by Davies, Neil
“He said it was too dangerous. And he went all religious on me. You know the kind of thing. Meddling in things we know nothing about. Going against the will of God.” She shrugged. “Usual crap.”
“Funny isn’t it?” said the Professor, nodding with understanding. “Not that long ago we would have been heroes of the Church doing battle against the forces of evil. Now that belief in such things is almost non-existent, even among the clergy itself, we are seen as dangerous meddlers.”
“Most of our work comes through the Church.”
“Yes, but not officially. Officially what we deal with doesn’t exist, can’t exist in this modern world.”
“You’re falling into lecture mode,” said Susan, smiling. “So, forget this conversation and get back to telling me why you called me.”
The Professor picked up the letter and passed it over to her.
“Came in the post this morning,” he said. “It’s from Father Rex. I’ve read it over and over and I think he might have something. But you have a look yourself and tell me what you think.”
“Father Rex? It must be two years since we heard anything from him.”
“At least. Read the letter.”
Susan read in silence, pausing only to take the occasional sip of her tea. Her father watched, his unlit pipe once again firmly between his teeth. After several minutes she handed the letter back.
“That isn’t his Parish is it? I thought he was somewhere on the east coast?”
“The Parish’s official priest is a Father Wakefield. The impression I get is that Father Wakefield asked Father Rex to visit his Parish, perhaps for the same reason Father Rex has now sent us this letter.”
“From what I remember, Father Rex was a little, how should I put it, excitable about this kind of thing. A true believer. Is it possible he’s mistaken?”
“It’s always possible. What he sees as evil devil worshippers practising Black Magic might well be nothing more than a few locals finding an excuse to get together and do a bit of wife swapping. However, maybe I should show you this.”
He handed her another piece of paper, smaller than the pages in the letter. It looked to Susan like a piece ripped from the sort of cheap ring-bound notebook you could buy at any supermarket.
“What’s this?”
“This was in the envelope. I think it was written after the letter and pushed in at the last moment. It possibly changes things somewhat.”
Susan unfolded the paper and read it:
Father Wakefield has disappeared. I fear they have him. Please come as soon as possible.
“Now it gets interesting,” said Susan, smiling, her love of investigation and adventure every bit as strong as her father’s. “What’s this place called again?”
“Byre.”
“Sounds disgustingly rural.”
CHAPTER THREE
1
Father James Rex stood in the pulpit of the church in the centre of Byre and looked down on the congregation. From what he knew of the place it was unusual for so many people to attend the Sunday morning service, but then they had no doubt heard of Father Wakefield’s disappearance and were curious as to what he might have to say on the matter. This was his third Mass here, but the first without his old seminary friend in attendance.
It seemed to him that many of the faces were frowning and he felt he could almost read their thoughts. What right had he, a stranger, to tell them what was happening in their own village? Just being a priest didn’t give him the authority to try to change their ways, at least not in this village.
Their Parish Priest had gone missing and no one, not even the police, had shown anything other than a passing interest. Could he wake these people up? He had to try.
“My sermon today is not about the Reading you have just heard from the Gospel.”
His start was scratchy and he cleared his throat a little too close to the microphone. As the sound rumbled around the church, several people laughed.
He took a deep breath.
He had to do this. They couldn’t all be involved. But he had no idea who out there was.
“Instead, this morning I want to talk about you and your village.”
The congregation murmured and shifted uncomfortably in the pews.
“I’ve only been here a short time, invited here by Father Wakefield who has, as I’m sure you know, gone missing. Father Wakefield has lived in this village for almost ten years and regards many of you as personal friends, and yet he agreed with my assessment of what is happening here. Indeed, it was his suspicions that led him to invite me in the first place.”
He paused, noting with some satisfaction that the shuffling had stopped. He had their attention. Whether he had their respect or belief remained to be seen.
“There is evil here in Byre!”
The shuffling returned, accompanied by some nervous coughing and, once again, the low rumble of not so discreet murmuring.
Father Rex took a deep breath and plunged on. He could not stop now.
“There are people among you who have chosen to follow Satan’s path, who worship him and perform perversity and evil in his name. Most of you know who they are. You know what they do, and yet you choose to ignore it. Well, let me make this clear. Not only will the souls of those who take part in these disgusting acts be damned, but so will the souls of those who choose to stand by and do nothing.”
People stood up and walked out. Those who still sat looked nervous, not sure whether to join them.
“Why are you going? Should I believe that all those leaving are part of this evil? Or are you just misguided, or frightened? Perhaps too frightened to hear the truth.”
More people were leaving now, as if his accusations had spurred them into joining their fellow villagers in this demonstration against the stranger. Only a handful remained seated, scattered about the church, mostly elderly it seemed. Perhaps they were too old to be frightened or just too old to care? Perhaps they stayed because they wanted to see what else the mad priest said?
He rallied for one last defiant shout.
“I will find you and destroy you in God’s name!”
He fell silent, his head pounding, the nervous energy drained out of him by the courage he had used to present his attack. He bowed his head forward in silent prayer, too exhausted to continue the Mass.
“Father?”
The voice was soft, female, and came from in front of the pulpit. He looked down into gentle eyes that seemed full of care and compassion. He suddenly felt that it was all worthwhile with people like this in the village, people worth saving.
“I’ve seen you around but I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”
“That’s okay Father. I just wanted to thank you for your sermon and tell you that you’re right. There is evil in this village. I’m Principal at the Sixth Form College and I’m very concerned at the influence these people have on our children. I just wanted to let you know that there are those of us in this village who are grateful that someone such as yourself is here to help rid us of these evil people. It’s been going on too long.”
Father Rex smiled.
“Thank you. I must admit I doubted there was anyone here who would believe me, let alone help me.”
“You’re not alone Father, believe me. My friends and I are very interested in what you’re trying to do. Perhaps you would come round for some tea this afternoon and we could discuss it further? I live opposite the library. Number 32.”
“Yes, I would like that. It’d be nice to talk to some like-minded people. We could begin to draw up some plan of attack to get rid of this evil.”
“Make it about two then. I’ll look forward to it.”
As she turned from the pulpit, Katrina Bayley smiled at Mark Bullough, who sat half way back in the church.
2
Tim Galton woke, his whole body sweating, and glanced nervously about his darkened bedroom until reality dawned on him.
He had been dreaming he was back in th
e old house. He calmed his breathing and turned onto his back, staring at the ceiling.
It had been many years since he had last had that dream, and it had always been the same. He was lying in bed, listening to the sound of his parents talking in the room below, when suddenly he would go cold. Something would brush by him, something he couldn’t see even in the moonlight coming through the curtains, and he would scream. He would hear whispering and he would scream. Then his parents would rush into the room and all would be well. Just a dream, they would tell him, just a young boy’s imagination running away with him. It had always been the same
He looked at the travel clock on the bedside cabinet. 11 am. He hadn’t realised how exhausted the travelling had left him.
He rolled out of bed and pulled open the bedroom door, stepping onto the laminated wood of the landing. A waist-high balcony curved away from him on both sides and, walking to it, he looked down into the large, open living area of the converted chapel. It had been one of the first things he had noticed on pushing his way through the double doors at the front of the building last night, the circular gallery above the living area, the high ceiling giving a sense of enormous space. Second had been the narrow staircase and the low beams at the top. In his tiredness he had failed to notice these soon enough. There was still a dull ache where his forehead had collided with the black wood.
He lifted his eyes to the two windows set in the sloping roof of the hallway’s edge. They looked out over cultivated fields, a winding lane running adjacent to the hedgerow, a small brook almost invisible between the two. He felt he was looking at his childhood, or at least a faint, nostalgia-smoothed memory of it. And his childhood, in turn, brought memories of the girl he had loved.
She was not the first girl he had fallen in love with, in the way that small boys do as they grow up and girls become creatures of interest rather than irritation. No, not his first, but the first to love him back.
He remembered the early games in the barn out at Hatter’s Farm, the nervous fumblings and experiments of two thirteen year olds. How shy he had been, and how forward she had been, running about the barn, flicking up her skirt, tempting him with wonders he wasn’t sure he knew what to do with even if they had come his way. They didn’t, of course. Not then. It had taken two increasingly frustrating years before they had finally gone further than teasing and desperate groping. He guessed by the standards of today’s teenagers they had been slow, but back then sex had been strange, seldom discussed and scary.
Hatter’s barn. The less than luxurious surroundings where he had lost his virginity in a clumsy, knee-trembling frenzy that must have lasted all of ten seconds, just before old mad Hatter had stumbled, half drunk, into his barn and chased them off, threatening to tell their parents. He never did. Farmer Hatter may have been mad, but he had been young once and, anyway, Tim had always suspected he had been outside the barn for some time, watching Katrina.
Little Katrina Bayley. He doubted she was still around here, and she certainly wouldn’t be little any more.
There had been women in his life during the last twelve years, but none he had felt anything other than a passing desire for. His military career had dominated his life. Sad that he had to think all the way back to Katrina to find anything even close to love, and an immature teenage variation at that.
He sighed, letting the memories escape, and reached for his clothes.
3
The morning after a rainy night, all of the fragrances of nature drawn out of the ground, rising up. A myriad of smells combined to form that curiously clean, light odour, the unique fragrance of a world drying out.
Tim inhaled the air, allowing the poetic side of his nature full reign. Nowhere he had been on his travels had quite the same smell as England after rain, and he realised now that he had missed it.
A slight and very cold breeze told him that he had not zipped up his jeans and he rectified the matter with a smile.
So much for poetry.
He turned to look at his new home, his first view in daylight.
There could be no mistaking its original purpose as a chapel. Although the interior had been extensively modernised and redesigned, the outside had been left alone as much as possible. The rectangular building was made from local stone, the sloping roof from red tile. Modern Conservation Windows, with the required health-and-safety wide opening, had been installed in the roof, but the tall windows of the main building were as old in style as the stone around them. They still had the black lead bars crisscrossing the frames. The top of each window was arched. Memories of furtive and fearful glances into the dark interior returned to him, of children screaming and laughing and running away, swearing they had seen someone, a face, a figure, in the deserted place. Even now, he was unsure if he could step up to one of those panes of glass and peer through it without at least a trace of fear.
“Good morning Mr. Galton. How was your trip?”
Tim was startled by the voice and turned to see a small, elderly lady standing at the end of the drive to his new home.
“Good morning,” he said, recovering quickly. “The trip was fine, if a bit damp at this end.”
Who was this woman? How did she know him?
There was an awkward pause and then the woman laughed and advanced slowly down the drive, her hand outstretched in greeting.
“Silly me, you must be wondering who I am. I’m Mrs. Hobsen the housekeeper. We did speak briefly on the phone.”
“Yes, Mrs. Hobsen,” he said, smiling. “Thank you for getting the chapel ready. It was nice to be able to just get in and settle down without having to make beds and so on.”
He took her hand and shook it.
“They paid me for the full week, so I thought I’d pop along this morning and make sure everything was all right.”
“Everything’s fine Mrs. Hobsen, and thanks again.”
She smiled, paused and then gave a little sharp intake of breath.
“I almost forgot. The postman gave me this. He didn’t know if you were here yet.”
She pulled a letter from her pocket and handed it to Tim.
“I’ll be off then, if you don’t need me. Just give me a call if you want a hand with the house. I left my number on the table in the front room. Bet you’re glad to be home.”
“Yes.” He watched her walk up the path and away along the road. “Nice to be back.”
But this wasn’t really his home. Maybe he would visit his real home after a while, but not just yet. He wasn’t ready for that yet.
He tore open the letter, frowning as he saw the letterhead of his UK attorneys. He quickly glanced down the column of figures and winced at the final sum. Arranging to hire this place from the camp in Afghanistan had proved to be expensive, despite the reasonable level of rent. But it had been his last tour of duty before leaving the regiment so there had been little choice.
He stuffed the letter into his coat pocket, refusing to worry about it, and headed off up the drive.
Time to see how much of the village he remembered, and whether any of it remembered him.
CHAPTER FOUR
1
The village shops lined the short stretch of road running adjacent to the library and the public toilets he had attempted to shelter by the night before. Most of them Tim didn’t recognise, but the Butcher was still where he remembered, and the Post Office, although the name had changed above the door. The short alleyway leading to the doctor’s surgery was familiar and, across from the T-junction at the end of the row of shops, The Sail and Tether, the local pub. It looked the same as it had on the night of his eighteenth birthday, when his father had taken him there to buy him a drink.
Not far along from the pub was the forbidding edifice of the old church, its steeple rising impressively above the rest of the village. The close vicinity of the pub was convenient for the old priest who was there during Tim’s youth. While the old man might not have been an alcoholic, he was certainly trying his hardest to become one.<
br />
It was so familiar, and yet there was so much that was different.
He searched the faces of the few people walking by, but recognised no one. Twelve years was a long time. People moved away, as he had.
In the quiet Sunday morning he imagined he could hear the sea down in Byre Bay, but he suspected it was his poetic side taking flight again. Unless the waves were running at storm level he knew he wouldn’t hear them in the village, but it gave him a place to head for, a destination to what had otherwise been an idle stroll.
The sign at the T-junction informed him that to the left was Brayton, towards him was Byre, to the right Byre Bay. He didn’t need the sign. He remembered his way to the bay. He had spent too many childhood hours down there to forget.
He imagined a summer stroll between open fields, the smell of wild flowers mixing with the less perfumed odours of the cows grazing nearby. Instead he walked, shivering in a growing bitter wind, between grey housing estates. The fields had been built on, the cows gone. But there was one thing the Council’s planners could not change.
He could now truly hear the sea. The waves breaking on the rocky beach, the masts and cables on the boats moored at the marina creaking and slapping in the wind. He breathed in the sharp tang of ozone, savouring it. Turning one last corner, he saw the coast and smiled.
There may have been changes, but they were not serious enough to alter the essence, the spirit of Byre Bay.
The road ran downhill to the small car park by the beach, a perfect, straight track for the go-karts he and his friends used to build. They had been nothing more than a few pieces of wood, a box, and some old pram wheels, but they were better than anything he had driven since. Steered, in theory, by a complex arrangement of string and knots, they were actually uncontrollable. But that didn’t matter as Tim and the others rode screaming towards the beach. Even the crashes, the painful sliding and scraping, were happy memories of a time when life was more straightforward.
