Sabrina & The Secret of The Severn Sea

by Guy Sheppard

  He clasped his benefactor’s hand. Pressed it the same way a penitent did a priest’s.

  Then he groaned.

  Had he not visited the docks today simply to find the Amatheia? But even the best plan could turn out to have the direst consequences.

  Sometimes in order to bait a trap you had to be the part, not act it.

  ‘Forget me. Save my dog, save Sasha. She’s in the water, drowning…’

  44

  Jorge listened to the violent storm that raged over the River Severn as he struggled to concentrate on the enormous and unfinished jigsaw left behind by his predecessor.

  How could thousands of pieces of blue sky and water be so bafflingly similar?

  At his feet, Sasha raised her head and growled at a particularly loud roll of thunder from her rug by the vicarage’s fire.

  Not only did Hill House’s leaky windows rattle glass in the rain, but the wind caused shutters and doors to squeak on their hinges.

  It was as if someone were searching the house from top to bottom, yet not a drawer or cupboard was opened – there appeared to be a fitful, uneasy visitor who left by one entrance, only to return by another.

  ‘Frank Cordell wanted to unlock the secret of the treasure,’ said Jorge aloud while wracking his brains. ‘But the fool had only half an idea of what he was looking for.’

  After a while he abandoned his chair. He completed a slow tour of the room. Inspected its nautical relics. Arrived back at the fire.

  He stood there, jaw dropping, his face bathed in shadows caused by sudden flickers of flame.

  Rex Lyons’s Bible lay open on the table where he had left off studying it, some time ago.

  ‘The Devil!’ cried Jorge, a trifle inappropriately and seized the Good Book in both hands.

  He immediately sensed a nervous tingling in his fingers. A shiver took hold of him. It was barely a prickle to begin with, but less and less controllable.

  He turned the Bible at an angle to the light of the fire and his shiver was gone; tilted it back again and it returned.

  Someone had circled letters with red pencil and then rubbed it out again long ago. The remaining indentations reacted to a certain gleam and just the right amount of shadow.

  Here, then, was one of the biblical passages to which Frank Cordell had been so desperate to draw his attention.

  By tipping the page to the flames certain letters shone in Revelation at just the right angle: ‘and before the th-r-one there was something like a sea of glass, l- i-ke crystal, an-d in the centre and round the throne, four livin-g creatur-e -s, full of eye-s in front and back’.

  Then it was that he noticed the fire’s elaborate mantelpiece and its head of a woman.

  She widened her eyes when a sudden explosion of sparks in the grate seemingly set her gilded hair aglow.

  She stared straight at the page, too?

  At his fingertips he spelt three words: the ridge sand.

  He did his best to look up what else the dead man had mentioned. In particular, he discovered: ‘She will give you the tre-a -sures of darkness.’

  This time only one letter was ringed with red like fire.

  Undeterred, he crossed the room and seized the collection of canvases that he had rescued from HMPL….

  Then he spread them side by side over the floor and looked for more biblical phrases recorded by the obsessed Cordell on the rear of his drawings.

  He cross-referenced two of them to Luke and Proverbs: ‘For where yourt-reasure is, the-re will your heartb-e also.’ ‘If thou seekest he-r as s- i-lver, and searchest for her as hid treasures; Then shalt thou understand the fear of the LORD, and find the knowle- dge of God.’

  All the straining and banging in the house, so like a storm-tossed ship at sea, could not divert his gaze from what the letters spelt.

  Rearranged, they made a message.

  His mixture of excitement and terror redoubled, they rose to the surface of his consciousness as if from the deepest sea floor. There, they began to fuel one conviction, or promise another. He was being dangerously tempted, he was certain of that, as had Luke Lyons?

  But he aimed very soon to solve the puzzle:

  The ridge sand

  She will give you the treasures of darkness

  at the bridge.

  45

  Ellie was furious.

  ‘Christ, Luke, how bad is it?’

  ‘Quite bad.’

  ‘Let me drive you to hospital.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary. Besides, I’m used to looking after myself.’

  ‘Shit. What have you got yourself into?’

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘Which makes you a damned fool.’

  Another surge of pain coursed through his body. How safe he was now he didn’t know, but what had happened to him in Gloucester Docks had been a wake-up call.

  He gently patted his swollen ear which bled again as Ellie’s anger turned to panic down the phone.

  ‘Where are you now, Luke?’

  ‘At the vicarage.’

  ‘Stay there, I’ll come to you.’

  ‘You don’t want to do that. Trust me, Ellie. That’s not necessary.’

  ‘Fine. Yes. Whatever. Go get yourself killed.’

  ‘How is it my fault?’

  He could hear his sister kicking furniture about at the other end of the line. She was furious at him for being so careless and stupid.

  ‘They ambushed you at the Tall Ships Festival? Why?’

  ‘Why do you suppose? Slim Jim Jackson and Mel McAtree really do think I know where our parents hid those antiques years ago.’

  ‘You were right. I should have gone to the police when I first caught them sniffing around the farm.’

  ‘I think I can handle it.’

  ‘You think? You think!’

  ‘We need a plan.’

  ‘Tell me your plan.’

  ‘Then, again, there’s justice.’

  ‘Can you be any less specific?’

  ‘Better if you don’t know.’

  ‘Can’t believe I just heard that.’

  ‘What can I tell you? The sooner someone acts decisively the sooner this will be over.’

  ‘Over, in whose opinion?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ellie. I didn’t mean to scare you.’

  ‘Of course you’re scaring me. This is my family we’re talking about here.’

  ‘What if I were to offer to dig up the treasure myself?’

  Ellie caught her breath.

  ‘Are you mad? No one knows where that shit is.’

  ‘Suppose I do.’

  ‘Really, Luke, I don’t have time for this. I’ve been driving a tractor since six a.m. I have a farm to run.’

  ‘Don’t tell Jeremy I called, don’t tell anyone. Not yet. Trust me, I’ll sort it.’

  ‘That it? You ring me with some bullshit story about our father’s thugs beating the shit out of you and…’

  ‘I wanted to warn you to be on your guard, that’s all.’

  ‘Yes, of course I’ll be careful. But what is this new scheme of yours all about? What’s the point here?’

  ‘The point is, you and Randal won’t have to live in fear of the past any longer. Let me offer to give everyone what they want.’

  ‘Sorry Luke, but I’m worried.’

  ‘Don’t be. These men are messing with the wrong person. You hear me? The wrong person.’

  Ellie fell silent.

  In the end, he spoke first. In the forefront of his mind was Slim Jim Jackson’s threat to harm Randal. He hoped that was all hot air. He couldn’t take the chance, though, he had to act fast. But to tell Ellie everything now would only worry her too much.

  He changed tack instead.

  ‘How’s Jeremy?’

  ‘He’s as weak as a kitten with the flu ever since he stayed out all night ‘with the boys’. Apparently he went swimming in the river.’

  ‘Give him my regards.’

  Obviously Jeremy had
not yet confessed to Ellie about the riverside ritual, or she was covering for him.

  ‘Wait, Luke! I forgot, Jess rang.’

  ‘She did?’

  ‘Mother will arrive two days before the wedding.’

  ‘That doesn’t give us long.’

  *

  That night in Hill House Luke sat by the grinning, gilded face carved over the fire and dreamt the strangest of dreams – she would have him relive his father’s last raid on the country house in Wiltshire which went so terribly wrong.

  According to Rex, it should have been ‘a piece of piss’.

  Stay calm.

  Fuck it, Rex. Can’t see a thing in all this fog.

  Shut up, Jess, it’s the perfect cover.

  Go fast. Turn through the big iron gates. Steer up the la-di-da driveway with its big beech trees.

  You definitely want to do this?

  What do you think?

  Trust me. It’s a great idea.

  I’m feeling jubilant.

  Like playing the best of jokes on the richest of people.

  Christ, Rex, my heart is racing.

  I feel like fucking Robin Hood tonight.

  Nothing too subtle. We’re not cat burglars. It’s in and out.

  I could shit myself.

  Press my foot flat on the accelerator.

  We’re gonna be rich tonight.

  Slim Jim and the rest had better keep up because I’m going straight through the fucking window in our 4x4.

  What if the lord of the manor has a gun?

  How should I know?

  What if they put up a fight?

  Just do what you have to do.

  He woke up all hot and flustered, but it was all right, the vicarage was as quiet as the grave and the face on the overmantel no longer seemed alive.

  Time to open a fresh bottle of whisky.

  It might have been a short dream but he shared his father’s jubilation and excitement.

  As a boy he had felt the allure of something hideously criminal, even murderous.

  A little piece of him still hankered after its glorious finality, since there was nothing like staring down the barrel of a gun to focus all your thoughts.

  He returned to his fireside chair and used his stiff, bruised fingers to juggle more pieces on the table to fit his jigsaw puzzle. He tried to see the bigger picture. After all, he’d been holed up here for quite a while – long enough for all the wild garlic to lose its white, starry petals and wither under the trees by the lake in the garden.

  Sasha lay down at his feet with a whine.

  ‘What is it Sash? What have you got there, for Christ’s sake?’

  In her teeth was another envelope. Someone must have slipped it through the letterbox in the front door while he’d been dreaming. It was with mounting expectation that he took it from her mouth to read the contents:

  ‘My dear Sean, I still feel angry at all the anguish you caused me, all those years ago. I can’t understand it, not when you loved and cherished me so much in those early married days. I wanted to be with you ‘in sickness and in health, richer or poorer’. Now I feel I betrayed you by not telling you I was pregnant. Either way, we managed to ruin something very precious. As you say, we’ll not make the same mistake again. Come to me, darling, as soon as you can and meet your lovely daughter Sara at last. Love, Olivia.’

  The destination on the envelope was 1 Terrace Gardens, Edinburgh, while the address at the head of the page was Chelsea in London.

  The letter, written in blue ink on faded cream paper was dated 30 th November 1960 and was in response to the October one that he already had in his possession.

  Clearly it had been a whole month before Olivia had taken the heart-stopping decision to reply.

  His hands trembled. Whoever was feeding him such old correspondence wanted him to know something truly momentous?

  Olivia had to be the missing piece of the greater puzzle or it was all lies.

  There was a thrill to evil you never saw coming.

  46

  It was all so simple, thought Jorge, as he cycled along the narrow lanes towards the River Severn with Sasha for company. According to the free app on his phone, all he had to do was absolutely nothing when a hamburger flashed up on the screen.

  A banana showed next and he pressed a key to approve.

  Then came a bar of chocolate. His stomach at once told him to stop at the next shop and buy something in an automatic motor response.

  Instead he pedalled faster with Sasha running beside him.

  It was called response inhibition training. Alcoholics could, in a similar fashion, train themselves to ignore the urge to reach for a drink apparently.

  His phone had in it an element of distraction akin to mesmerism. As he steered one-handed towards the shore, he nearly missed the ninety-degree bend in the road.

  ‘Wow, that was close.’

  Sasha managed to stay upright in his bicycle’s basket. Turned her head to keep a worrisome eye on him. She considered him better acrobat than cyclist.

  It was a bumpy ride through the edge of Shepperdine when they came to the little green and black church of St. Mary the Virgin. Seconds later, he was aware of the proximity of the wide grey waterway before him, more sea than river. To be in the presence of such an impressive vista filled him with wonder. He felt humbled, but not necessarily only in a religious sense.

  Rather, the need to submit to the great force of Nature almost took his breath away.

  ‘Can I help you, officer?’

  A woman blocked the porch of the tin tabernacle. She was exceptionally thin, with a dark brown tan, wind-blown brown hair, pale and somewhat cracked lips that gave her the appearance of a young but experienced sea gazer. She was dressed in black with a clerical collar.

  Her entire attitude Jorge could regard only as guardedly suspicious. Her grey-flecked eyes blazed with defiance.

  He held on to Sasha’s collar very firmly.

  ‘My name is Inspector Jorge Winter. I’m investigating possible poor performance and conduct issues concerning Reverend Luke Lyons prior to his disappearance last summer…’

  ‘I know who you are. You’re that Church detective guy? Right? God’s Mr Nosy Parker from Gloucester Cathedral?’

  Jorge straightened his shoulders inside his long black coat.

  ‘You Reverend Anne Buck?’

  ‘Since when do you care?’

  ‘You were one of the last people to see Reverend Lyons alive.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘You not concerned, at all?’

  ‘Should I be?’

  ‘It’ll soon be nine months and no one knows a thing about him.’

  ‘But that’s what people do when they get themselves into trouble,’ said Rev. Buck confidently. ‘They lie low.’

  He leaned his gloved hand on the porch. Blocked her exit.

  ‘I really need to talk to you about rumours of a cult that worships the goddess of the river.’

  ‘Do you now, Inspector?’

  ‘Because of the sensitivity of the allegation I would prefer to keep this between ourselves.’

  ‘I see. You’ve come filled with a lot of hot gossip?’

  ‘As a relevant witness, you are required to co-operate with my investigative interview as dictated by rules upheld by your Senior Deacon.’

  ‘For God’s sake come in and shut the bloody door.’

  *

  The tin tabernacle was a single room just as Jorge remembered it from his childhood. That’s to say it was a very basic shed with a few pews and some rather faded blue rugs on its wooden floor.

  Such a place was kit-built for the convenience of worshippers, a temporary refuge for prayer, a prefab just for God.

  The flimsy, replacement windows resembled those of a very modest bungalow which could, but never did, fly away on the frequent gusts of wind that blew up from the Bristol Channel.

  He dusted a pew with a tissue, took off his peaked cap and
sat down beside it. He took out his notebook and pencil.

  ‘It’s my belief that Reverend Lyons uncovered the worship hereabouts of the goddess Sabrina. Is that true in your estimation?’

  ‘Reverend Luke did come here to tell me about something that he had witnessed one night by the river,’ confessed Rev. Buck, choosing a pew of her own.

  Jorge gave Sasha a reassuring pat and she lay down at his feet on a patch of bare boards.

  ‘What did you say to him?’

  ‘I suggested we say a prayer together, Inspector.’

  ‘Did you not know of these pagan practices, at all?’

  ‘Naturally I hear rumours.’

  ‘You ever investigate them or what?’

  Rev. Buck’s gaze came to rest on a pretty, hand-sewn picture of three playful badgers which adorned the wooden kneeler at her feet.

  ‘I’ve been here long enough to delve deep into local history, Inspector. I like to understand my parishioners’ roots, so to speak. This stretch of river has always been a remote, forgotten sort of place. Why else do you think that two nuclear power stations once operated here? Even as the former Magnox station was being decommissioned at Oldbury, many people became vehemently opposed to building another in its place. They still are. And who can blame them? The proposed new 3,300 megawatt station will be four times bigger than its predecessor. It’s not like it’s a simple exchange. It will take five thousand workers to construct it and there could be 1500 lorry movements a day for almost two years which will make many people’s lives a misery. Most protesters have been content to lobby their MPs and DECC consultation, but who am I to criticise those few who have chosen to harness the spirit of the river, no matter how monstrous? They want to defeat the plan through a different kind of power, not least because it’s the river that is most at risk from possible pollution.’

  ‘That means direct action of a preternatural kind?’

  ‘If nothing else it has stiffened people’s resolve by bringing them all together.’

  ‘So what did Reverend Luke say about it exactly?’

  ‘He wanted to expose what he said could only be a form of devil worship. I told him to tread carefully.’

  ‘Did he?’

  Rev. Buck frowned heavily.

  ‘The thing is, Inspector, he had too much to gain personally. The nuclear power company needed additional land for temporary construction facilities – land he proposed to sell to them if only he could wrest it from his ailing grandmother in time.’