe write about the Phantom of Barker Mill in some detail. I think they have the best report although it is an old one. They became involved in 1912 when two workers were killed. Archibald Quibly asked them to chronicle his investigation.’
Frank droned on for long enough for me to make tea, drink it and consider making another. There was a lot of information if one cared to do the research. He gave me alternate theories regarding lore on phantoms, what the different researchers thought the Phantom of Barker Mill’s origins might be and even a few ideas about how to trap it.
‘What do you think it is?’ I asked, more to indulge him than out of any sense of curiosity. I thought Frank was harmless but also completely bonkers. I indulged him because I liked to hear alternate theories. They made me consider mine and in doing so sometimes forced me to form new ideas.
‘It is probably a classic phantom. Very possibly the spectral image of the first Mr. Barker's business partner.'
‘Or?' He had made the last statement in a manner that suggested he thought it might be something else.
‘Well.’ He started. ‘I think.’ He was really drawing this out. ‘That you have a much bigger problem.’
‘In what way?’
‘Some of the evidence points to this being a phantasm.’ Frank had locked eyes with me, he was trying to convey how serious he thought this was.
‘And the difference is?’ I asked.
Frank rolled his eyes. ‘Phantoms are not exactly benevolent, but they are also not known to be violent. This one is. Only a few days ago another man was burned in an attack. Phantasms have b
een recorded as the most violent of all apparitions. Well, behind wraiths of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘So, I think the Phantom of Barker Mill is actually a phantasm. A particularly nasty one. Prone to violent acts and not to be underestimated.’
Trouble at Mill. Monday, 11th October 1950hrs
Rather than take my car, which only had two seats, I had arranged for Big Ben to pick me up. We then collected Frank and Poison as they lived quite close to one another and headed to Dartford with a car full.
Big Ben and I were wearing our usual outfit for such activities which was an all-black set of combat-style fatigues with black combat boots, black, fingerless gloves with Kevlar knuckles and a vest that had Kevlar plates in and pockets to the front in which useful items went. I had instructed everyone else to wear black as we wanted to merge into the shadows and be invisible. In a bid to make sure they did, I had made it sound like we were carrying out a daring raid inside enemy lines. I had told Frank to come dressed as Batman, then, after I had put down the phone, realised my mistake and fretted for the next two hours that he might do exactly as instructed.
Luckily, he had not taken my instruction literally so was wearing hues of black and grey - a hoody over a Black Sabbath t-shirt. Poison, the athletic little minx that she was, had on sports gear. It was all black including her trainers, but as was often her way, her midriff was showing. I acknowledged that her stomach was a flat, wondrous canvass that ought to be displayed, but it would reflect any light and reveal her position. I elected to not worry too much about it.
On the way there, I had regaled the car occupants with what I had learned about the Phantom so far.
‘So, the Phantom is Owen Larkin?’ asked Big Ben in confirmation. ‘Why don’t we just have Amanda arrest him at his house?’
‘Because if we catch him in the act it will be very hard for him to deny his guilt. Currently, all we have is my testimony that I heard Owen and Brett Barker talking about the Phantom. If it went to court, any decent lawyer would rip the case apart and I always try to present the client with a watertight solution.'
‘But isn’t the client in this case also the man behind it all?’ asked Poison.
‘Well, I admit I am a little confused by Brett Barker’s move to hire me to solve the Phantom’s identity if he is the one pulling his strings. I think the answer to the why of that will be solved this evening if we catch Owen.’
The forming up point I had chosen was the car park of a large national supermarket chain. It was situated on the other side of the road from the Mill so provided a good field of vision to the front gate. The overhead lights of the carpark provided illumination for the shoppers going to and from their cars and held back the inky gloom in every parking space and trolley park save for the corner that I had chosen to gather in. Here, two broken lights close together gave us the shadows I wanted.
The seven of us were performing final preparations for what I worried might be a long operation. It was 2007hrs, so the last shift of the day could be seen leaving the Mill on the opposite side of the road.
My team looked like a poor man’s paramilitary group when viewed together. Everyone was in black as instructed, everyone had a radio clipped to their belt with a mouthpiece extension clipped onto their jacket collar and most were wearing some kind of tough army-style boot. If one ignored the radio and viewed the chaps separately, they just looked like they had made lazy wardrobe choices, except for Poison who always wore black and managed to make it look like a kaleidoscope of colour just by being in it. Big Ben and I were the problem, I suppose. Our matching Kevlar body armour vests and combat outfits needed only to be accessorised with an additional cape and pointed-ear cowl and either one of us could be Batman. I was fervently hoping the supermarket did not have cameras on the car park that were being monitored inside, as a contingent of anti-terrorist police descending on us would make a swift end to the evening.
I handed out a tin of black face paint for the team to remove the shine from their faces and expected to have to convince them to use it, but they each took to the task with glee, applying it to each other and checking their faces in the reflection of car windows. Apart from also handing out a couple of oversize black hoodies, one to cover shiny black letters on Hilary's coat and one to just cover Poison up a bit, I had no other wardrobe tasks to perform. We were ready.
I had game-played Owen's actions in my head and believed he was most likely to wait until the Mill was empty before he ventured in. From the supermarket carpark, I would see him if he arrived early. What he might do though is enter the Mill by an alternate entrance, so it was time to get moving.
The Mill had no night time security, just an entry code to make the front gate open at night. Their lax security has allowed me to see and commit the entry code to memory on my first visit.
‘Okay, chaps.’ I started. ‘With luck, this will be a short mission.’ I held up a photograph of Owen to show them all. ‘This is the man that has been acting as the Phantom. He has been sabotaging Mill equipment and is responsible for injuring at least one person. I want you all to consider him as dangerous.’
‘Tempest I can only stay a couple of hours.’ said Hilary. ‘My wife will not tolerate me being out all night.’
‘Fair enough mate.' I replied. Next to me, Big Ben had started humming something.
‘Tempest.’ A voice called from behind me. My heart actually stopped; I swear. I turned around slowly to find my parents walking across the car park towards me. ‘Cooee, Tempest.’ My mother called again.
‘What are you doing here?’ I asked them as they reached the group.
‘You said you needed a big team for tonight.’ Chipped in my dad. ‘So, we thought we could help.’
I gave myself a mental slap. I was struggling to find a reason why they could not help but I had nothing. They were old but not decrepit, they could run, and they had working eyes and ears. Besides they were already here so it would be hard to turn them away. They were even wearing black, although my mother’s sweatshirt had kittens on the front of it.
I hung my head in defeat for a second. Then lifted it back up with a happy expression showing instead. ‘Great, we could use the extra eyes. Ben, can you grab two more radios please?'
While Big Ben was opening the boot of his car, I produced the black face paint again and offered it to my parents.
‘Ooh, Michael. Wait until I tell the ladies at the church.’ Mother said excitedly.
‘I suspect, mother that you have the wrong idea about how this evening will go. This is a stakeout in the belief that the person pretending to be the Phantom will show up. But what that means is we will be quietly tucked into dark corners doing nothing but quietly watching until he shows himself. That might be hours.' I warned.
‘Oh hush, Tempest.’ said my mother smiling. ‘You are always off on some adventure. Always chasing some villain and getting yourself in the papers. And who knows? Maybe with us here you will avoid getting arrested for once.’
I took a radio from Big Ben's offered hand and clipped it to my mother's waistband, then threaded the microphone wire up through her sweatshirt and clipped it just under her chin. Next to her Big Ben did the same with my father. We demonstrated quickly how they worked.
Not willing to have my parents operate as a couple, I split them up, suffering the unfortunate task of pairing my mother with myself. I opened the map of the Mill once more and added a new spot for the extra team to watch from.
Then my mother and I, Poison and Jagjit, Hilary and Basic and finally Big Ben, my Father, and Frank slipped across the road when a gap between cars appeared and headed to the Mill. The gate entry number worked as it should, and we were in and fanning out.
Strict radio silence was the instruction until movement is spotted.
I had selected for my mother and me a position on the far side of the Mill. We were exposed in the security lights as we crossed the car park, there was no way to avoid this, but once we reached the
buildings there were ample shadows into which I disappeared. I had taken my mother's hand to make sure she stuck with me, but I could feel her dragging behind me slightly now. I turned to see her fiddling with her handbag, trying to get something out of it.
‘What are you doing, mother?’
‘I brought a torch with me, Love.’ she said pulling a Maglite from her bag and switching it on. The beam of light instantly pierced the gloom I was relying on for stealthy movement.
I grabbed for it and switched it off. ‘Mother.' I started, hearing the desperate pleading in my voice already. ‘We are supposed to be invisible. We need to be quiet; we need to get to our viewpoint without tipping off the Phantom and when we get there, we need to remain unseen. No torches. No phones. No humming hymns if you get bored. Do you understand?'
‘Well, I don’t think you need to be so snippy, Tempest. If I fall over in the dark, I will make plenty of noise.’ My right eye twitched.
‘Just follow where I go, and I will avoid any trip hazards. Okay?’
Mother said nothing, clearly a little ticked. I took her hand again, forcedly smiled at her and set off again.
The radio crackled quietly to life. ‘Ben's team in position.' came Big Ben's voice.
‘Hilary and Basic in position.’ a few seconds later.
I replied to both with, ‘Roger. Out.' Just then we turned the final corner and I could see where I intended to go. I hugged the shadow at the edge of the building, watching silently for a moment. The best position for us was against the building opposite. It backed onto the water and from the leading edge, we had a clear view down two sides of the mill main building and to several other buildings exposed on this side of the Mill. To get there we would have to cross through the lit area again.
A minute went past. ‘What are we doing, Tempest?’ asked my mother at normal volume, the sound echoing against the dark.
‘Mother!' I whispered with as much inflection as I could muster at low volume. ‘At night noise carries further. Near to water, it carries even further. You must whisper. Like I am. Get it?'
