by Finch, Paul
“Yeah,” Drayton said. “That’s what it’s going to be called.”
“What’s it about then?”
“Well, it’s a long story …”
“And I’m sure we haven’t got time to hear it,” Andy said, butting in again. “Look Shirl … you wanted to read it, read it. But don’t distract the man while he’s driving. We’ve got to get on.”
Shirley stuck her tongue out at him, then flicked the pad open and defiantly began to work her way through Drayton’s difficult longhand. The author didn’t expect that she’d understand much of it, even if she found it legible. He intended this book to be his most scholarly to date. The aim behind it was to explore every aspect of the legendary ‘Green Man’ – the mysterious woodland being of Britain’s esoteric past – to cut out all the crap and, if possible, to restore the eerie individual to his correct place in the pantheon of ancient mythological entities. It seemed unlikely that a girl like Shirley would have any empathy with such a subject.
Her first question, however, rather surprised him; especially as she’d so far only read the first page. “So … the Green Man, he wasn’t actually supposed to have existed then? He wasn’t like a god or spirit?”
“Well … no.” Drayton was caught on the hop: she’d clearly understood his introduction. “No, he’s more of a symbolic figure. His original meaning, if there ever was one, is lost to us now. He’s often associated with paganism of course, and fertility rites … but that’s all bollocks. It’s just New Age fantasy. In medieval times he was a representative of Nature … an embodiment of all its beauty and danger. The Church used him as an allegorical figure; an image of what Man could turn into if he didn’t stay on the straight and narrow.”
“Yuk!” she interrupted, and he knew immediately what she was looking at.
Among his notes, he’d inserted a variety of cut-outs and original photographs, the majority of them depicting the so-called ‘foliate heads’, the original and most common way in which the Green Man was presented to his mystified audience. These were invariably carvings, drawings or mouldings, usually found in religious buildings, and nearly always they’d feature a humanoid head that was either peeking out through dense vegetation or which had actually become part of that vegetation. In most cases, the semi-transformed heads were quite beautiful, their normal human features melding flawlessly into concentric layers of crisp new leaves, their hair hung with fruit and flowers, though one or two – and these were undoubtedly the ones that Shirley had just found – were more gory; in their case, thick vines tended to uncurl from the face’s gaping mouth, buds hung from the nostrils, branches often sprouted from the eye sockets, having first, presumably, popped out the eyeballs. They made for a very ugly sight, and Drayton had often thought them reminiscent of rotting corpses through which natural undergrowth had penetrated.
“That’s the Green Man as a harbinger of doom,” he explained. “The Middle Ages, when Green Man carvings were first made in Britain, were a time of plague. Death was all around, and clearly this affected some of the artists and sculptors who were working then. Just shows, the Green Man has a wide variety of meanings … something I’m trying to bring out in the book.”
“Sounds cool,” Shirley said.
“I think so,” Drayton replied, wishing that the world’s paying readership would share her opinion, but strongly suspecting that it wouldn’t. Still, it was a worthy cause, if not a profitable one (though he couldn’t imagine many modern folks agreeing with that viewpoint, either). “The Green Man’s a more mundane figure, these days,” he added. “A clown who appears at village festivals, or a picture on pub signs. I’m just trying to give him back his dignity, I guess.”
They drove on again in silence. Drayton glanced into the rear-view mirror; Shirley was still reading his notes. The satchel was on her knee, and sitting in the open top of it was his camera, a state-of-the-art Ixus 400. It was about the only thing of value that he owned these days, and he felt a pang of sudden concern when he realised that Andy had noticed it.
“Nice piece of kit,” Andy said, not hesitating to pick the camera up and examine it.
Drayton watched him warily. “I need a good one.” He nodded at the tree-lined lane spooling out before them. “There’s a place somewhere along here, Laxholm Abbey. That’s where I was planning to stop off. There are some bosses there that I want to shoot. It won’t take us long though, and there’ll be no-one around to get in our way.”
At which point, he sensed Shirley look up.
He switched his gaze to her. She was apparently considering what he’d just said, and as she did, for some reason, her enthusiasm for the book began to flag. A moment later she’d laid the notepad down on her lap and was staring into space. Andy, on the other hand, replaced the expensive camera in the satchel, shrugged and seemed content to accept the plan – which rather caught Drayton off-guard. He would have expected a bullish bloke like this to want dropping off first. In fact, Drayton had been hoping for that too: it would have allowed him to fully concentrate instead of having to keep giving explanations. He’d even been contemplating driving on past Laxholm until they arrived some place where the twosome could get out, then driving all the way back – though it now struck him that if he did that, he might lose the light, and that would be disastrous. He wasn’t staying in this area. He had a hotel reservation in Durham for the night, and in the morning he’d been hoping to start work up at the cathedral there.
He pressed on resignedly, passing no habitations whatsoever, and five minutes later they arrived at the medieval ruin that was Laxholm Abbey, though it wasn’t an abbey as such. It was a former Benedictine priory, and though it dated from the thirteenth century, and was thus of considerable historic value, it had never been so large or grand as the term ‘abbey’ might imply. In any case, it was nothing more now than a gutted relic, which wasn’t even visible from the road. Drayton parked alongside a stile-type gate with an English Heritage notice affixed to it. Again, only green and tranquil woodland surrounded them, though the sun was now melting its way down through the western trees, and the birdsong had faded virtually to nothing.
“It’s well out of sight, isn’t it,” Andy remarked.
Drayton nodded, getting his materials together, stuffing the notebooks back into his satchel and grabbing his camera. “Most people don’t even know it’s here. Sorry folks, but I’ve got to hurry you.”
“No problem,” Andy said, as he and Shirley climbed out.
Drayton locked the car up, and they passed through the stile and followed a narrow footpath, which wound through several clumps of hawthorn before terminating beside a large information board. Beyond that lay open sward upon which sat what remained of the priory; from this angle, it was little more than a roofless maze of high but crumbling structures, all clad in heavy coats of ivy. Here and there, portions of ‘olde worlde’ architecture were still recognisable: the odd soaring arch, the occasional remnant of traceried stone.
Drayton strode forwards, already taking readings on his light meter.
Andy and Shirley followed slowly, ambling side-by-side.
A couple of minutes passed, Drayton consulting his notes, and exploring a part of the ruin that he assumed had once been the kitchens and refectory. According to his research, there were only three intact Green Men here, and the first – and best – was located over the entrance to what had once been the priory herb garden. He found it without too much difficulty. A turfed passage ran between the broken footings of two long vanished walls, and led straight up to a freestanding arch, from the apex of which an alarming face gazed down. It was sorely eroded, but clearly a Green Man, being composed almost entirely of what was supposed to be leafy matter, though with two very human eyes wide open in the middle of it.
Drayton started taking photographs.
“I can’t believe it … this is a real stroke of luck,” he gabbled, his zeal getting the better of him, even though it was highly probable that his two passengers, co-op
erative though they were, couldn’t really have cared less. “The normal thing about the Green Man is that he’s hidden … tucked away in corners, under chapel seats, that sort of thing. It was a game the medieval artisans used to play. Though the Green Man sculptures were always commissioned by pious Christians, their very grotesqueness was often associated with demonism, so they couldn’t be given pride of place like the angels and saints could.”
Shirley and Andy came up alongside him. The girl was still strangely quiet, and Drayton wasn’t so engrossed that he didn’t notice this.
“Okay?” he asked her, breaking off briefly.
She nodded, gave him a brave smile.
Suddenly, however, it was Andy who seemed troubled. “Shit! I, er … I couldn’t borrow your car keys for a mo, could I? I need to go back and check my gear for something.”
Drayton glanced around at him, unsure how to respond. It was a simple enough request, but the daylight was fast dwindling and, Drayton being Drayton, it was difficult for him to conceal his annoyance. “Can’t it wait a minute or two?”
“Not really.”
Drayton made to set off back, digging irritably into his jeans pocket, and silently cursing himself for ever having stopped to help these people in the first place.
“No, you just crack on,” Andy said, halting him with a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll go.” And he held out his open palm for the keys.
“Er …” Drayton wasn’t happy with this plan at all. “I’m not sure about that.”
“Why? You think I’m going to pinch your car?”
“No disrespect to you, mate, but I don’t know you, do I?”
Andy pondered this, then smiled broadly. It was evidently supposed to be a disarming smile, but there was something not quite right about it; it was almost as though he didn’t know what a real smile was. “I’ll leave Shirley with you,” he offered. “Not going to go off without my bird, am I?”
Drayton was tempted to reply that he wouldn’t be at all surprised, but instead decided to shrug and hand the keys over. First of all, he couldn’t see why anyone would want to steal an old donkey wagon like his Sunbeam; secondly, time wasn’t on his side – the sun was almost down, and he still had to locate and photograph the other two carvings. Andy nodded, clapped him on the shoulder, then hurried back along the open passage, rounding a corner and vanishing.
Drayton watched him go before turning to Shirley. “He’s a real piece of work.”
Again, she just smiled.
“Shall we get on,” Drayton said, passing through the archway.
They strolled together across the garden, and then across what they assumed had previously been the cloister – it still had a central grassy quadrangle, paved around its edges – finally entering the remains of the priory church. This too was open to the elements. The roof had gone, and large portions of masonry from above the windows had collapsed; only stumps were left of the pillars that had once run in neat rows down either side of its nave.
“According to my notes, the next one’s at the top of the southwest tower,” Drayton said. “Should be easy enough to find … there’s only one tower left.”
They spied it straight away and proceeded towards it, the girl still strangely subdued. Drayton wondered if this was something to do with the atmosphere. Like many ancient sites, there was a restful aura here, the ruins solemn and imposing rather than scary. But the sky was now tinged with dusk, the lofty, broken structures leaving long dark shadows with only a few patches of spectral sunlight interspersed between them.
“There’s no such thing as ghosts, you know,” he said, trying to make light of it.
Shirley gave him another brave smile, but said nothing. Whatever it was that was bugging her, she didn’t intend to come clean about it.
He turned back to the tower, an upright cylinder of stone occupying the southwest corner. It stood maybe forty feet tall, and again was clad all over with ivy. But even then deep fissures were visible in its aged stonework. Its arched, ground-floor entrance had had safety-bars fixed across it.
“The boss is up near the top somewhere,” Drayton said. “So I’ll have to go up and look.”
Whatever had been bothering Shirley, it was momentarily forgotten as she took in the tall, gaunt edifice. “But surely it isn’t safe?” she said. “I mean, you can’t even get into it … look.”
“Oh, there’s a way in. Apparently, there’s access through the undercroft on the other side. That building round there.” He indicated a single-story annex on the south side of the tower. “That’s the old dormitory. Some cellar door’s recently been excavated inside it.”
“But is it safe?” she asked again.
Drayton shrugged. “Dunno. Never let it be said that we authors don’t take risks for our craft.” He ventured forwards, but then stopped abruptly. “I wouldn’t suggest you coming of course. Best if you stay here.”
She seemed to accept that, and stuck her hands into her jacket pockets as she waited.
Drayton circled around the base of the tower, passing out through the church’s formerly grand doorway – nothing now but two decayed gateposts – and approaching the entrance to the dormitory. Like the rest of the buildings here, it had no roof, though its outer walls were largely intact. New work had recently been going on in there, so English Heritage had erected a blockade of tape-strips across its entrance, with a WARNING – DANGER sign suspended between them.
Drayton paused, but then reminded himself that this transgression was entirely in the interests of the historical aesthetic, and ducked under the tape.
Inside, various tools were propped up against the wall, alongside two wheelbarrows, a pile of bricks and a cement mixer. He saw the doorway connecting with the undercroft, crossed over and poked his head through it. At first glance, the subterranean space looked black and airless, but at length his eyes attuned and he saw steps leading down into a wide cellar area, its floor made of dank, beaten earth. Cautiously, he descended, and at the bottom noticed high apertures placed at regular intervals along the line where the eastern wall joined the ceiling. They were more like air-vents than windows, all grated and set in deep embrasures, but they allowed in sufficient light to illumine an aperture on the far side of the undercroft; almost certainly, this was the doorway connecting to the foundations of the tower.
He made his way over and, again, stuck his head through, seeing the foot of a steep stair, which spiraled upwards around a central pillar. Delighted, he went up. Like so many stairways in old castles and cathedrals, the steps had been worn at their central point by the passage of countless feet. Aside from that, the going was relatively easy – even to Drayton, with his hefty paunch and long-untrained muscles. About ten feet up, he passed the barred doorway leading back into the church interior. He’d expected to find Shirley still standing there. She wasn’t. He paused for a second, wondering about this, but time was drastically short, so he hurried on up. At about eighteen feet, he passed a tall, narrow window looking westwards, and then, at twenty-five feet, came to another one, which looked southwards, gazing back over the cloister.
That was when he saw her.
She was standing in the very middle of the quadrangle, in a rigid, frightened pose.
Instantly, Drayton saw why.
Andy had reappeared. He’d passed in through the herb garden arch and was now coming towards her, advancing with a slow, heavy tread. In one hand, he was twirling Drayton’s car keys. In the other, he held a firearm.
At first Drayton thought he was seeing things. He leaned forwards to look more closely, but there was no mistake. Even though the burly boyfriend was deliberately carrying his right hand down by his side, Drayton could see what was in it: a handgun, a black steel pistol. Andy, casually, almost contemptuously, tossed the car keys aside, and fished something from his pocket: a magazine, which he promptly slid into the pistol’s grip and snapped into place.
“Andy!” Shirley pleaded, sounding genuinely upset. “Come on … please!�
�
“Where is he?” he asked.
“For God’s sake!”
“Just tell me where he is.”
“I won’t!”
“Damn it, Shirl, don’t fuck about!”
“You can’t do this!”
Drayton watched and listened, trying to tell himself that it was some kind of elaborate prank, but knowing in his chilled heart that it wasn’t, that it couldn’t be.
He’d let himself go to seed badly over the years; had been drunk and lazy, still suffered coughing fits due to a decade of heavy smoking, and was in all-round poor condition. But for once, just for once – probably because it was an absolute necessity for survival – his senses were in pitch-perfect form. He could clearly see and clearly hear everything that was happening below.
“He saw the bags,” Andy said.
“He didn’t know what was in them,” Shirley protested.
“And you had to give him our real bloody names!”
“Andy, he’s just a decent bloke. He’s trying to help us.”
“Doesn’t matter how decent he is. We’re compromised.”
Andy gazed around, scanning for his intended victim. As he turned towards the tower, Drayton ducked out of sight, and from this point on risked only quick, furtive glances.
“Andy!” the girl pleaded again. She took hold of him by his shoulders. “Think … please.”
Andy’s response was to thrust her backwards, then slap her across the face, a heavy blow that sent her tottering sideways. “I am thinking! It’s you who’s not … you docile airheaded cow! Don’t you understand? He’s going to take us somewhere where we’ll have to report the accident. That means it goes on file. You think Jack Deakin and his blokes haven’t got coppers on the take?” His voice rose steadily, despite his knowing that his prey was somewhere close at hand. “That’s my frigging car back there, Shirl! The moment this incident goes on the police computer, word’ll get out. They’ll be onto this guy in no time. That means they’ll be onto us .”
