by Devon De'Ath
Bill rubbed his wrists to restore circulation. “You arrived in the nick of time. Thanks.”
The commandos relieved the cultists of their knives, then rounded them up outside. Captain Waverley pointed at the trembling kids. “Free their bonds.”
His men complied.
Vicky wandered in a stupor towards the window through which Conrad had vanished. Bill appeared at her side. “I’ve got to go after him, Bill. He’s not himself.”
Bill grimaced. “I’ve never met your brother, but I agree he’s not himself. He moved like a panther or wild dog.”
Captain Waverley overheard their discussion. “You two should remain here for medical assessment. My men will track down and secure or eliminate… whatever that was.”
Vicky wheeled about and stamped her foot, eyes strained. “It was my brother.”
Captain Waverley gawped. “What?”
Reverend Streeter surveyed the damage to his church, then rejoined them. He offered Waverley his hand. “Michael Streeter.”
“Ken Waverley.” They shook.
Streeter coughed. “The tortured soul to whom you are referring, resides in a delicate mental, emotional and spiritual state. Conflicted beyond anything you can imagine.”
A commando appeared at the damaged wall. “All tangos secured, Sir. Everyone except that dog-man. The Wildcat reports he fled north. Do you want us to go after it/him?”
Reverend Streeter shot Waverley a rigid stare and shook his head.
Captain Waverley thought. There was more going on here than he understood. Any immediate danger to the islanders or children (his mission) had been overcome. “Hang fire, Bailey. Tell the Wildcat to advise Command that Devon and Cornwall Police can approach the island. This is a crime scene, now. I imagine we'll be here for a long spell.”
“Very good, Sir.” The commando disappeared to rejoin his colleagues outside.
Reverend Streeter sighed. “Thank you.”
Captain Waverley read his body language. “What are you intending to do?”
Streeter placed one gentle arm around Vicky’s shoulders. “Find her brother and save him, if we can.”
Waverley frowned. “Are you sure that’s a wise idea?”
Bill folded his arms. “The risk is our own. We’ve got to try.” He’d have been happy for the commandos to put that creature out of his misery. But such an outcome would destroy Vicky, now they’d uncovered their pilgrim’s true identity.
Waverley kicked some rubble aside with an idle boot. “Clear out of here before the police show up. If you find him and make it back in one piece, they’ll have questions for you.”
Vicky stepped away from the altar. “We know.” In that moment, she realised whatever happened now - for good or ill - their running days were over. Time to trust the fates.
“Reverend Streeter, I’m so glad you’re alive. Are you okay?” Jake Alburn dashed from the open door of the Marisco as the vicar, Bill and Vicky walked past.
“I’m fine, Jake. How are you? We heard the gunshots. What happened?”
“A few of us put up a fight. They killed Jason Gillis and Paul Oakley. Are the children all right?”
Reverend Streeter hung his head for a moment in silent prayer for the departed. “Yes, they’re safe. Is your Land Rover working?”
Jake scratched his head. “It is. Why?”
Bill snorted. “Land Rover? I didn’t think Lundy had any vehicles?”
“It doesn’t, except for some farm machinery and my Defender. One perk of being a warden.” He addressed the vicar. “Where are we off to, Reverend?”
“To save a troubled soul, I hope.”
“Okay... Whereabouts on the island?”
“My guess would be the northern light. It’s the farthest you can flee from here without getting your feet wet.”
A short time later, Jake pulled up before a narrow, cliff top track on the far northern edge of Lundy. It led down to a lighthouse perched above a precipitous drop into crashing waves. Jake extinguished the headlights. “We must approach the last stretch on foot. Be careful.”
Reverend Streeter unfastened his seatbelt. “Are you coming along?”
Jake nodded. “I’d better.”
“Very well. Jake, please leave your rifle behind. I must ask you to trust me, whatever you see and hear.”
Jake switched off his engine. “This sounds weird.”
Bill leaned across his shoulder from the back seat he occupied with Vicky. “Welcome to our world.”
Lundy’s northernmost lighthouse comprised two flat-roofed buildings connected to a tower via short granite corridors. Its white rendered coating reflected growing pale moonlight with the fading clouds. The old lantern remained dark. Instead, a modern lamp atop the former fog signal building pulsed once every fifteen seconds, carrying its life-saving nautical information seventeen miles.
Jake pulled a heavy duty work torch from the rear of his Land Rover. “We’ll need this for picking our way down to the light.”
The four processed in single file until they reached the first, flat roofed building. Its green door hung open, but no lights shone inside. Jake painted the unlit space with his torch. A hunched figure appeared, curled in a foetal position. Its outline heaved in time with gentle weeping against the far wall.
Vicky pushed past.
Bill grabbed her arm, causing her to look back. “Careful. It could be a trick. You’ve seen what he’s capable of.”
Vicky pulled free of his grip. An angry frown softened. Bill was looking out for her wellbeing, like he always did. Nothing more. She eased closer to the pathetic heap who scrunched tighter like a scolded child expecting a beating. “Hey. Conrad? It’s me, Vicky.”
Bill, Jake and Reverend Streeter lingered inside the doorway, spread along one wall ready to dive in if this twisted creature turned on her.
The heaving mass of robes shifted. “Where are Mum and Dad?” Gone was the guttural growl. The voice which replaced it whispered like the eleven-year-old boy who’d once sacrificed himself to save his younger sister.
Vicky crouched before him. “Don’t you remember?”
Conrad shook his head.
“I’m afraid Mum and Dad are dead. The Baphomet worshippers murdered them. I thought they’d murdered you too.”
Conrad wept louder. His voice stuttered through cloudy thoughts. “Not murdered. Something else. I can’t remember.”
Reverend Streeter took a deep breath while he watched. What horrendous abuses, blasphemies and perversions had the boy suffered to be raised up as leader of that unholy band? Conrad’s transformed state reminded him why he’d turned to the cloth. Sometimes in his professional career as a therapist, Michael Streeter encountered more than mental health issues. Once an agnostic; bizarre manifestations of impossible knowledge, superhuman strength and otherworldly voices he’d witnessed, led him away from pure academic and psychological diagnoses. Spirit was genuine, and the spirit world inhabited by many sentient beings. Those of both high and low intent. Some with appetites and desires too horrible to dwell upon.
Vicky placed gentle fingers on Conrad’s leg. “The people who hurt you took everything from us. From others, too. Newspaper reports said you were killed.”
Conrad’s breathing quickened. His chest rose and fell with the pace and noise of an accelerating steam engine. His head flicked back, eyes pure onyx. The growling came again. He seized Vicky’s arm, but let go with a snap as if from the effect of gripping a hot coal. His voice slurred into a deep-throated moan like a slowed down recording. “So in return you took everything from us? Well, you can’t have your brother.” That twisted torso re-inflated, before lunging across the room at lightning speed. Bill and Jake dived at the fleeing shape, but it batted them aside like dry leaves.
Vicky picked herself up and ran for the door. Salt air filled her nostrils in time with sea spray blowing up from the cliffs. The north light flashed round. Its passing beam illuminated Conrad climbing the old lantern to an emergency
beacon on top. Vicky dashed along a corridor into the tower’s base. Adrenaline coursed through her system. She stormed up the spiral staircase; Bill, Jake and Reverend Streeter hot on her heels. At the top, she staggered outside onto a circular platform surrounding the former lens, then reached for a ladder fixed to the lamp housing.
“Vicky, no,” Bill shouted.
His words went unheeded.
Atop the old lantern, Conrad turned, eyes still dark. Vicky reached for him. He recoiled, arms windmilling to regain balance. He toppled backwards, one hand clasping a rail to save himself with weakening power. Vicky threw herself forward across the tiny circular roof. She grabbed onto his free hand. Their combined weight and inertia acted with gravity to pull her close to tumbling off the tower. Far below, waters crashed upon granite in the intimidating darkness of The Bristol Channel.
Conrad shook. The connection of Vicky’s touch burned something deep inside. But it wasn’t a natural something. An interloper lurked within. The eleven-year-old boy, still lost in the mists of time and consciousness, recognised that pain as a lifeline. His soul clung to it, despite agonising torment.
Vicky cried. “Give me your other hand, Conrad. I can’t hold you. Fight. Fight that beast.”
Something snapped in Conrad Hanson’s psyche. Mouth gaping wide, a thousand tortured spirits gave voice in a chilling cacophony to silence the crashing waves. In that moment he recognised his sister without confusion. The love in her touch wrapped around his heart. His other hand flailed against the railing. Vicky grabbed hold of it. Her body slid. She screamed. “Help.”
Their forward movement came to an abrupt halt. On the platform below, Bill, Jake and Reverend Streeter struggled to support Conrad’s legs and keep the pair from tumbling over the side.
Bill called up. “We’ve got him, Vicky. It’s okay, you can let go.”
For one dreadful moment, Vicky couldn’t release her grip. What if Bill was wrong and Conrad fell? She would never forgive herself, or him. She shook the thoughts clear, took a lengthy breath and opened her hands. Conrad’s supporters lowered him to the lens platform.
Back at Jake’s Defender, Vicky held tight to her brother. He kissed her cheek, voice shaky and childlike again. “I wish I could remember, Sis. The last thing that’s clear is you in the river, all those years ago.”
Reverend Streeter placed one reassuring hand in the small of his back. “Not remembering some things may prove a blessing. Others could resurface in time. That will be hard for you. For now, let’s return to the pub and a host of questions.”
Bill hesitated off to one side, face bruised and bloody from the beating he’d taken earlier.
Vicky let go of Conrad to fling her arms around him. “Thank you.” Her voice came soft and meek in his ear.
Bill squeezed her. “We’re not out of the woods, yet. But we accomplished what we set out to do. Now if the cops can only realise we’re not murderers, it’ll be a happy ending all round. For us, anyway.”
Jake started the Land Rover, then wound down his driver’s window. “All aboard for the Marisco.”
17
Journey's End
ARTICLE FROM ‘THE TORRIDGE TIMES’
–
‘THE BATTLE OF BEACON HILL.’
Details are still emerging over the recent drama on our nearby island of Lundy. Normally a quiet place of solitude, one Wednesday night - since described by locals as ‘The Battle of Beacon Hill’ - saw action beyond imagination for its peace-loving inhabitants. It appears some of the island’s few residents and two visitors put up a struggle to resist a superior number of armed captors. Those events have now formed part of a widespread national investigation into occult ritual abuse and murder.
Stories abound since their discovery of how twenty children were abducted from Mordant Grange Residential Care Home in Berkshire, prior to its destruction. The hostage takers brought those same children to the island under false pretences, with the unbelievable goal of sacrificing them to a pagan idol.
Because of the risk level, operational scale, enemy combatant numbers and immediate response required, their rescue became a military operation. Royal Marines from 47 Commando based at Arromanches Camp, Instow, were deployed by sea and air in a daring raid to bring order out of chaos. We are happy to report all twenty children survived, though two islanders, Jason Gillis (25) and Paul Oakley (42), lost their lives during an exchange of fire with the cultists. Many of the hostage takers were killed, with the rest captured and charged under various offences as the full story unfolds.
Central to the islanders’ liberation were the actions of Victoria Lambert and William Rutherford, wanted for the drugs-related murder of a Kent Police detective and that of a Lincolnshire woman. In what has proved something of an embarrassment for the authorities, the captured cultists admitted another of their group conducted both murders and planted false evidence. All actions were aided and abetted by corrupt law enforcement staff under the cult’s influence. A former executive from Kent County Council has been formally charged. The Police Complaints Authority has launched a thorough review of several forces, including Kent, Lincolnshire and Thames Valley. Lambert and Rutherford are acquitted of all charges.
* * *
Reverend Michael Streeter folded his copy of ‘The Torridge Times’ and set it down beside his open journal. He picked up a pen to write:
‘I’m so thankful to have secured the release of Conrad Hanson into my custody. Unbelievable as it may sound to anyone who witnessed his deformed and diabolically altered state, Conrad appears a gentle and loving soul. I’m aware from a letter Victoria Lambert (his sister) sent me after her release, of all that he once did to save her. What unspeakable acts has he undertaken since childhood, and will they ever break through to disturb his recovery? What overpowering demonic compulsion was forced upon that child, to hold his precious soul prisoner within a mortal body it once appeared only death could release? Death - or the loving connection of the sister he sacrificed his liberty for.
It’s one small mercy none of the arrested cultists could pinpoint specific deeds for which he’d languish decades at Her Majesty’s pleasure. In recent years, given his risen status in their secretive order, the cult’s ‘messier’ crimes appear to have been delegated. That is my assumption. Conrad remains clueless of what transpired.
Formal, mental health assessments concluded a conventional custodial sentence for his involvement would prove detrimental. Nor was it in the public interest.
I thank God for His hand moving in mysterious ways, that my former professional credentials and the geographic isolation of my residence, offered a viable alternative.
I am to care and watch over this innocent lad in a used man’s body. He is restricted to Lundy for a minimum of ten years, though not considered a specific risk to the public at large.
To the outside observer, Conrad might be written off as a childlike or retarded amnesia sufferer. I pray when that cacophony of tortured entities flooded from his mouth atop the northern light, that his spiritual oppression ceased once and for all. Only time will tell.
Conrad is happy to lend a hand at any task the islanders wish help with. They have welcomed him as one of their own. His work in rebuilding St Helen’s continues to satisfy the judiciary that restorative justice is underway.
When Vicky wrote the tale of her and Bill’s desperate flight, it left me wondering why the cult brought those children to Lundy. If they’d secured the youngsters at a private country residence and the authorities believed them dead, why not conduct the final ritual there? This is the pondering of a reasoned, logical mind. I’m forgetting how differently the spirit world operates from our own. In one commonality with The Divine, their thoughts are not our thoughts; their ways, not our ways.
Conrad zigzagged up and down the country, scrawling a sigil map that resonated with power and meaning for the cult. By whatever divination or ghostly intervention they conceived it, the path ended here on Lundy. Only by completing his str
ange pilgrimage could the way be prepared for whatever crossover of power and influence the fallen entities must have promised. One thread links all locations: The Templars - those disgraced knights, once accused of worshipping the same idol these cultists professed to adore. While St Helen’s was constructed long after the Templars and their accusers were consigned to the history books, it is true the order owned this island. Somehow those Templar sites visited, connected and opened a growing doorway between planes of existence.
Today is special, both for Conrad and the island. Vicky and Bill are due in on the Oldenburg’s morning run. It’s the first time Conrad has seen his sibling since the night of her arrest. My heart soars at the thought of their glad reunion.’
He put down his pen. The cottage door opened. Conrad entered, clutching a wicker basket of eggs.
“Five this morning, Michael.” He showed Reverend Streeter the contents.
“That’s a blessing. Are you ready to meet your sister? She and Bill should be here any moment.”
Conrad put the basket down, a slight tremor in his hands. “I don’t know what to say to her.”
Reverend Streeter stood close to him. “It’s all right. Don’t worry so much about words. Sit with her. Allow her the joy of being with the beloved brother she thought lost. Everything else will fall into place.” He slipped on his jacket. “Come on. We’ll wait for them at the Marisco.”
Vicky and Bill mingled with a crowd of day trippers, milling about as the Oldenburg’s gangplank lowered onto Lundy’s jetty. Captain Maitland stepped out of the bridge to stand beside the exit. He smiled as the pair drew near.
“Good to have you with us once more.” He shook their hands. “Have a pleasant stay.”
Bill grinned. “Let’s hope it’s quieter than the last one.”
Maitland stepped aside, allowing them to disembark.
Vicky and Bill followed the path up one side of Millcombe House.
Vicky touched its walls as they passed. “I know it’s only been a couple of months, but it feels funny being back here.”
