by Davies, Neil
Her fingers relaxed their grip on the pistol and she pulled her hand from the beneath the pillow. The only sound in the room was the gentle buzzing of her travel alarm clock on the bedside cabinet, the only movement a faint stirring of the curtains as the outside air found the cracks in the peeling paintwork and flaking plaster of the wooden framed window.
Slowly she let her head sink back into the pillow and pulled the sheets up to her chin, but her eyes stayed open. As tired as she was, she was wary of falling back to sleep. No, not wary. Frightened. She did not want to see that bald headed teenager again. Did not want to see her father held, forced to watch. Did not want to feel the weight of that body lowering onto hers. She did not want to feel the helplessness, the fear.
She lay in the bed, staring at the gently rippling curtains, until dawn broke over the village.
AELLO
She threw back her head and howled.
As her strength grew with each new sacrifice, as the blood of her enemies gushed into the mouth of her vessel, as the meat of their bodies gave sustenance both physical and spiritual, so her patience began to dissipate.
Her time grew ever nearer, but it was so, so slow.
Her followers in the village, including the one who called herself witch, were not moving fast enough. They did not understand. The presence she had felt in her graveyard home a short time ago, the unfamiliar shiver of fear that had somehow broken through, pressed an urgency onto her plans. She had waited patiently for almost four centuries in the unshakeable knowledge that nothing and no one could prevent her eventual rebirth.
Now she feared there might be something, or someone, who could.
But her village followers were not her only allies. Hundreds of years had passed since she had been strong enough to call into the other world. Perhaps now, with supreme effort, she could make herself heard.
When she had last stalked this land, leaving death and fear and legend in her wake, she had called these entities forth from the old world, transformed and corrupted them from scavengers into hunters. But back then it had been too late. Her enemies had been ready, prepared, armed.
This time it would be different.
Once again she howled, a howl that no human ear could hear, a howl that threatened to drain her psychic energy.
They would hear. They must hear. And when they answered… Byre would once more suffer her wrath!
CHAPTER ELEVEN
1
Katrina opened her eyes to sunlight poking around the edges of her bedroom curtains.
In her dream she had been naked, as she was now, but slick with the wetness of blood and entrails. As people ran by her she would reach out and tear their hearts, their lungs, their spinal columns, opening her mouth to the spray of blood that followed. Around her, others were doing the same, children, her children from the school, and adults, some she recognised, some she did not. And in the centre of the village street had sat Christina, contentedly burying her face in the opened skull of an elderly man, vague mist-like shapes caressing her.
Katrina smiled. It had been no nightmare, rather a vision of her hoped-for future. A future when Aello would be made flesh through her, and she, Katrina, the new Village Witch of Byre, would absorb the energy, becoming all-powerful.
Each time the dream grew stronger, more vivid, just as Aello grew stronger, just as Katrina’s hold on the village grew stronger.
She needed to know about the stranger. She could not risk anyone interrupting her plans.
There was a gentle stirring alongside her. Janie Little stretched in her sleep, one arm slipping off the bed, fingers brushing the floor. The duvet had slid down to her waist and Katrina gazed at the girl’s naked breasts, nipples soft, almost inverted.
So young. So mine!
Janie opened her eyes. For a moment she seemed unsure where she was, then she looked up at Katrina and hesitantly smiled, relieved when the older woman smiled back.
“Now,” said Katrina softly. “Tell me about this stranger.”
2
Susan slowed the car as they drove past the church and, standing to one side, separated by a well-kept lawn with a red stone pathway winding across it, the priest’s house. Their action wasn’t suspicious. Every driver in every car was doing the same.
Uniformed police officers stood at each gateway leading to the church or house discouraging those villagers who got too curious. The door to the house was open and white-suited forensic specialists moved through it.
The Professor leaned from the car window as Susan slowed to a stop. He called to an elderly lady with a small terrier on a leash.
“Excuse me Madam,” he said. “What’s all the fuss about?”
Ethel Barlow turned and peered into the car. She recognised the man and woman from the night before. The car speeding through the village.
“The new priest has gone missing now, just like Father Wakefield.” Ethel paused, her curiosity getting the better of her. “Have you just moved into the village?”
“Just passing through,” said the Professor, smiling. “Thank you.”
Susan pulled out into traffic again, shaking her head.
“Not good.”
“No,” said the Professor. “Not good at all, but not entirely a surprise. I feared this when the good Father didn’t answer my texts.”
Susan looked in the rear-view mirror at what was undoubtedly a large number of police for such a small village incident.
“I guess a second priest disappearing has caused enough of a stir to bring them out in force. Too much of a coincidence to blame this one on a randy man of the cloth as well.” Her voice was tinged with bitterness.
“Unfortunately, in this case, your cynicism is probably well founded,” said the Professor. “I get the distinct impression that none of this activity was forthcoming when Father Rex went to the police about his friend’s disappearance. And you know Father Rex would have done so. He was a stickler for proper procedure.”
“Which is why when things get so far that he sends a begging letter to you...”
“I know it’s serious.”
Susan speeded up as the traffic in front of her eased and they left the church behind. She followed the signs for Byre Bay, letting up on the accelerator as the roads narrowed and began to wind.
“Who do we talk to now that Father Rex has vanished?” she said, concentrating on the road ahead.
“Do we even have an investigation now that the person who invited us is no longer around?” said the Professor.
“What?”
Susan was horrified. How could they leave after everything that had happened to them? After what had almost happened to her?
“You must be joking! We’ve got to find Father Rex to start with, and then…”
She glanced sideways at her father and saw the wicked, broad grin on his face.
“You are joking aren’t you?”
She began to laugh, more out of relief than true humour.
“Of course I am. This just makes the investigation all the more interesting,” said the Professor, listening to his daughter laughing.
He smiled, contentedly, to himself. The signs had been obvious. Susan had been tensing, letting the stress of the situation build and build. Eventually she would have exploded.
Nothing like a little laughter to ease the strain.
But he was no fool. He knew there was a very real danger here in Byre, and their investigation was likely to put them right in its line of fire.
CHAPTER TWELVE
1
Smoke, red and green, lit from within by searing flashes of lightning. Robed figures seated, heads bowed. Mumbled prayers. No, not mumbled. Chanted. Low, repetitive chanting. More lightning, arcing out from the smoke, striking the paved floor between the seated figures. And there were bells, chimes, lacking in harmony yet strangely hypnotic, alluring even.
This was a dream. As Tim walked through the figures, stepping over charred paving stones, he knew this was a dream. Or perhap
s a memory? Either way, it wasn’t real.
So why was he afraid? Why did he tremble? Why did his muscles feel weak, useless?
Something stirred in the smoke. A figure. Dark, almost invisible except when it moved. And it moved now. Lunging – no, flying! Great wings unfurling, spinning the smoke into small tornados. And it was fast. Too fast to be human.
In his dream, Tim cried out, backed away, all the physical and mental skills he had learned over the years draining from him in the face of the shadowy, indistinct creature that flew towards him.
And one word screamed at him again and again.
Alive. Alive. Alive.
He woke, sweating, panicked eyes darting back and forth, searching for a danger that wasn’t there. For a few moments he thought he could still hear the chanting, but then it faded into the steady chugging of the dishwasher in the kitchen. He vaguely remembered filling it and switching it on while half-asleep some time ago.
He forced himself to breathe slowly, deeply. He still shook, his hand trembling as he held it up before his face.
“Hell of a nightmare,” he whispered to himself, closing his eyes, willing his muscles under his control once again. They complied slowly, reluctantly. “Everyone has them. Just forget it. And whatever you ate before going to sleep last night, don’t eat it again.”
He smiled, feeling his good humour gradually returning. Already the dream was fading from his memory, although the feeling of helplessness, of his muscles weak and useless, clung to him, refusing to leave.
Perhaps it was a warning from his subconscious? He knew he had let things slip recently with travelling and settling in. He never wanted to experience that nightmare feeling in real life.
Determined, he pushed himself to his feet and stretched.
“Wonder where the nearest gym is around here?”
2
Tim waited at the quayside for the ferry to Guiley.
Seagulls screeched above, anticipating the next fishing boats due into the loading dock three hundred yards further down the quayside. Two yachts, sleek and pristine, sailed from the marina, heading out to sea on the next leg of their owners’ cruises. The air was sharp with the smell of the ocean and of the day’s earlier catch now being sold from small kiosks around the dock.
He could have taken the bus, or the train, either one would have been faster, but the ferry brought back memories, happy memories of days out with his family, with his friends. They always took the ferry. It was so much more of an adventure.
He heard a familiar voice and turned to wave to Mr. Crosby, who stood outside his shop talking to another elderly man. Mr. Crosby returned the wave, spoke a few more words to the other man, and then crossed, slowly, towards Tim.
“Taking the boat to Guiley then?”
Tim smiled and nodded, turning his gaze to the emptiness around him.
“I seem to be the only one. I remember it as being more popular.”
“Off season at the moment. Picks up a bit in the summer, not that we get that many tourists mind you, but it can be dead at this time of year.”
“I’m surprised they can afford to run at all.” Tim peered out to sea, finding the first faint glimpse of a boat he presumed was the ferry.
Mr. Crosby nodded, slowly, grimly.
“Bill Ives runs at a loss most winters. Only keeps it going for the few locals who like to use it.”
“I had noticed the sailing times were few and far between.”
“He cuts them right back. Still costs him mind. But I reckon he makes it up in the summer.”
The ferry was closer now, and Tim could hear the steady chug, chug, chugging of its engine. He looked around again, at the nearly deserted quayside.
“Shouldn’t someone be here to meet them? I mean, someone working, catching the rope, that sort of thing?”
Mr. Crosby smiled, a mischievous twinkle sparking in his eyes.
“Ah, yes. That’ll be me then.”
“You?” Tim laughed. “I might have guessed. A man of many talents.”
Mr. Crosby laughed and, for the first time, Tim began to feel at home again. This was not just some place from his memory, his childhood. This was his home. He belonged here. It felt right to be in Byre again. Somehow he hadn’t expected that.
“Best stand back,” advised Mr. Crosby. “Bill’s son is helping out today, and his aim’s not so good with the rope.”
Tim took a step back as Mr. Crosby moved to the edge of the quayside.
“Is that Steve Ives?”
“Bill only has the one son. Know him?”
“We met a few times.” Images of arguments, name-calling, fights over Katrina, or over nothing at all, flashed through Tim’s mind. He drew in breath through his clenched teeth like a mechanic looking over a blown engine. “I wouldn’t say we were friends.”
“All a long time ago now,” said Mr. Crosby, looking out to the slowly approaching ferry and waving. “Steve’s a bit rough around the edges, but he’s okay. Never quite the same after the divorce though.”
“Divorce?” Tim immediately wished he hadn’t sounded so surprised, but the idea of people he’d known in his childhood married and even divorced did not sit well with his memories of them. To him they were still children.
“Aye, divorce. Poor bugger never quite got over Katrina Bayley dumping him like that.”
“Katrina?” Oh shit! That really didn’t sit well. So, Katrina Bayley became Katrina Ives and was now, presumably, Katrina Bayley again. He struggled to accommodate the thought.
The ferryboat chugged towards the quayside, its engine slowing. As it drifted in to the rings and ropes lining the wall, a buffer for the side of the boat, Tim watched the tall, muscular young man standing at the railing, ready to throw the rope.
The face was darker, more leathery than he remembered, worn by the sea breeze and salt water, and the hair was brutally short, in stark contrast to the unruly mop that had been the fashion when they were children, but there was no mistaking the dark brown, almost black, eyes nor the thin line of the grim mouth. This was Steve Ives. Tim’s childhood enemy, and the man who had, apparently, been able to give Katrina what he had not. At least for a short while. How did you greet someone like that after all these years? Or should he just hope Steve would not recognize him?
The choice was not his to make.
“Tim Galton?” The voice was deep, raw, as weather-worn as the face.
Steve Ives jumped onto the quayside as Mr. Crosby tied off the rope fore and aft. He looked even taller, even more muscular, off the boat.
“It is Tim, isn’t it?”
Tim nodded cautiously. “Yes Steve. It’s me.” Not brilliant conversation, but all his nerves would allow.
“I didn’t know you’d come back.”
A smile broke out of the grim line of his mouth as Steve took a further three steps forward and threw a sea-damp arm around Tim’s shoulders.
“It’s great to see you man, it’s been years.”
Tim allowed the bigger man to hug him close, confused but relieved. This was not quite what he had expected.
Steve Ives turned to Mr. Crosby, still smiling.
“Me and Tim here used to kick seven kinds of shit out of each other when we were kids. Mostly over Kat.”
He turned back to Tim and lowered his voice.
“I should have followed your example man. Got out of here when I could. Would have saved me a lot of pain.”
“I heard. About the divorce I mean.” Tim smiled, a little embarrassed. “Sorry to hear it didn’t work out.”
For a moment the smile on Steve’s face threatened to slip, but then it broke free again, wide and genuine.
“Shit happens, Timmy. You coming on the ferry?”
“That’s the plan.” Tim was slowly regaining his composure. Obviously whatever differences they had as children were long gone for Steve. He was relieved. The last thing he wanted was to stir up old animosities in the village.
“Great.” Steve releas
ed Tim’s shoulder. “We can talk on the way over. It’ll be just like the old days.”
“Except let’s not kick the shit out of each other this time, okay?”
Steve laughed, a big, loud laugh that matched his physique.
Tim found he liked the man much more than the boy.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
1
Professor Hall watched his daughter stride purposefully up the path ahead of him. She reminded him so much of her mother. Mary, too, had been supremely confident, never afraid to confront anyone or anything, never afraid to speak her mind.
In the end, that very confidence had killed her. That and the fact that he had been hesitant, when he should have been at her side.
As he was doing now with Susan.
He knocked the ash from his pipe on the gatepost, certain he would not be allowed to smoke once they were inside, and hurried, almost jogging to catch up with her. The path from the college gates to the entrance did not seem to pose any threat, but neither had that hotel corridor twelve years ago.
“You’re frowning.”
Susan was standing, hands on hips, waiting for him to reach her.
“I was thinking.” The Professor considered himself fairly fit, but the uphill jog, however short, had left him more than a little breathless. “When you get to my age you do that sort of thing. Thinking. One day you’ll understand.”
“One day I’ll put you in a home and find somebody younger to tow around with me.”
He stood alongside his daughter and furrowed his brow in mock seriousness.
“Do I need to remind you that I am the investigator in this team? You are merely an assistant.”
She snorted with derision, a mannerism so like her mother that the Professor could no longer suppress the smile that had been straining for release.
They both turned to look at Byre Sixth Form College looming ahead of them, it’s façade dark with the sun directly behind it.
The main building was old, red brick streaked with the dark trails of rainwater overflowing the gutters year after year. It was tall and sprawling; it’s growth of towers and recesses, outbuildings and dark pathways seeming more organic than designed. In contrast, the newer structures, the reception, the gymnasium, a two-storey science block, were the typical prefabricated, flat-roofed, soulless product of the 1960s that the Professor had disliked from the very first. Designs completely lacking in imagination.
