The Aurora Journals Part Four

by Sam Nash

  THE

  AURORA

  JOURNALS

  The Story of Dr. Pip Lawrence

  Part Four

  The Story of Dr. Pip Lawrence, is a prelude companion series to the Aurora Conspiracy series, allowing us an exciting glimpse into the history behind his remarkable family.

  Part Four concludes Pip’s journey to retrieve his grandmother’s diary. What mysteries lie within those pages? Will the journal contain the answers to all Pip’s questions? Will he find a way to eliminate the minister’s hold over him, or will he become a puppet for those in power?

  The four-part series will be made available to those in my readers group without charge, then released for sale shortly after. I take privacy seriously, and you can leave the group any time you wish.

  Friday August 3rd 1990 – early afternoon

  “And whose grave is cited at that specific plot?” I asked, my stomach grinding in tight knots inside me.

  “His name is listed as Derek Cross.”

  I stared with incredulity at the solicitor, and then at my son. The perfection with which my grandmother had coordinated our search, overwhelmed me. I could not think of what to say.

  Thankfully, David stepped in. “Mr. Wendle, does it say when Derek Cross died on the headstone?”

  “It does not, which in itself is rather odd, wouldn’t you say? I believe the stone simply states his name, and that alone. No epitaph, no date of birth, just Derek Cross, carved into a granite block.” Wendle peered up at us from his records. “Was there an addendum to the instructions you wished to add?”

  I thought at the time that business must be worse for him than I imagined if he was keen to extend Phebe’s requests. He looked hungry, sitting there in his dated suit with slightly frayed cuffs. I took pity on the man.

  “Nothing at present,” I said, softening my tone. “But I may be in touch at a later date for a similar request or two.” I stood up to shake the man’s hand, and suggested a sum of money with which to retain his services. Wendle sparked into action, grasping my digits with both hands as though it were a lifeline, which it probably was.

  David was jubilant as we left Wendle’s offices. I was less so, having ascertained that Phebe had two chances to leave her journal in the hands of trusted solicitors, but had not. In either case, she had paid for their strictest confidentiality, and yet Phebe determined that this was not enough to protect the contents of her diary. What had she seen that merited such secrecy? Why go to such lengths to conceal her visions of the future? This did not bode well.

  I drove the little red Ford back to Sedgewell in a sombre frame of mind. David’s mild high stayed with him, as he rattled off his plans to dig up Derek’s pseudo-grave and liberate the sealed tin. A short journey, punctuated with brief moments of concern, that manifested as acid reflux in my gullet.

  As we reached the village, I slowed our speed to a crawl past the church. Living along the south coast for our whole lives, the red ironstone construction was novel to our eyes. It had a look of a Norman Castle to it, with thin windows like arrow slits and a square bell tower in place of a spire. It was handsome, in a frugal kind of way, favouring function over form.

  Our cruise by silenced David. He had hit upon another problem. I noticed it too. A kissing gate just feet away from the building, leading to a busy riverside walk. The entire cemetery would be visible to every hiker, rambler and dogwalker in the area.

  “Maybe the rain will put people off the route.” David ventured, but we both knew this would not hold. The number of raincoats, stout boots and umbrellas stacked in the hotel porch were evidence enough of the preparedness of holidaymakers to the British countryside.

  I turned the car around and drove past a second time, craning my neck to see the graveyard. It was tiny. The iron railings set close to the rear side of the church.

  “Here,” David said, “Pull in at the pub and we’ll walk back to take a closer look.”

  I did as he suggested, parking next to a Land Rover that on first inspection appeared empty, but then emitted loud barking as I left from the driver’s door.

  “Oh hell, come on son. If we leave quickly it’ll shut up.”

  “Hand me the keys.” David said. A second dog poked its nose up against the window, snarling. I threw the keys over the roof of the car. David unlocked the boot and retrieved the bag of tools he acquired in London.

  “Seriously?” I shouted above the commotion. “In broad daylight?”

  “What? Don’t other people tend to their loved one’s graves?”

  “Tend to, yes. Dig up, not so much, no.”

  “You worry too much, old man. It’ll be fine. If anyone sees us, you can distract them with your charming old duffer act.”

  “Less of the old. And it’s not an act.”

  I followed David around the corner of the road to the footpath entrance to the graveyard. “It would be more convincing if we had brought flowers.” I said, but he ignored the comment. The war memorial cross stood in the centre of the small triangular lawn at the front of the church. Other than a solitary tree, nothing else graced the grounds.

  “Must be round the back.” David said, swinging the holdall over his shoulder, making the tools clatter together inside. We could not have looked more suspicious if we had tried. I scanned our surroundings like a nervous meerkat, while my son clinked and clanked with every step. “Will you relax.” He said. “If it makes you any happier, we will scrape the lichen from a few headstones first.”

  We followed the path that ran parallel to the road, until we reached the rear of the building. There was a clear view to the river side path and no cover for our illicit activities.

  “Well, it shouldn’t take long to find it. There are only six graves.” David pointed to a short row of tombstones, butted up close to the chancel. “Doesn’t anyone get buried around here?”

  “They probably have a larger cemetery outside the village somewhere, or another church. Quite common where consecrated land is in short supply.” I said, crouching low to read the first of the names from the stones.

  “Another church? You think Wendle directed us to the wrong one?”

  “He said in the village, besides we should know in a jiffy.”

  The first five stones were beautifully carved with touching sentiments for local people. Their headstones ancient, unkempt and liberally coated with moss and lichen. The sixth gravestone, was of pale grey granite, scrubbed clean and surrounded by matching chippings. The name Derek Cross was engraved and lacquered in black lettering, two thirds down its surface. Whoever Wendle hired to maintain the site was doing a great job.

  A low and irritating motor chugged and cracked in the distance, followed by a longer, louder roar as a chainsaw bit into wood.

  “That should put a few people off a tranquil walk along the river.” David said, cuffing his lank wet hair from his forehead. “Finally, we are getting somewhere.” He dumped the bag down on the sodden grass, crouched low and removed a folded metal snow shovel. Locking it into its full length, David straddled the granite chippings and scored a deep line along the grave. Scraping the stones from the centre out to the edges, he paused for a moment and glanced around. “You don’t think Derek’s body is really in here, do you?”

  I shook my head. “No. That was one of the widow’s contentions, that MI6 could not repatriate him.”

  David prodded the compacted earth with the shovel point. “This could take some time. We don’t know how deep to dig or which end to start. It feels weird that Phebe would expose us like this.”

  I understood his reticence. Once the digging was underway, it could no longer be covered by the pretence of maintenance to
passers-by. He moved closer to the headstone, raising the shovel high.

  “Wait…” I said, pushing him out of the way. “Let me move the flower receptacle, or it is likely to fall and break.” I leaned over and grasped the granite block, capped with a perforated steel lid, and slid it from the base plinth of the headstone. “Well I never…”

  “What?” David said, moving in close.

  Beneath the heavy vase, lay a small, circular steel plaque, engraved with a symbol. “Does that emblem look familiar to you?” We peered down at the sign - Lambda with an orbiting sphere.

  “Phebe’s brooch. That sly old lady.” David chuckled.

  I scoured the contents of David’s bag for something slender with which to prise open the plaque. A screwdriver fit the bill, slotting precisely into a lip moulded on the edge. With the plate removed, a small steel recess formed the perfect hiding place.

  David was more disappointed than me. I had already surmised that this would not yield the sealed tin. Firstly, because the grave was too modern in its construction, and secondly, the plaque was too narrow to admit Phebe’s journal, let alone the tin in which it is housed. Undeterred, I reached into the recess, and pulled out an earthenware lidded pot, no larger than a jam jar.

  The discordant barking of dogs began once again, drowning out the chainsaw, and quickening our pace to cover our desecration. I returned the steel cover and granite vase to the headstone, while David shovelled the chippings back in place. With the jar stowed in David’s tool bag, we dashed back to the car.

  The owner of the Land Rover and sheepdogs reached his vehicle just as we turned the corner of the road. He glared at us, before bellowing at his animals to settle down. It was the same farmer who spotted us from his quad bike yesterday. He could not have timed it better.

  “You think he is on to us?” David said, slowing to a dawdle.

  “He can’t know anything, but you can be sure that he will be patrolling the abbey grounds from now on, looking out for us.”

  We hurried to the Ford, feigning a nonchalant air. David put the bag on the back seat and hopped into the driver’s side. The farmer was still standing there, glowering with his hands on his hips, as we drove away. David urged me to open the jar in the car, but we were so close to the hotel it did not make sense to reveal the contents in public.

  Back in my room, we towelled off most of the moisture and knelt on the carpet with the jar. I scraped the remnants of Phebe’s tell-tale wax from the lid with my nails and popped it open. Despite the musty smell, it was remarkably dry, protecting the folded parchment inside from rot.

  With great care, I extended the paper to its fullest dimensions and turned it over. The T-shaped marking in the centre was unmistakable. Phebe had provided us with a map of the abbey grounds. One or two of the farm buildings had altered and the conifers were absent, but the rest made perfect sense. She was directing us to a rounded site a short distance from the main house, at the end of a water channel. It was labelled the Ice House. A dotted line marked the easiest route for us. It tracked from a field gate, further along the road from the drive entrance, approaching the house from the east.

  David looked up at me and smiled. “After dark then?”

  I nodded. “After dark.”

  We spent some time apart in our own rooms. David wanted to check the batteries in the torches and pack what he considered to be essential items for our raid. I wanted to shower and watch the news.

  The leading headlines focused entirely on the atrocities perpetrated by Saddam’s forces in Kuwait City. United States politicians still believe that an accord can be reached. The Kuwaitis are all alone in their fight, with nothing but a few shambolic troops with which to defend themselves. Video footage shows mortar shells raining down on civilian enclaves and military instalments alike. All is fair game in Saddam’s invasion.

  I studied Phebe’s map once more for any clues we may have missed. Did she see the wars and needless bloodshed that lay ahead? Could she have forewarned those in power of the potential for conflict, if she had retained a more prominent position within the noble families of Britain? In fleeing her family and hiding herself away, had she neglected some duty bestowed upon her?

  I have no right to judge, since I am determined to do exactly the same, and it is doubtful that they would have listened to a woman, however noble, at that time. It is more likely that she would have secured herself a place in an asylum for her troubles. Perhaps that was the future she envisioned for herself which prompted her to elope with the judge.

  Again and again, I wonder where this information stream which fuels our visions originates. A premonition is an unmeasurable, undirected force. If they emerge within the bounds of physical laws, why are so few of us able to receive them? I cannot bring myself to believe that a benevolent deity is responsible for the conscious foresight. Some omnipotent religious being watching over us all, seeing the past, present and future all at once. I’d sooner believe in fairy tales.

  And yet, the source of intel must come from somewhere. Surely the very act of writing down potential future events in a diary, enables someone such as myself to alter that timeline, thus changing the predicted outcome. Could Phebe see all possible eventualities occurring in multiple parallel universes - the many intersecting loops of space time, conjoined at decision points? It is way beyond my limited knowledge of physics to ponder. Even still, I don’t think I could cope with such inner mayhem. My own visions are disturbing enough.

  We ordered a light meal from room service, and ate in front of the television, sitting on the edge of David’s bed. His earlier jubilation had left him. Another unanswered phone call to Wales dampened his spirits. When, at last, the sun set and the remaining binge drinkers had left the lounge, we crept past the night porter and into the porch.

  David swiped a couple of raincoats from the drying area, while I looked around for suitable boots to borrow. I tucked the torches into the tool bag in the car boot, while David jumped into the driver’s seat.

  “Thank God the rain has stopped.” He said, turning the ignition key, and clearing the residual water from the windscreen with the wipers.

  “Yes, with any luck, it’ll stay clear. The moon should be nice and fat. It’ll make it easier to see what we’re doing out there.”

  “Hmm, and for that farmer to catch us too.”

  Within five minutes, we were driving past the lodge house at the drive entrance, through a copse of trees and round a slight bend in the road. Up ahead, the field gate was set back from the stone wall. David pulled the Ford on to the grass and killed the motor. The car headlights picked out another vehicle just inside the gateway. David and I exchanged glances.

  “Could be nothing,” David said. “Wait here.” He retrieved a torch from the boot, and climbed up the five-bar gate, aiming the light beam over the machinery. I watched him jump down, and sign the thumbs up to me through the window.

  Hopping out from my side of the car, I said, “What is it?”

  “Must be the rig belonging to whoever was using a chainsaw this afternoon. There’s a massive shredder attached to a truck. I guess they thought it too out of the way around here for thieves to notice.”

  “It is very isolated, but not uninhabited.”

  “Exactly. Keep your torch low to the ground and try not to make too much noise.”

  Sheep stood huddled together and silent, their eyes reflecting fear in stray flash light beams, as we scaled the gate. I walked along a linear impression in the field to an open space and gazed around me to find my bearings. As I looked to the north, the sky presented me with a magnificent sight.

  “David, look!”

  He spun around and followed the direction of my outstretched arm. “Is that what I think it is?” Above the horizon, a shimmering pink and green glow, faded to purple beneath the stars. “Wow. I never imagined we would see the Aurora Borealis this far south.”

  “Me either. I bet it is spectacular in Scotla
nd tonight.”

  “Mary would have loved this. Out late with her old dad and Grampy, watching the stars and seeing the lights.” David’s voice cracked as he spoke.

  “One day, when she is older, we will take her to Iceland. Then we can see it in all its glory.”

  He didn’t respond, but in the darkness, I heard him sniff and then take a deep breath. I pointed my torch at the ground ahead of me, and started walking towards the sound of running water.

  Within a couple of hundred feet, the trees thickened and the ground sloped down to the Sedgewell River. I flicked the light about the edges, looking for the culvert that Phebe had picked out on her map. Clinging to tree trunks and saplings, I battled my way to a sharp meander and a sheer cut in the bank. There, I could see a square opening, lined with mossy stone - the base of which lay deep under water.

  “It starts here.” I growled to my son, half whisper, half shout. He charged through the undergrowth to join me, straining his sight towards the stone channel.

  “Looks like it is mostly covered now. It’ll be harder to trace its course. At least we are on the right side of the river bank.” David led the way, pushing through branches which sprung back to shower me with excess spray and whack me in the chest and face.

  Contrary to David’s assessment, the channel was easier to track than anticipated. At some point in the course of history, the stone lined culvert was capped with smooth slate slabs, and then covered in turf. It felt solid underfoot, without bumps or divots, making our path an easy one.

  Our presence was hidden with thick, lush vegetation and a mature canopy of deciduous trees, but we listened intently for the sound of quad bikes or other vehicles close by. The thrill was exhilarating. Trespassing on ancestral lands, hunting for buried treasure with my son. I felt like an ebullient student, but with more aches and pains and a higher alcohol tolerance.

  We reached the end of the water gully and my elation faded. Before us was an igloo shaped mound, the lower layers of which were buried underground and covered with thick grass. Exposed brickwork wound in a spiral fashion to a peak at the top. It would have looked most impressive in its day, providing the main house, and possibly even the abbey, with a year round supply of frozen river water, carved up into blocks and floated along the channel into the dome.