Pilgrim

by Devon De'Ath

  In the raging fray, enough other patrons suffered sufficient disturbance to retaliate. A free-for-all ensued, sending the landlord to call for aid at a wall phone. An opportunist thug held Vicky in a half nelson with one hand. With his other, he groped her breasts from behind. All the while, images of Raven in distress seared into her brain like a red hot poker. She stomped on her assailant's right ankle, then used her free arm to elbow his gut. He doubled over and let go. Vicky whirled about. Bill had rolled on top of Tim, landing a few adrenaline fuelled strikes of his own. Vicky grabbed the broken leg of a wooden chair. Bill gawped as she brought it down atop Tim’s rising crown. Tim blacked out. Jeff attempted to clamber up with a groggy head. Bill delivered a right uppercut to drop him like a sack of spuds.

  Vicky and Bill rushed into the car park. Bill grabbed Raven’s car keys from his pocket with trembling hands. His left cheek swelled in a growing bruise. Blood poured from his lip. The Peugeot door locks released, and they tumbled inside.

  “We’ve got to reach her.” Vicky panted for air while hedgerows flashed by in the vehicle headlights.

  “On it.” Bill shifted down and floored the protesting hatchback. Its tyres squealed in a vain quest for purchase, as he swung out onto the main drag through Navenby. Bill skidded into the next turning and adjoining road, then jammed on the anchors in time to avoid colliding with the five-bar gate.

  Raven’s lights were on, the curtains closed. Vicky left the car passenger door wide open. She ran to hammer on Raven’s front door. No response. Bill killed the vehicle lights and engine, then hurried to join her.

  Vicky fidgeted like an addict in withdrawal. “She’s not answering, Bill. Why isn’t she answering?”

  Bill wanted to suggest Raven might be in the loo, but a gnawing sensation in his gut told him that was unlikely. “Stay here, in case she opens up. I’m going round back.” He vaulted the farm gate, then edged along a boundary wall. His feet impacted the soft turf of Raven’s back garden as he climbed over. The kitchen door hung wide. Oh, no. Please God, no. Bill darted to the entrance, almost losing his footing when he reached the step. Raven’s body rested chest down on the tiled floor. She stared at the ceiling with only the whites of her eyes, head rotated a full one-eighty to snap her neck. Beside her, the bloodied torso of Morpheus lay in a squelched heap. His head - a tangled mess of flesh and fur - appeared bludgeoned into the floor with manic force. Bill stepped over the bodies. His heart broke at what this would do to Vicky when he opened the front door, but no other course of action remained. Once again they were on the clock before discovery.

  Vicky ran to the backwards-looking body clad in signature black on the kitchen floor. She knelt and clutched Raven’s jaw, holding it to her chest as she rocked and sobbed. “No.” The cries vented from her lungs in unbridled release. She looked from Morpheus to Raven to Bill, head shaking. “Why? Why did they do this?” Her words became indistinct, like a child sobbing so hard they can no longer speak with clarity.

  Bill crouched beside her. He ran one tender hand through Raven’s silky hair to chase down her cheek. “We have to go, Vicky. We can’t stay here. There’s nothing we can do for her now.”

  Vicky shook all over, saliva hanging in a gob of dribble from her open mouth. “I can’t, Bill. I can’t go on.”

  The act of tearing Vicky away from the arms of her fallen best friend, was the toughest emotional drama Bill ever hoped to endure. He yanked both hands free and held her close, forcing them to rise. “You’ve got to. Remember what Raven said about having faith? Do it for her.” He hurried for the front door, dragging Vicky behind him.

  Vicky cast one last look back, before she was pulled out into the street.

  The metallic blue Peugeot sped southwest along country lanes, skirting Grantham. Vicky sat motionless in the front seat for a long time, lost in a trance. She wiped the last tracks of tears from beneath reddened eyes, then sniffed. “Where are we going?”

  “We need as much of a head start towards Bristol as possible.”

  “What about the police?”

  “It’ll be some time before our assailants at the pub are clear-headed enough to act. No doubt the law showed up right after we left. But the brawl will keep the police occupied. Even if Raven’s been found, they won’t start looking for her car yet. The cult expected to kidnap us, but that plan went south. We’ve landed all our pursuers on the back foot, for now. A temporary reprieve.”

  “What if Jeff drops our names to the law?”

  “It’s a risk. How much would he lay out before implicating himself as a connection to Raven’s murder? Would he be familiar with this vehicle's registration? Doubtful, though not impossible. A lot depends on how many of the cult’s people work for the police up here. Our DNA will be all over Raven’s house. Mine may well linger on her body. It won’t be long before forensic databases ping a match, if so. Then the police will realise we were present.”

  “Do you think they’ll want us for her murder, like DS Quarry?” Vicky gulped, a sick reflux of stomach acid burning her oesophagus.

  “I’d guess that’s what the cult were shooting for. Either way, we should avoid major roads and urban areas for safety. We’ll stick to the countryside, go as far as we dare, then hide the car in a quiet patch of woods. The longer we drive, the bigger the risk of discovery. Yet we also need to put some distance between ourselves and Lincolnshire.”

  Vicky glanced out her window. “The Cotswolds.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Every summer, Charlie and Emma took me to a holiday cottage in the Cotswolds. A village called Stanton in Gloucestershire. We used to hike along the escarpment. It’s beautiful there.”

  Bill chose to be gentle. “That’s great. How does it help us?”

  “At the pub, Jeff began fishing for what we knew, but got interrupted by his slip of the tongue. Since the group intended to finish us off elsewhere, I suppose it didn’t bother them. He’s aware we’ve stumbled upon their Grandmaster and he’s told us they’re gearing up for a big event.”

  “The ‘Quickening of Power.’ Okay. So?”

  “So, he’s ignorant we’ve an inkling where it’s taking place. For all he knows, we were in Lincolnshire to hide with Raven and nose around. He may not even suspect we’re making for the pilgrim’s next stop in Bristol,” Vicky said.

  “Meaning, the law won’t be getting an anonymous tip-off about our presence there?”

  “Right. If the police are searching for Raven’s car by dawn, we need to dump it somewhere discovery is unlikely. Somewhere that will leave investigators clueless about which direction we’re headed.”

  “And this Stanton place works because?”

  “The village is quiet. That cottage we rented is near a pub called ‘The Mount Inn’ on Shenberrow Hill. The only passing traffic comes from a dozen or so houses, plus anyone who travels to and from the hostelry. Also, because of the holiday cottages, there are often strange cars parked on the street that nobody bats an eye at.”

  Bill grinned. “I like your reasoning. Why hide the car in a place it will arouse suspicion when stumbled upon, like a wood?”

  “Yeah. Parked in Stanton, the Peugeot won’t get reported to the authorities for at least a week.”

  “Brilliant. How do we get to Bristol from there on the quiet?”

  “I know the trails all over Shenberrow Hill. We’ve got our hiking kit, so the route won’t pose a problem. If we set off across country at the crack of dawn without witnesses, our trail will go cold. Beyond a farm track on the other side of the summit, lies Snowshill. It’s a downhill stretch to Broadway from there. I’m sure bus services still run from the Lygon Arms.”

  “To where?”

  “Cheltenham. Thereafter, trains to Bristol are regular.”

  Bill slowed to examine a road sign, then took a left fork. “I’m up for a walk in the fresh air again.” He wanted to console Vicky; longed to find words that would soothe her broken heart. Did such language even exist? In the scant t
ime he’d known Raven, she’d captured a part of his soul Bill knew he’d never recover. A determination to rain judgement upon her killers burned in his breast. He remained silent and drove on through the night.

  14

  Puffin Island

  The first light of Sunday peeped above the summit of Shenberrow Hill in Gloucestershire. Slivers of illumination, announcing the coming return of the sun, highlighted the rooftop of ‘The Mount Inn.’ They spread down the slope to bathe an array of honey-coloured limestone cottages, clustered either side of a no-through road marking the eastern edge of Stanton. It was yet too early for the signature clip-clop of horse hooves that ever characterised quiet, rural life in this sleepy Cotswold village.

  A blue Peugeot 206 rolled to a halt by a low, stone wall beyond bright red post and telephone boxes. Bill clicked off the headlights and silenced the engine. “Where do we go from here?”

  Vicky pointed ahead through the windshield. “Straight up leads to the pub and a steep track over the hill. We’ll take a gentler route, though. There’s a right-hand fork ahead. The road doesn’t go much further before reducing into a track that joins ‘The Cotswold Way’ from Bath to Chipping Campden.”

  Bill got out and released the boot catch. He tugged his backpack and holdall clear. Vicky closed her door, allowing wistful fingers to linger on the cold metallic paintwork for one second. Abandoning the vehicle here ached like vacating any last vestige of her old life with Raven. Bill stood in the lane at the rear of the car, watching her. “She’d support this course of action, you know.”

  Vicky retrieved her own pack. “You’re right, Bill. She would.”

  Bill closed the boot. “You’re not responsible, Vicky. The cult were zeroing in on her from the moment they discovered Raven probing their activities. Whether or not we’d shown up on her doorstep, the result would be the same. They’d have a tougher time pinning her murder on us, if that’s how it plays out.”

  Vicky shouldered her pack. “We’d best get moving. It’s a fair climb to Snowshill, but an easier walk to Broadway, beyond.” She set off towards the hill. “There are lower paths we could take. However, at this time of the morning, we’ve less chance of someone opening their curtains and spying us up top. Few people live there. One or two isolated farms. If we’re noticed in Snowshill or Broadway, we’ll be far enough away from Stanton for anyone without serious local knowledge to join the dots.”

  They reached the right-hand fork Vicky mentioned, continuing beyond a T-junction sign. Behind it and beside the lane, a babbling brook ran down in a roadside ditch from Shenberrow Hill. Vicky and Bill continued past a beautiful, three-storey thatched cottage on their right. The lane bent round in a long, left-hand curve, until the pair encountered a wooden signpost marked ‘Cotswold Way’ beside another of the famous, regional dry stone walls. Here the lane snaked back to the right, meandering this way and that until rough tarmac faded to a narrow dirt path requiring single-file travel for walkers only. Vicky pulled out her pocket torch as the way dipped in and out of dense foliage like gloomy tunnels. Insufficient light shone to navigate in such restricted spaces. With every step, images of Charlie and Emma Lambert keeping pace with an excitable schoolgirl darted through Vicky’s mind. It proved a welcome distraction from her present anguish over Raven’s death and their ongoing predicament.

  The path angled up near Shenberrow Camp, a historic landmark little more than an empty hilltop meadow to the untrained eye. Here they snuck past a farmhouse, still devoid of life. By the time the pair reached the picturesque St Barnabas Church sitting in its rough triangular graveyard at Snowshill, dawn had broken. A parting of early clouds transformed the sky from grey to promising whispers of a sunny day ahead. Droplets of morning dew glistened on their waterproof clothing. A passing rain shower sprinkled them for five minutes and vanished.

  Vicky opted for an indirect route to Broadway, rather than the lane descending past Snowshill Manor and St Eadburgha’s Church. Instead she diverted along the ridge to Middle Hill and the impressive sixty-five-foot folly of Broadway Tower in Worcestershire. Its crenellated structure stood watch westward to Bredon Hill and the Vale of Evesham. Vicky pointed at Bredon’s distinctive outline on the far horizon, while they ambled down a track beside another dry stone wall. “We’re in for a pleasant day.”

  Bill smirked. “Are you a meteorologist, now?”

  “No. You can see the top of Bredon Hill.”

  “And that means it will be fine?” Bill tucked the thumb of his free hand beneath one backpack strap. Rabbits scampered between grassy burrows across the descending hillside. In the distance, sheep wandered in aimless tracks, chewing at the verdant pasture.

  Vicky grinned, remembering Charlie teaching her the old local poem which she now recited. “There’s a rhyme which goes like this: ‘When Bredon Hill puts on his hat, Men of the Vale beware of that. When Bredon Hill doth clear appear, Ye men of the Vale have nought to fear.’ I know it’s folklore, but it always seemed true when I came walking here as a kid. If the top of Bredon Hill vanished under a cloud, you could count on a soaking within ten minutes or less.”

  Bill smiled as they walked. “Let’s hope it stays clear, then. Is that Broadway down below?”

  “Yes. This trail will bring us out further up the main drag. Near to 'The Lygon Arms.' That’s where buses used to stop. It can’t have changed that much.”

  To their great relief, it hadn’t changed at all. The pair emerged on the High Street beside an elegant, three-storey Georgian stone house fronted by a blanket of ivy. Its low, surrounding wall featured a matching sized layer of box hedge like a parapet, perpetuating the popular term: ‘an Englishman’s home is his castle.’ A ten-minute stroll west past jaw-dropping, chocolate box grandeur, brought them beyond a mini roundabout. At last they stood before a majestic, Grade II listed hotel occupying three storeys plus an attic. Its facade projected two outer gabled wings, plus two additional ones, centre recessed. All except the attic featured rebated and chamfered stone mullions. Finials and carved strap-work complimented an elliptical headed doorway flanked by tapering pilasters. An abundance of chimneys ran the length of the structure, while two Union Flags blew from a pair of brilliant white poles standing guard like sentries either side of the primary entrance.

  Bill whistled. “Were it not for the fact we’re on the run from the police and a murderous, devil-worshipping cult, I’d feel like I’m on holiday. Jesus, I bet the homeless get caviar handouts round here.”

  Vicky laughed. “I can’t remember the last time I saw a beggar on the streets of Broadway. But the locals were always kind when we visited.”

  Bill batted his own sarcasm aside. “Don’t mind me. If I ever get my life back on track and make some dough, I’m coming here for a long weekend. The place is idyllic. Is this the spot we collect the bus?”

  Vicky removed her pack to use as a seat. She thudded down on top and stretched her legs out in front. “Yeah. Now we wait for the next bus to Cheltenham.”

  * * *

  “Cappuccino and a croissant.” Bill placed a shiny white ceramic cup and saucer down on a circular iron table. He deposited a tea plate alongside. Inviting aromas of coffee and pastry fought a desperate struggle for dominance in his nostrils.

  Vicky looked up from her seat outside a peaceful, backstreet cafe. A short distance away, the intact, flat-topped tower of an otherwise ruined church stood alongside the leafy green space of Temple Gardens. Except for the odd historic shop and pub, this quiet retreat from the hustle and bustle of Bristol remained a bastion of the ancient world in a surrounding sea of modern architecture.

  Trains from Cheltenham were regular enough that Bill and Vicky split up for their onward journey as before. It was a brief walk to their target from Temple Meads station. Vicky found Bill lingering in a small park beside the old church. Curiosity had got the better of him, so he wandered through the roofless, grassy ruin while he waited. The church walls stood firm, their window mullions devoid of glass. Beneath the
far eastern window, fresh red paint glimmered in flares of sunlight from the expanse above. Bill pressed both hands into the small of his back, then gazed at the azure firmament. The sun’s warmth on his face eased the muscles of a stiff neck. He pulled the palm-sized camera from his holdall, then closed the distance to squeeze off a few snaps of the latest symbol. It was still early on a Sunday. No doubt this act of vandalism had yet to be discovered. Bill wondered if there was any point taking more photos of these sigils. A nagging reminder of previous professional investigations taking an unexpected turn - upon realisation of heretofore unnoticed details hidden in plain sight - kept him pressing the shutter button. If Raven was wrong about Lundy and they drew a blank, these images were all they had to go on.

  Bill deposited a black coffee and Danish for himself, from a plastic tray in his arms.

  Vicky folded a newspaper she’d bought at the station. “Thanks.”

  Bill nipped inside the cafe to stow their tray, then joined Vicky on a second pavement seat. “Our pilgrim must have driven straight down here, after he finished with Chloe in Lincolnshire.”

  Vicky studied the church tower. They’d examined the graffiti together, once she arrived in Temple Gardens. “Is that tower leaning?”

  Bill squinted up at the sunlight. “Looks like it. Subsidence or bomb damage, I suppose. Last time I was here, I must have been too cold to notice. Is there anything good in the paper? I imagine our escape came too late to make the morning edition. If the police have even connected us to…” His voice trailed away.

  Vicky picked at her croissant. “To Raven’s murder? It’s okay, Bill.” She posted a few delicate pastry crumbs between her lips. “There’s nothing about us in there. The front page is running with a tragedy in Berkshire. Some residential home for special needs children blew up in a horrific gas explosion on Friday night.”

  Bill sighed and rubbed his eyes. “What a fucked up world we live in. As if those poor kids didn’t have enough of a bum steer from the outset. Any survivors?”