The home page of Mythical UK welcomed visitors to the site and explained how anyone who had a ‘story to tell’ about anywhere in Great Britain that had a paranormal history could submit a story and attach photographic evidence to accompany the submission. There was also a search bar which allowed visitors to the site to search www.mythicaluk.net. Garraway typed in ‘Badock’s Wood’ and hit search.
The screen jumped to a section of the site which showed an image that Garraway recognised instantly. It was the hill in the woods. Alongside the image were two paragraphs of text which had been submitted by Polly Ellis from Bristol. According to Polly the burial mound had very potent qualities comparable to the Rude Man of Cerne Abbas in Dorset. What Doug Plummer had said was true, couples tried and successfully conceived on the burial mound. It mentioned that at summer solstice the burial mound was visited by a small group of druids who believed the place to be more significant than Stonehenge.
The second paragraph explained how Polly had personal experiences of the burial mound’s mystical qualities. Unfortunately, Polly did not elaborate on what her experiences were. Garraway was intrigued.
The website gave those who had uploaded a story the option of providing contact details and Polly had left her email address.
Garraway bookmarked the website, noted her email address and logged off from the computer.
Matthews walked over to Garraway and put a fresh cup of coffee on his desk.
“Thank you Mr Matthews,” said Garraway as he gratefully took the drink.
“I’ve just spoken to the guys over at News and Information and they say its show time sir,” said Matthews.
Garraway disliked press conferences. He hated to see his face on TV and in the papers, but even more, he loathed the sound of his own voice. Perhaps it was hearing how different it sounded amid the West Country twang. Even though he had left Scotland many years ago, he still had a distinct accent. It wasn’t as if he was embarrassed by his Scottish roots, in fact he was very proud to be a Scotsman, it was just he didn’t like to stand out from the crowd - he didn’t like to be seen (or heard) to be different. But as he was the senior detective he had to make an appearance.
Both Ben and Liz’s family had agreed to take part in the press conference, but only Liz’s father, Terry, had felt strong enough to speak and he’d agreed to say a few words on behalf of both families.
The press conference had been arranged for one fifteen and would be broadcast live. This would place it conveniently in the middle of the regional lunch time news programmes. It would also be repeated throughout the next few days, unless there were any further developments. If there were any new developments Garraway would need to make further television appearances.
The press conference was broadcast and as far as News and Information were concerned, it had been successful. Garraway had delivered the facts and appealed to anyone who had any information which could help with their enquiries to come forward, no matter how trivial the information may seem. He also asked if anybody noticed anyone returning home on Sunday night/Monday morning with bloodstains or anyone acting out of character, to please contact the police.
Liz’s father had spoken next. He mirrored mostly what Garraway had just said, but his added emotion and the strain in his voice reinforced Garraway’s words. As he spoke he held his arm around Liz’s mother, whilst Ben’s family sat beside Garraway. They were motionless and silent, looking ashen and tired.
Carla Price caught the press conference on the Wednesday evening edition of BBC Points West. She watched from the darkness of her bedroom. The curtains had not been opened since they were drawn closed on Sunday turning the room into a state of constant night. After the conference had finished her stomach began to wretch, but there was nothing else to bring up other than sour tasting bile. Her father was downstairs and had walked into the lounge just as Liz’s father had finished speaking. He stood staring at the television and saw the pain in Terry Mason’s face as he held his wife. As Richard Price turned off the television to concentrate on some paper work for his new job, he heard Carla retching in her room. If she’s no better tomorrow I will take her to the doctor he thought. This had gone on long enough.
In the press conference Terry Mason had said if anybody noticed anyone acting out of character they should call the police. This did not register with Richard Price, and why should it? He would never suspect his daughter to have any association with such a crime.
She was a good girl.
Chapter twelve
Maria Jameson’s home
7pm
Wednesday
Maria had returned home from the maternity hospital with her beautiful baby boy on Monday evening. Everything had gone smoothly. Baby Christopher was feeding well and he’d even allowed Maria four hours of uninterrupted sleep every night since they had returned home. Admittedly they had only had two nights together at home since leaving hospital, but Maria was very happy. Exhausted, physically and mentally, but very happy.
This was the first night she would be spending on her own with Christopher. Her mother had stayed on Monday and Tuesday and had slept on the couch, but had not been needed. Maria was quickly adapting to the life of a mother.
Maria couldn’t take her eyes off Christopher. She watched over him as he slept in her arms. She could hear the faint sound of his tiny breaths which were occasionally punctuated by a quiet yawn or whimper. Even without Rob in her life to share this wonderful time, she felt complete. More so than at any time in her life.
She put Christopher in his Moses basket and covered him with his little blue blanket. Sitting beside him she found herself dozing and soon was fast asleep on her couch.
She was rudely awoken at nine thirty. Christopher was awake and crying for his feed. Maria rubbed her eyes, gently lifted the tiny bundle and began to breast feed him.
As Christopher fed, Maria stroked his down-like hair, which was so white it was as if it had been artificially dyed. She didn’t expect Christopher to have such white hair. She was a red head and Rob had a thick mop of dark brown hair.
She marvelled at Christopher’s little ‘scrunched up face’ and the way his eyes were tightly shut as he fed. She put her finger in the palm of his tiny hand which Christopher instinctively gripped.
“You’re a strong little boy aren’t you darling?” she whispered to him.
It was a rhetorical question and she was not expecting an answer, but as she looked down at his sweet face his eyes suddenly opened and he seemed to look right at her as he took a pause from feeding, then continued to suckle.
She smiled and said, “You’ve been here before little boy, haven’t you!”
Christopher had begun to suckle less and his little eyes began to close. Maria rocked him gently and listened to his gentle breathing as he lay happily in her arms.
Her lounge seemed so quiet, only to be filled with the wonderful sounds Christopher was making.
Her mother had bought him a little Jelly Cat soft toy which was on the arm of the couch. Maria gently reached for it and put it under Christopher’s arm. The small cuddly toy seemed huge compared to Christopher. This was his first toy and she hoped he would want to keep it for ever as she still had the same fluffy dog that her mother and father had given her the day she was born.
How she missed her father and wished so much that he could be sharing this moment with her and her mother.
A tear appeared and slowly made its way towards her soft cheek picking up momentum as it progressed down her pretty face and eventually abandoning her to finally settle upon Christopher’s forehead.
She sadly wiped it away from above his eyes. More tears followed and then more until she found herself crying uncontrollably.
All the emotions which had been pent up over the last three days suddenly erupted.
Eventually she stopped crying. She felt better and was certain there would be more tears to follow over the next days and weeks.
When she had composed herself she noti
ced that Christopher was fast asleep. She put him back in his Moses basket and made him comfortable.
She looked at the time which was just after ten o’clock. She’d realised that she had lost all contact with the outside world since returning home on Monday. She hadn’t listened to the radio, looked at a newspaper or had even turned on the television.
She reached for the remote control and turned on her TV whilst keeping the volume low as not to wake Christopher. She punched 82 into her remote to bring up the Freeview channel for Sky News and catch up with the national headlines.
As the news channel came up she could see there was some kind of press conference with some very sad looking people who were consoling one another whilst a smartly dressed man was talking into a microphone. Beneath was some text.
She fumbled for her glasses which were next to the TV remote. The text was referring to a Bristol murder.
Maria turned up the volume a little so she could hear what was being said.
The man who had a softly spoken Scottish accent was explaining how a brutal attack which had taken place on Sunday 6th September in Badock’s Wood in Bristol had left a young man dead and young woman critically ill.
Maria increased the volume and was straining to catch what the Scottish man was saying.
He explained that the police were pretty certain they knew the exact time that the young man had been killed as his watch had been smashed during the attack recording the time that the assault had happened. The murder had taken place a few minutes before ten pm.
A shiver ran down her spine as she considered that when Christopher was being born, the poor boy was being murdered. She remembered that her grandmother used to tell her that whenever someone dies another is born at the same time.
She slowly stood up and picked Christopher up in his basket and gently carried him into her bedroom. She undressed and got into bed. As she lay there absorbing the quietness she could not get the thought of what she had just heard out of her head. Her mind was swapping between the happy memories of giving birth to the vicious attack on that poor young man. Both were happening at exactly the same time and less than two miles apart.
She began to cry again, letting her emotions run wild and only stopping after she had cried herself to sleep.
Chapter thirteen
Markland Garraway’s home
10.38pm
Wednesday
Markland Garraway had just switched off the television. The press conference had been repeated several times and he was surprised that it was being broadcast on national as well as local TV. It must have been a slow news day, he thought. He’d seen and heard enough of himself on the television for one day.
He sat at his laptop. His wife Joan was in bed and now was a good time to compose an email to send to Polly Ellis, the girl who had a ‘personal experience’ on the hill.
He stared blankly at the screen and had no idea where to begin. Should he introduce himself as the detective in charge of the investigation of the murder that happened in the woods? Although he was about to email Polly because of personal reasons, he understood that he had a professional obligation to fulfil. Fuck it he thought to himself. I’ve just had a scotch and I’m definitely ‘off duty’.
He decided to email Polly from his Hotmail account and not his work email address, as he thought she may decide not to reply if she thought that Garraway was contacting her because of the murder.
He rolled up his sleeves, closed his eyes, took a breath and began to type.
-----------------------------
Subject: Burial mound at Badock’s Wood
Dear Polly
My name is Markland. I hope you don’t mind me contacting you out of the blue.
We don’t know each other, but I came across something you had posted on the Mythical UK website about the burial mound at Badock’s Wood.
You mentioned that you had a personal experience relating to the mystical qualities of the hill. You didn’t go into very much detail and I would be grateful if you could elaborate on the experience you had.
The reason why I am interested is that recently I have been to the same place and have experienced something strange and this has happened a few times and I wondered if we were experiencing the same thing.
I fully understand if you wish not to tell me what happened and won’t be offended if you decide not to reply.
Kind regards
Markland Garraway
-----------------------------
He sat back, re-read the message and hit ‘send’. He had Bcc’d himself into the email to make sure he had a copy. He watched the little ‘sending icon’ spin for a few seconds and then the message disappeared into the ether.
He got up, walked to the kitchen, poured another home measure of scotch and buttered some crackers. He wondered whether Polly would reply or just ignore his message. He was doubtful whether she would want to discuss her ‘experience’ with a total stranger. He reached into the freezer, grabbed a couple of ice cubes and plonked them into his drink. He looked at the kitchen clock. It was almost eleven o’clock, he really should be climbing the wooden hill.
He sat back down in front of the laptop and was just about to close the lid when he noticed that he had received a reply from Polly. My god he thought, she must be keen.
He felt a rush of excitement mixed with anticipation as he clicked her message which was taking a few seconds to load. Whilst the message was loading he took a sip of scotch. Eventually her reply loaded.
-----------------------------
Re: Burial mound at Badock’s Wood
Dear Markland,
I would very much like to speak with you about the thing you experienced in the woods.
I could share with you my experience.
Please message me your number and I will call you tomorrow if this is convenient.
Polly
-----------------------------
And that was it. Brief and very much to the point. He replied, giving her his mobile number. He told her to leave a message if he could not pick up and he would get back to her.
He closed the lid of the laptop, stood up and drank the last of the scotch and was a little unsteady on his feet. The alcohol mixed with tiredness left him feeling giddy. He took his empty glass to the kitchen and left the uneaten crackers on a plate next to the glass. He removed his tie, threw it over his jacket which was hanging on the back of a chair and headed up to the bedroom.
As he lay next to Joan, listening to her sleeping peacefully, he turned to look at the orange glow of the streetlamp outside his bedroom window. He pondered over how quickly Polly had replied to his email and hoped she had something which could explain the strange thing he saw on the hill. As he began to drift away he thought about the press conference earlier in the day and how Liz’s father had bravely spoken. He was determined to solve this case no matter how long it took.
-----------------------------
His alarm woke him at six forty-five. He had slept well. Joan was still sleeping and had not heard the alarm. He decided not to disturb her and quietly got out of bed. As he stood up he felt the effects of the larger than normal glass of scotch he had consumed the night before. Rubbing his forehead he made his way to the bathroom and had a shower.
Downstairs he sat at the breakfast bar and dreamily held his coffee mug. Garraway didn’t often eat breakfast. He found it got in the way and slowed him down in the morning. He definitely wasn’t a morning person and the idea of preparing something to eat, no matter how basic, was too much for him. He would normally pick up something midmorning, either from the canteen, or if he was on the road, he would get a bread roll from the bakery.
As he waited for the caffeine to work its magic he flipped the lid of his laptop to see what the world had in store for him. He opened his email account and was surprised to see that there was another message from Polly. He clicked the message.
-----------------------------
Re Re Re: Burial m
ound at Badock’s Wood
Hi Markland,
Thanks for your phone number. I hope you don’t mind if I call you on Thursday morning.
Can I call between eight and nine o’clock?
If this is not convenient please let me know.
Best,
Polly
-----------------------------
She is keen he thought. He was surprised that she was so eager to talk to him and he wondered if the woman was some kind of nut. He didn’t reply to her last message and expected to hear from her.
His original plan that morning had been to drive straight to the incident room, but he didn’t want to take Polly’s call with his colleagues nearby listening in. They were a nosey bunch in that room - he would be amongst half a dozen detectives, so what was he to expect! Although speaking to Polly would be police business in a way, the call would, in truth, be a personal one.
Garraway rang Matthews and left a message on his voicemail letting him know he would be at the incident room a little later than normal and to ring him if anything came up. He shouted up the stairs to Joan to let her know he was leaving. He heard no reply, that woman could sleep for Britain, he thought. He gently pulled the front door shut and got into his car. He decided to buy a newspaper, find a quiet café and wait for Polly’s call.
He parked outside the Regency café which was halfway between his home and the incident room. As he entered the café he was viewed by the clientele with an air of suspicion. Most of those who were tucking into their ‘Monster English’ were unshaven with double chins and wearing baggy fitting jogging bottoms covered in paint and plaster from the previous day’s work. He ordered a bacon sandwich and cup of tea. Glancing at his watch he saw it was just before eight. He sat at the only empty table and opened his newspaper. The tall thin man who had taken his order brought him his tea and told him his sandwich would be over in a few minutes. Garraway didn’t often visit a café before he got to work but thought he could probably get used to it. Although he didn’t often bother with breakfast at home, this was different. He dismissed the thought, as he didn’t want to end up looking like ‘podgy’ Sergeant Matthews. He supped at his tea and skimmed the pages of the newspaper just as his bacon sandwich arrived. He was about to take his first bite when his phone rang. It displayed a number he didn’t recognise.
The Hill - Ben’s Story (Book One).: A Paranormal Murder Mystery Thriller. (Book One). Page 6
