Curse of Weyrmouth

by David Longhorn

  Saffron giggled nervously and paused, looking at Erin in obvious expectation.

  “So,” the girl added, “the question is, would you be willing to step in?”

  “Step into what?” demanded Erin, free hand on her hip. “I'm not sure what you mean, Saffie. Mostly because you haven't told me.”

  “Oh, it's the Mystery Play!” bubbled the girl. “That poor man, Mr. Todd just vanished, you see, so after all the recasting and stuff, we're short of an Archangel Gabriel. It just means saying a few lines while you stand there in a long nightie and wings and stuff with a flaming sword, and it's not really flaming, I think it's one of those toy light saber things covered in gold foil.”

  Realization dawned in Erin's mind.

  “You want me to play an angel?” she asked. “Like with dippy little wings and a halo and stuff? No way!”

  Not exactly typecasting, she thought, as a series of interesting incidents from her youth paraded through her mind. And feels a bit weird, after all that stuff Louise unearthed.

  Saffron nodded eagerly.

  “Not just any angel, though, you'll be a warrior angel! I thought of you straight away because you look so dignified and brave and strong,” she gabbled. “Like an Amazon, not the parrot the warrior – like Xena! Or Wonder Woman! Or Cher!”

  “I'll take the compliment, I guess,” smiled Erin, resisting the urge to ask what about her reminded Saffron of Cher. “Okay, tell you what Saffie, I'll think about it.”

  Impossible to be angry with her, no matter what she says. Being a chuckle-head is the perfect defense.

  Instead of giving up, Saffron looked unhappy, made a fretful sound.

  “Oh, when people say they'll think about it that's just a brush-off!” she whined, bobbing up and down on her toes. “Please say you'll do it! We're so close to Christmas now, and we're still struggling! And we don't want to disappoint all the kiddies, do we? Tickets have been sold out for months!”

  Saffron underlined her point by clasping her hands in prayer and gazing up at Erin in mute appeal. Erin could not help laughing at the sight.

  She's so worked up she's actually stopped talking. It's a miracle!

  “Okay, your emotional blackmail has won me over,” she said. “Where do I sign?”

  “Oh, that's wonderful!” exclaimed Saffron. Then she startled Erin by reaching up to touch Erin's cheek with one small, cool hand.

  “You're such a special person,” said Saffron. “I just thought I'd let you know. Now, I know I have a form somewhere here …”

  ***

  Almost two weeks had passed since Martin Todd had vanished. The case had become a minor sensation in the regional media. The disappearance of 'God' in a cathedral proved attractive to headline writers and wise-cracking broadcasters. For a few days, camera crews and individual reporters had swarmed the Cathedral Close area. Members of the Mystery Play Company had been waylaid, asked their opinion, and – courtesy of the usual online crazies – accused of complicity in Martin's 'murder'.

  When nothing new emerged, all interest waned. Jen Deighton had taken to sitting in an unmarked car in the close, watching the players going into their rehearsals. She had interviewed all the men and women present on the fateful night, and was sure they were all being straight with her. She had found no rational explanation for the man's disappearance. An irrational one seemed likely, some kind of supernatural phenomenon, but she could hardly put that in her report.

  The passenger door opened and John Carr got in, handed her a burger and a generous portion of chips.

  “I put plenty of salt and vinegar on,” he said. “If you're going to eat unhealthy crap, you might as well make a proper job of it.”

  Grinning, Jen took a tentative bite of a hot chip.

  “How are things with the background checks?” she asked.

  Carr produced a plastic wallet containing printouts.

  “Nothing new, I'm afraid. Or at least, nothing particularly relevant.”

  Jen opened the folder and riffled through the documents.

  “I see Louise Tarrant has had some problems in the past,” she remarked. “Mental breakdown, to use the old-fashioned phrase.”

  “Yep,” said Carr, through a mouthful of cheeseburger. “Explains why someone with a Cambridge degree is working in a bog-hole like Weyrmouth.”

  “Hey!” bridled Jen. “It's my hometown you're disparaging, mate!”

  “Yeah,” he replied, “but you don't really like it much, do you?”

  Jen grunted, unable to disagree. She moved on to the data on Erin Cale, and gave a low whistle.

  “Hey, Ms. Cale has had an interesting life,” she remarked. “Left home at sixteen, became a drifter, dropped off the radar, and worked a number of jobs. She completed her archaeology degree in pieces, basically, at three different colleges. Shows tenacity.”

  “And then she washed up here, the Sargasso Sea of the academic world,” said Carr. “Keep reading; it gets better.”

  Jen turned over the page, read a few lines, then looked up, wide-eyed.

  “Holy crap! She's a feisty one. Pole dancer in Reno – isn't that where they all go to get divorced? Aha. Narrowly avoided jail a couple of times. This guy she beat up sounds a bit of creep, though.”

  Carr shrugged.

  “She's cleaned up her act in the last few years,” he pointed out. “Otherwise she would never have gotten a work visa. But she's certainly not your average meek and mild librarian type.”

  “Curator,” corrected Jen. “Museum's have curators.”

  “Hard-nosed, groin-kicking curators in this case,” observed her colleague. “Another misfit drifting into Weyrmouth.”

  “I think I like her,” said Jen, putting the printouts back in the folder. “And that makes me feel even worse about keeping her, and Louise Tarrant, in the dark.”

  “What can we tell them?” demanded Carr.

  They had had this argument several times. It always ended in a stalemate. Carr insisted that letting 'civilians' know about their off-the-record inquiries would risk public ridicule or worse. Jen felt that co-operating with the victims of the supposed curse might be beneficial.

  Let's see if a new tack will work, she thought.

  “We're making no headway ourselves,” she pointed out. “And that's because researching myths and folklore wasn't part of our training.”

  “I see where you're going with this,” warned Carr. “Just because they have expertise we lack, doesn't make them trustworthy.”

  “But they have a vested interest in being discreet, too,” Jen persisted. “If either of them starts talking about ghosts, it's game over in career terms. Right?”

  She held up the folder for emphasis.

  “I seem to have checkmated myself,” sighed Carr. “Okay. How are we going to tell them?”

  “I have a cunning plan,” said Jen, with a smile. She took some documents of her own from the glove box of the car, handed one to Carr. He read the first few lines, looked up in puzzlement.

  “What on earth is this?”

  “Erin Cale has joined the Players, filling in a gap left by the vanishing of Martin Todd.”

  “Okay,” said Carr dubiously. “You know this how?”

  “Gossip,” said Jen, simply. “I keep my ear to the ground. An American woman playing the Archangel Gabriel is causing a bit of a minor controversy. Nothing like the fuss when they made a Muslim one of the Three Wise Men, but still.”

  “Still don't get it,” said Carr, looking suspicious. “Why'd you give me this form?”

  “They're still looking for extras to take non-speaking roles,” said Jen. “I've volunteered to be Mary Magdalene, the tart with a heart. And I found an ideal role for you, too!”

  “No! No way–” began Carr, but Jen put a finger to his lips.

  “It's the best way to get close to her without arousing suspicion. If she has any more weird experiences, we'll be there. And we'll be in the cathedral, which seems to be the focus of a lot of odd events. An
d since it's all in our own time, it's off the books. Plus, we get brownie points for improving community relations, showing the human face of the police, all that gubbins.”

  Carr gave a familiar sigh. Jen knew she had won.

  “What, almost certainly, humiliating non-speaking role have you volunteered me for, then?”

  “Roman soldier,” she said. “You get to arrest Jesus – surely a career high for any copper?”

  “Does that mean I have to wear one of those skirt things?” asked Carr.

  “It's okay, hun,” said reassured him. “You've got the legs for it.”

  She opened the car door.

  “Come on,” she said. “She's here.”

  Carr looked across Cathedral Green to see a tall, dark-haired woman striding purposefully towards the huge building.

  “Right,” he said, setting down his chips. “Let's go and get acquainted in a way that will not, in any way, arouse her suspicion.”

  ***

  Holy Joe watched the Mystery Players gather from his vantage point on the corner of Cathedral Close. The winter wind cut through him and he envied those who had clean, dry clothes and warm places to go.

  Should get back to the hostel, he thought. Still some soup left, probably. Oxtail tonight. Bit of bread. Tasty.

  But the old compulsion was on him, the fearful fascination with the place where he had lost his fingertip, along with much of his mind and his old normal life. He felt certain that reviving the Mystery Play was part of some wider scheme that he could not grasp, but still feared.

  Why now? After all these years, why portray the holy mysteries in that unholy place?

  Joe gazed up at the dark tower. It seemed to brood, like a vast predator impatient to strike. He looked down again, afraid to attract the attention of whatever dwelt in the structure.

  Hearts and minds, he thought, are in that thing. It has taken so many lives. But why? And what part will those unsuspecting folk play in the grand plan?

  An expensive black car pulled up a few yards away. Joe recognized it, knew the man who got out.

  Park, he thought. Arrogant, part of the scheme. He's behind this play nonsense, then. But who is behind Park?

  Rain began to fall, growing rapidly heavier, the icy drops stinging Joe despite his thick woolen hat and heavy overcoat. He turned away from the cathedral and set off back to the hostel, thoughts chasing each other around his mind. As he turned the corner, he caught a glimpse of a group of small figures in hoods crossing the road towards Cathedral Green. There were five of them, holding hands in a line.

  Never seen them like that before, Joe thought. They seemed happy. And why only five?

  Chapter 11: The Hungry Stones

  “Not a bad turn out,” said Tim. He clapped his hands for attention, and the sound echoed under the great vaulted roof. “Okay people! Everyone in the Eden scene, places please. Everyone else, just bugger off out of the way as per usual!”

  Here goes nothing, thought Erin, adjusting her halo. Her wings felt inordinately heavy considering that they were concoctions of wire and cotton wool. Her fiery sword was unwieldy and she worried it would short circuit and electrocute her. She had brought some sandals to wear, knowing that she'd be on stone floors. But Tim, a stickler for authenticity, insisted on bare feet.

  “Look up there,” he had said, pointing to a stained glass window. In the gloom, Erin had just made out a winged figure, white-robed and barefoot. It held a sword that blazed with lurid orange flames. “That's your character, right there.”

  “Yeah, but angels don't catch colds,” she had protested, but given in when Saffron shot her a pleading glance.

  Now she was trying not to prance in discomfort across the cold, hard floor. She was holding her script, not having had time to learn her lines. She was reading through it when her sword nearly clobbered a dark-eyed young man dressed as a Roman.

  “I surrender!” he said, raising his hands. “I'm just a humble legionary; I can't compete with an Archangel.”

  He held out a hand.

  “I'm John, by the way – a new recruit.”

  “Erin, and yeah I'm a noob as well,” said Erin, shaking hands, “I skipped heavenly warfare class and now you're paying the price.”

  They chatted for a few moments while Tim was distracted by Adam, who was still having serious fig leaf issues. Then the director clapped his hands again and John retreated while Erin took up her position. She felt self-conscious in front of the Mystery Players, but steeled herself to do a good job and win over her 'audience'.

  It's not like I haven't performed in more dubious conditions, she thought ruefully. A church is definitely the classiest joint I've worked.

  “And, cue Gabriel!” said Tim, pointing.

  Erin cleared her throat and read, trying not to sound too feminine or too American.

  “Mortals! I am Gabriel, general of the heavenly host, here to punish you for your most foul transgression! The Devil tempted you to sin, and now you must leave the Garden and make your way in the world as exiles from Paradise. Get thee hence! Do not turn back, but tell your children of your shame, how you were cast out for the crime of disobedience.”

  She gave what she hoped was a threatening gesture with her sword, pushing the button to bring it to flickering life. Adam and Eve began to plod disconsolately across the improvised stage. They left their tiny Eden – a rectangle of paper flowers and ferns, complete with cardboard cut-out deer and bunnies – and headed into the shadows, stage left.

  Turning to the Devil, Erin continued, gaining confidence, “Vile Serpent! Cast out from Heaven with your legions, know that you are also exiled, never to return.”

  Phew, that's it, she thought, as the Devil began to declare his intention of messing up human history until the end of time. God duly appeared and, with a single gesture, forced Satan to 'go on his belly and writhe in the dust henceforth'. The actor in red Lycra had to fall face down onto the stone floor and then 'writhe away snakily', as Tim had put it. Satan did his best, but emitted a distinct yelp of pain when he hit the floor.

  Hope he's got some padding in that suit, Erin thought. He sure drew the short straw.

  “Okay, that's fine people,” said Tim, walking onto the stage. “Erin, very clear enunciation, nice pace, but perhaps a bit more feeling?”

  “Right!” she said brightly.

  I only just got here, goddam it, she did not add.

  The next scene was Noah's Flood, and Erin was duly relegated to the 'wings', as they called the shadowed area under the tower. There she met John the Roman soldier again, along with a pretty, red-haired woman. He introduced her as Jen, 'a colleague from work'.

  “Have we met before?” asked Erin, after they said their respective hellos.

  Jen and John exchanged a glance, then the woman said, “Kind of. We talked on the phone. Just after you had a nasty moment at the Premier Inn?”

  “You're cops?” said Erin, after a brief pause. “What is this?”

  “Nothing sinister,” said Jen, holding up her hands. “We just thought we'd introduce ourselves. We have a common interest in the weird stuff that's going on.”

  Erin looked from one detective to the other as they introduced themselves more formally.

  Not too keen on cops, she thought. But maybe I'll need allies.

  “Okay,” she said carefully, “what exactly do you plan on doing if something weird happens? Arrest the ghosts?”

  Before the detectives could answer, Saffron rushed into Erin, almost knocking her down.

  “Oh God, I'm sorry!” she exclaimed, “I'm so late on set, it's ridiculous, see you!”

  The incident broke the ice and the three grinned as they watched Mrs. Noah hurtle into the center of the stage.

  ***

  “Hey,” said Abdul, running a hand up a column. “Is it me, or is this a really big crack?”

  The other Magi glanced round. One said, “It's been here seven hundred years, it's not going to fall down now, is it?” The two re
turned to their conversation.

  Abdul continued to look at the column, trying to remember the cathedral tour he had taken. The guide had made a point of stressing how well-preserved the tower was compared to the rest of the building. He inserted a finger into the gap between two blocks of stone.

  It's not just cracks in the granite. The mortar has begun rotting away, he thought.

  Looking round and seeing nobody looking his way, Abdul pulled at the remaining mortar. A chunk came loose, and fell to the floor with a startlingly loud sound.

  “Can we have quiet please?” called Tim, in a frazzled voice.

  Abdul stepped away from the column, feeling furtive. But he was too concerned to let the matter drop. He went over to the place where Martin Todd had vanished and looked at the wall there. It, too, was showing signs of wear.

  “Nothing lasts forever,” said a pleasant voice. “Time and decay always prevail.”

  The taxi driver turned to see a young man dressed in blue and white robes. The stranger was about twenty, with a strikingly handsome face and a rich mop of fair hair.

  “Yeah,” said Abdul, “but this place is decaying a bit fast, isn't it?”

  The stranger shrugged.

  “You should see what it's like outside,” said the young man. “Much worse.”

  “Oh, that's sad,” said Abdul. “I noticed there was some damage on the tower from that storm. I'm Abdul, by the way.”

  “Call me Nick,” said the stranger, giving a broad smile, but not offering to shake hands.

  “So, who are you playing?” asked Abdul.

  “Oh, I've got a couple of key roles,” replied Nick. “I'm quite experienced at acting, you see.”

  “You don't look old enough,” said Abdul. “I suppose you started when you were young? Child performer, that sort of thing?”