The Hill - Ben’s Story (Book One).: A Paranormal Murder Mystery Thriller. (Book One).

by Andrew M Stafford

  “Is that Markland,” said a female voice.

  “Yes it is,” he replied, “and you must be Polly.” This was followed by an awkward few seconds as neither knew what to say. Garraway broke the silence.

  “So I understand you’ve had some kind of experience to do with the burial mound in the woods”.

  “Yes, I have, and can I assume you also have experienced some kind of happening?”

  Garraway didn’t want to give too much away and neither did Polly. They didn’t know each other and were only voices on the end of a phone. They both felt vulnerable, neither of them wanted to open up.

  “To be honest Polly, I’ve been looking forward to talking with you, but now you’re on the phone I’m feeling a little foolish, because some of the things about that burial mound and how they have affected me have been bothering me.”

  “So the reason you wanted to speak to me was nothing to do with the murder that happened the other day?” said Polly, taking him by surprise.

  “No, no,” he replied. “How did you know I was involved in the murder case?”

  “I watched the press conference yesterday, and I don’t suppose there are many other Marklands’ with a Scottish accent who have an interest in that area of Badock’s Wood.”

  Garraway sighed. “Sorry Polly, I should have remembered, I hate doing those press junkets and choose to forget them quickly”.

  Polly laughed. “So, if this is nothing to do with the murder, there must have been something pretty extraordinary that happened to you in the woods?”

  “Maybe,” he replied. She could sense his wariness.

  Polly was as keen to know about what happened to him as he about her. The telephone conversation wasn’t going as well as either of them had hoped. Polly suggested that it may be better if they meet up over a beer to discuss things. After a pint they would probably loosen up a little and be less inhibited. Polly suggested meeting up in a cheap and cheerful Weatherspoon’s bar in Clifton the following evening.

  “How will I recognise you?” asked Garraway.

  “Don’t worry,” replied Polly, “Remember, I already know what you look like, I’ll introduce myself when I see you.”

  Chapter fourteen

  Southmead Hospital Bristol

  10.30am

  Thursday

  Terry and Anne Mason walked slowly to the entrance of the hospital where their daughter was being cared for. Terry’s face was strained. He had hardly slept since his daughter had not come home on Sunday evening. Agonising worry beyond belief did not sum up what he and Anne went through that night. When Liz didn’t answer her mobile they called Liz’s friends, none of who had any idea where she was. They had also called Ben Walker, but had no answer. Liz had decided not to tell anyone about her night out with Ben, preferring to keep it a secret. She loved her friends dearly, but they did have a habit of jumping to conclusions and gossiping.

  She was expected home around eleven o’clock and when she was not there by midnight her parents began calling anyone who may have known her whereabouts. By one o’clock they called the police who asked lots of questions and said they would send an officer to take some details. The officer had arrived an hour later. He took further details and a photograph of Liz.

  Neither of them had slept that night. Until then it had been the worse night of their lives.

  When Liz was younger Anne would always ask who she was going out with, where she was going and what time she would be home. As Liz grew older her parents enquired less and less. They had no idea where she was going on Sunday night. The last words Anne heard her daughter say was “Love you mum, see you around eleven……Bye.”

  There was a knock at their door at seven fifteen on Monday morning. Two police officers were standing outside their porch. Terry let them in hoping for good news. Anne was standing in the lounge looking tired and scared. Her short dark brown hair was a mess. She’d run her fingers through it so many times it was standing up. One of the officers, WPC Johnson looked at Anne. The officer’s face suggested that the news was not good. Terry walked over to his wife and put his arm around her.

  PC Taylor spoke first. “We have some news about your daughter.”

  As he explained the circumstances in which Liz had been found Anne broke down and cried into the arm of her sofa. The officers had decided now was not the right time to tell them about the murder of Ben Walker, that could wait until later. Terry asked if they could be taken to Liz. Anne went up to the bathroom to wash her face and put on some make up. If Liz was awake when Anne was at the hospital, she didn’t want Liz to see her looking like she did at that moment.

  The neighbour’s curtains twitched as WPC Johnson led Anne out of the house whilst Terry locked up behind them. Anne made her way to the rear door of the police car and PC Taylor opened it and guided her in. Terry followed and slowly climbed in and sat beside her. They held hands as they were driven to the hospital. No one said a word during the twelve minute journey from the Mason’s home to the hospital.

  When they arrived at Southmead Hospital early on Monday morning they were taken into a small consulting room where they were introduced to Dr Robert Clarke who had been caring for Liz since she had been admitted an hour or so earlier. He asked if they could wait whilst his team worked to stabilize her condition. Terry and Anne knew that Liz wasn’t conscious, so she wouldn’t be aware whether they were there or not, but they wanted to be with her. Anne just wanted to put her arms around her beautiful, amazing daughter and hug her. She began to cry. This time her tears were uncontrollable. Terry put his arms around her, but found he’d lost the strength to hold his wife. He joined her in a cacophony of bawling tears. Dr Clarke left them to their grief and shut the door behind him. Both police officers stood sentry outside the room to ensure a small amount of privacy for the grief stricken parents.

  Later that morning Terry and Anne were allowed to sit beside their daughter. She was attached to drips and was wearing a clear plastic mask over her mouth. Her face and head were badly bruised and cut. There were stitches visible where her hair had been shaved to deal with a severe cut to the top of her head. More tears flowed.

  That was on Monday and now it was Thursday. Anne and Terry had been by Liz’s side almost the entire time, leaving to go home to catch a few hours’ sleep at the insistence of the hospital staff. On Tuesday they had been told of the death of Ben Walker.

  They were existing in a world of numbness and monotony which was running on an endless loop of holding Liz’s hand, journeys to the toilet, vending machine coffee, half eaten sandwiches and being driven home by Terry’s brother for an attempt at sleeping. The last four days felt more like four weeks.

  Terry Mason was a wealthy man. He was the managing director of TM.IT. A business he created in the dot com era and one of the few to have survived and prospered. He had a good team of managers and could afford to not always be in the office all the time. He would be neither use nor ornament to his business and was grateful that his company could carry on, at least temporarily, without him.

  As they entered the hospital corridors on Thursday morning they sensed a difference in the attitude of the hospital staff. Since Monday they had been greeted by cheery and encouraging smiles, today was different. Everyone seemed to have their ‘heads down’ in an attempt to avoid eye contact. Anne put it down to yesterday’s heart wrenching press conference. Anne had been so proud of her husband and the way he’d conducted himself on television. His words had really struck a chord with those present in the room, and also the entire city of Bristol. This was why Anne thought the staff at the hospital found it difficult to engage with the two of them this morning, it was just too hard for them. She squeezed her husband’s hand and in return he kissed her on her head as they continued the trek to their daughter’s ward.

  Dr Clarke was in reception when Anne and Terry turned the corner to enter Intensive Care. He nodded at them and they reciprocated with shallow weak smiles. Dr Clarke never wished them good mornin
g as he knew there was nothing good about any of their days since what had happened to Liz. He was hoping that one day soon there would be a reason to wish them ‘good morning’ or ‘good day’ or ‘good anything’. Since Liz had slipped into a coma, her deep state of unconsciousness was very difficult for them to accept. Where had all that boundless energy gone? Where was the girl with the infectious laugh? Where was the girl that had the gift of making everyone happy by just walking into the room? Anne was hoping she was still there somewhere.

  She had asked Dr Clarke how long it would be until Liz would come round. Clarke was one of those who delivered the news as it was without dusting it with a coating of icing sugar. He believed that although it was important to remain positive, it was his duty to deliver the facts as they were and to avoid any false expectations. He had told Anne that comas generally do not last for more than a few weeks. Anne and Terry knew it would be quite a few days until they would see Liz open her eyes. They were prepared for her to recover one step at a time. Dr Clarke had advised them that her brain trauma had been so severe it was hard to tell how she would respond when she regained consciousness. Anne and Terry would be ecstatic even if they saw a flicker of an eyelid or a twitch of that beautiful nose, because right now the only movement was her chest slowly rising and falling as she gently continued to breathe. Anne had asked Dr Clarke whether Liz would be dreaming. He told her that nobody really knew. When a person comes out of a coma they usually don’t remember much, but some patients do seem to recall vague memories of dreaming. He had added that she would not be experiencing any pain or discomfort.

  Anne and Terry resumed their positions dutifully next to Liz as she silently lay in the hospital bed. Visitors came and went. Her friends from Taekwondo brought cards and sat with her for an hour or so before leaving to continue with the rest of their lives. The hospital usually had a limit to the amount of visitors a patient can have, but in cases like this the hospital staff exercised a level of flexibility. Terry’s secretary, Sally, who was also Liz’s godmother, called in on Tuesday and Wednesday. Sally had been a welcome distraction for Terry because there were things he needed to attend to in the office. Although there was no way he would be going back to work for the foreseeable future, Sally was able to help tie up a few loose ends and, with his recommendations, she was able to delegate some of his work to his senior managers. After Sally had left he and Anne returned to their quiet vigil over their uncomfortably peaceful daughter.

  Chapter fifteen

  Weatherspoon’s Bar

  Clifton, Bristol

  9pm

  Thursday

  Polly Ellis sat near the doorway of the busy Clifton bar. She specifically chose this bar as she knew how busy it would be. Although she knew Markland Garraway was a detective and was probably a very decent man, she had decided not to take any chances by meeting him somewhere quiet and ‘out of the way’. Better to be safe than sorry she thought.

  Polly was an attractive girl in her late twenties. She had short blond hair and wore glasses. She had a ruddy complexion and suffered slightly from acne rosacea, which became apparent whenever she blushed or was nervous. Tonight she was glowing like a beacon.

  She had posted her small feature on the Mythical UK website in an attempt to find out whether anyone else had a similar experience to her when visiting the burial mound. In the eighteen months since it went up on the website, she had only had one response and that was from Markland Garraway. This would explain why she was so keen to meet him.

  Polly was a lecturer in Economics and Finance and had lived in Bristol for around eight years. In the time she had lived there she had accumulated a lot of friends, but didn’t feel comfortable sharing her experiences on the hill with them. She was hoping that Markland would be forthcoming when describing what had happened to him and she hoped they would be sharing similar experiences.

  Polly knew about the murder of Ben Walker and thought it was odd that the senior detective on the case would want to talk to her about the hill and not the murder. She began to worry whether she was considered a suspect due to her posting on the Mythical UK website. Anyway, she had plenty of friends who could confirm her whereabouts on Sunday night.

  Whilst nursing a gin and tonic she watched everyone who entered the bar. The windows were huge which gave her a good view of everyone passing by. Outside the main window she noticed a tall man, wearing a grey suit and a red tie. He stopped and peered through the large window raising his hand above his eyes to reduce the glare of the spotlights illuminating the glass to get a clearer view of who was in there. She recognised him from the press conference. Polly and Garraway were about eight foot apart and separated by the window. He looked right over her head as he tried to focus towards the back of the bar. He walked in and stopped just by the doorway and viewed the middle distance of the bar. Polly sat at her table just six foot away from him.

  “Mr Garraway!” called Polly, raising her hand above her head.

  “Polly, hello!” he said stepping over to her table. He offered his hand and as her palm touched his they flinched as a blue electric spark jumped from his hand to hers which made an audible crackle.

  “Yow,” said Polly as she quickly snapped her hand away from his.

  “What on earth was that?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure, but I felt it too,” said Garraway. “It felt like a static shock, the sort you get sometimes when you touch a car door,” he continued as he rubbed his palm with the thumb of his other hand.

  “Would you like a drink?” asked Garraway.

  She pointed to her three quarter full glass of gin and tonic and shook her head.

  “No, I’m OK thank you.”

  He nodded and headed to the bar and quickly returned with a pint of lager.

  For a moment they said nothing until Garraway broke the silence.

  “OK, then…..where do we begin?”

  “Do you mean if you show me yours then I’ll show you mine?” she replied smiling. This brought a smile to his face.

  “Well if you put it like that I suppose I do.”

  She had broken the ice and Garraway was now grinning from ear to ear.

  He told her about the first couple of times he was at the burial mound, how the first time he was sick, and how the second time he’d felt nauseous and dizzy and he went into detail when he described what had happened the third time he’d had a strange experience on the hill.

  “It was all very strange Polly,” he said pausing for a sip of his pint. “I lay on that hill and just phased out, I mean I really phased out”.

  “Tell me what happened when you ‘phased out,” asked Polly eager to hear more.

  “Well, this is when it started to become really odd. I had put the first two episodes down to feeling tired, or a jippy stomach, but this time Polly, I swear to you, I could see the most vivid things around me”. Polly was all ears and was staring at him intently, waiting for him to continue.

  “What happened next, seems unbelievable, so please bear with me. What I saw next I shall never forget. I was surrounded by thousands of figures all walking around the burial mound. None of them were with me on the mound, they were walking around the mound.”

  “Were they Bronze Age characters?” asked Polly.

  “I don’t think so,” he replied. “There were just so many people going about their day to day business, you know, walking their dogs, strolling along, some with children and some on their own”.

  “What were they wearing, what style of clothes did they have on?”

  “I do remember what they were wearing varied in style, it’s hard to say though as the characters were very clear on one hand, but on the other they were not, and they had what I can only describe as ghost like qualities”. Polly stared at him and he continued.

  “The characters who were the clearest and who I could easily see what they were wearing, just seemed like you and me, but the ones which were harder for me to focus on seemed to be wearing older style clothes, y
ou know the sort of suits men would wear in the fifties”. He paused for reflection, as he stared into his pint glass.

  “And there were some very, very soft focus characters who seemed to be wearing even older styles of clothing and these were the ones on which I was having difficulty focusing.”

  “What happened next?” asked Polly.

  “What happened next was…….. it all just stopped.”

  Polly looked at him for a second, resting her chin on the palm of her hand.

  “Wow!” she said, “that’s nothing like what happened to me.”

  “So you mean I’ve just spent the past couple of minutes sounding like a fool?” he said.

  “No, not at all,” she replied, “it’s just so very different to what I see. Did anyone see you on the hill, did you speak to anyone?”

  “Well, there were a couple of officers there, but I don’t really think they noticed me,” he paused as he remembered what happened next.

  “The next thing I remember was chatting to a guy called Doug Plummer. He seemed to know about the area. He was the one that told me that the hill attracted nutters, his words, not mine, I hasten to add”.

  “Who’s Doug Plummer?”

  “Oh, sorry, he’s the caretaker at the school a couple of hundred yards behind the hill. Do you know him?”