The Phantom of Barker Mill

by steve higgs

  ‘Hiya, kid.’ My dad called through.

  ‘Hello, Father. Hello, Mother. Did you have a nice walk?’

  The dogs were finally released from their leads and shot across the kitchen floor. I knelt to pet them.

  ‘It is a lovely Autumn day, Tempest.’ My mother said. ‘We found some late blackberries so picked and ate them off the bush.’

  ‘Sounds nice.’ Which it did. I lived in a lovely area surrounded by fields and vineyards on rolling hills that provided wonderful views out across the countryside. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I enquired.

  ‘Now that sounds nice.' My dad said so the kettle was pressed into action once more.

  ‘What is going on with these?’ asked my Dad pointing at the radios.

  ‘I have a Phantom to catch tonight.' I replied in a husky, vaudeville-stage voice while wiggling my eyebrows mysteriously. He looked at me quizzically, indulging me like one might a simple person. I gave up trying to be theatrical. ‘There is a fellow dressing up and sabotaging the Barker Steel Mill. I believe he will strike again tonight. The Mill is vast, so I have a gang of us going up there, so we can spread out and cover as much ground as we can.' I sipped my tea. ‘I think it will be an easy task this time.' The last time I had involved my friends in one of my excursions we had all got into an enormous fight that was probably more accurately described as a riot and then we all got arrested.

  ‘How many in your team?’ my dad asked.

  ‘Seven. Not really enough given the ground we need to cover but we will make it work.’ I could see my dad was counting the radios.

  ‘Hmm. So, is this Phantom chap dangerous would you say?’

  ‘Hard to tell. Anyone can be dangerous if they are armed, but the short answer is that I don't think so. The chap I am now convinced is acting as the Phantom is a young executive type and not much bigger in height than mum. His movements are being controlled by someone else, but that person will most likely not be there, so it is just the one man to catch. He will be outnumbered, so I expect him to just surrender when we corner him.

  ‘Hmm.’ My dad said again.

  We drank our tea along with a handful of dunking biscuits from the tin I keep in the cupboard for guests. Dunking biscuits are a thing of beauty my Dad had once observed when I was a child on his knee. I could still hear the echo of it every time the tin came out. It was a warm and pleasant memory.

  We sat on the sofas in my lounge and talked about what was happening in the News and whether we would get together for dinner at their house this coming weekend. It was not long though before Mother brought up the topic of the baby shower.

  ‘I had a quick chat with some of the other Grandmothers I know, and I think I will get by just fine without your help. So, you are off the hook.’ It sounded like a disaster in the making. I had not told her that Rachael had visited me and clearly Rachael had not done so either. The event was planned now but I played along rather than give mother the impression she was not needed.

  ‘Jolly good, Mother. What do you have planned?’

  Mother’s face beamed though as she prepared to tell me all about her exciting plans. ‘Well, Tempest. Margaret Wilson, you know… from the church. Well, she said that she threw a baby shower for her daughter, Sarah, you know… from the church. And they had it at her house and she invited friends and family and they all made gifts for the baby and drank nice wine and Margaret made sandwiches and quiche and…’

  The noise of Mother speaking was becoming a drone and I needed to stop her, ask some clarifying questions and convince her to abandon any derivative of this plan that she might have. Unfortunately, once in full flow Moher was a lot like an ocean liner; hard to stop, dangerous to get in front of and if you tried to affect a turn it would take a while before she even noticed.

  I looked at Dad. He just shrugged at me. Helpful.

  I raised a hand. Like a child.

  ‘… but she did say it was a bit crowded at her house and if she were doing it again she would use the church hall.’ Mother finally noticed my raised hand which had now been in the air so long I was holding it aloft with my other hand. ‘Did you want to ask a question, Dear?’

  I put my hands back in my lap. ‘I have a few items on your list to discuss. You plan to all drink wine, yet the mother-to-be, for whom the party is being thrown is not able to drink…’

  ‘She can have a small one.’ Mother complained.

  ‘No, she cannot, Mother and I suspect that her friends would slap the drink from her hand if they saw her with it.’

  ‘I had a small brandy every night when I was pregnant with the two of you.’ Mother claimed defiantly.

  ‘That explains a lot, Mother. Nevertheless, pregnant mothers do not drink because they understand what it does to the foetus, so we need to consider the impact on the guest of honour if everyone else is to drink. I would suggest non-alcoholic drinks only.

  Mother was muttering under her breath.

  I pressed on. ‘Then you mentioned making gifts. Are you talking about knitting clothes and blankets for the baby?’

  ‘Yes, Dear. So much nicer than buying something from a store.’

  I doubted my sister would agree but accepted that it was going to take some clever diplomatic skills to get this message into Mum’s brain.

  ‘Hmmm,’ I started, knowing I would need to play my hand very carefully. ‘I wonder if perhaps we should at least explore some alternate options and see what Racheal thinks of them. Do you have a list of her friends to invite?

  ‘No. Not yet.’

  ‘Then I will have her email me a list tonight with phone numbers. That way we can do a head count and see if they will all fit in your house.' Mother acknowledged that element of my plan with a nod of her head. I was on safe ground if I suggested doing anything with a computer as she hated technology. I pressed my advantage. ‘You do realise that you will have days of preparing food and then all the cleaning and washing up afterward.' It was actual washing up too as mothers hate of technology extended to dishwashers also.

  ‘That’s what I have your father for.’ she said grinning at him. He made an exaggerated sad and hurt face.

  ‘Yes, Mother. I am sure he is already looking forward to it. However, I can send her a few images of alternate venues just in case she has something else in mind and perhaps we can avoid having Dad standing in the kitchen for several hours.’

  ‘That will all cost money, Tempest.’

  ‘Which I will pay as my baby shower gift.' Even though I was fairly certain men did not traditionally give gifts for baby showers, this seemed like the most efficient way of avoiding a tearful sister sat sharing soggy egg sandwiches with her friends, shoehorned into my parent's lounge.

  The discussion ranged for a few minutes more while we finished our tea and biscuits. Like a boxer sparring with a particularly gifted opponent, I danced around the topic of gifts but could not find an opening where I could strike. In the end, I gave up. I had scored some points, although with my Mother one had to do it so surreptitiously that she thought any new idea was, in fact, hers all along. In essence, I quit while I was ahead and left the remaining topics to be broached another time.

  I had one more question though. ‘When is it to be?’ Mother looked at me blankly. ‘The party, Mother. What date?’

  ‘Oh, next Saturday.’

  ‘Of course, it is.’ I already knew all of this. My purpose in asking the question was simply to check mother was not organising something completely different.

  Just then my phone rang. It was Jagjit, so I answered. He wanted to confirm the time and place we were meeting and if it was okay to bring Hilary along. Hilary's real name was Brian Clinton, but… well, guys are dicks basically. Anyway, Hilary was one of the regular Friday night pub chaps and had spoken before about coming along on one of my capers just because all the other chaps had. I had never pursued it with him because I suspected his wife would not let him, but if he was free to come the extra pair of eyes would help. I confirmed
all the details and disconnected.

  Mum and Dad were gathering their things to leave. I hooked a finger through the three empty mugs and grabbed the biscuit tin with my other hand.

  I saw them to the door and bid them a pleasant evening. The Dachshunds were in their bed with just the tip of one tail showing out from beneath the blankets. I liked to believe that goodbyes made them melancholy and that this was the reason they greeted people but never saw them off. It was more likely though that they knew there was no food in it for them so saw no reason to move.

  I closed the front door on the cool October air and went upstairs to get ready. Then heard a knock at my front door again. Mother must have forgotten to tell me or ask me something. I opened the door expecting to see her, so was momentarily caught out when I found Frank outside. His arms were full of books and folders in which sheets of paper had been stuffed.

  ‘Hello, Frank.’

  ‘Phantom.' he said giving no further explanation. He sort of indicated the arm full of books with his head so that I would understand that they were about the Phantom. He was loaded down by them, the awkward stack threatening to slide out of his control at any moment.

  ‘Is that all you could find? I joked.

  ‘Oh, goodness me, no. I have twice this much still in the car. Your dad is getting it for me.’

  Sure enough, coming down the path towards my house was my father carrying another stack of books.

  ‘And there’s more.’ Frank beamed.

  I took the pile he was holding from him and deposited them in the kitchen while he went back for more. Dad came through the door a second or so later to dump the second pile on my kitchen counter.

  ‘He is an entertaining fellow.' Dad said, referring to Frank. ‘Is that the bookshop owner you were telling me about.'

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘Is he safe?’

  ‘I think so. He just has an alternate view to most people. Frank sees a shadow and assumes it has been caused by an evil spirit left on earth in the aftermath of a battle between a fairy prince and a goblin wizard.’

  ‘What is all this then?’ Dad asked indicating the pile of books?’

  ‘It is research into the Phantom of Barker Mill.' Frank said coming through the door, his arms full of books again. ‘It is evidence of other phantoms gathered over several centuries, catalogued material on the theories regarding why phantoms form, what motivates them, how to fight or repel them and the third pile that I am holding now provides alternate theories on what the entity might be.' He dumped the heavy pile of books on the kitchen counter next to the other two. Sticking out of the pages were dozens of little, coloured flags where he had no doubt marked a passage that was pertinent to the case in hand.

  ‘Michael.’ Yelled my mother from the front door.

  ‘Coming, dear.’ he replied to his ever-patient wife who had been made to wait and was now keen to get home to the snooker or something. ‘Catch you later, kid.’ he said on his way out of the door.

  ‘So, Frank. What have you got for me?’

  ‘Perhaps, Tempest, I should start by laying some groundwork definitions. Please tell me if I am teaching you to suck eggs. A phantom is the spirit of a dead person believed by some to visit the living as a pale, almost transparent form of a person, animal, or other object. It comes from the ancient Greek word phantazein which means image or apparition. Phantoms differ from ghosts in that they are always grounded to a specific place. Tragedy or trauma, not necessarily one that causes their death, but one that becomes the focal point of their life, fixes their ethereal form to that place. Acts as an anchor if you like. There are many famous reports of phantoms in the UK. When one considers the whole planet, the numbers of recorded incidents becomes immeasurable.'

  Frank paused while he fished out a particularly thick book. ‘Here, in Baron's Guide to the Dead he has recorded phantoms in different categories. There is a whole section on phantoms that haunt roads. The records do not go back very far, of course, little more than a century and most are linked to fatal car accidents. There are a few reports of much older phantoms on our roads such as this one.' He indicated with his finger. ‘Which is a Phantom monk that appears on the A6003 near Corby. Baron suggests that he found evidence of his appearance recorded as far back at 1514. It is most likely that the road he was killed on was a bridle path that became a major thoroughfare and then a road as the years went on. This one,' he pointed again, ‘is on Bluebell Hill just a few miles away.'

  I leaned in to read the passage. The author claimed there was a phantom that appeared as the image of a woman in a bridal gown. She would jump in front of cars, causing drivers to swerve and in some cases crash, but she would then vanish. She was always seen in the same spot and the reports went back decades.

  ‘Moray and Blithe write about the Phantom of Barker Mill in some detail. I think they have the best report although it is an old one. They became involved in 1912 when two workers were killed. Archibald Quibly asked them to chronical his investigation.’

  Frank droned on for long enough for me to make tea, drink it and consider making another. There was a lot of information if one cared to do the research. He gave me alternate theories regarding lore on phantoms, what the different researchers thought the Phantom of Barker Mill’s origins might be and even a few ideas about how to trap it.

  ‘What do you think it is?’ I asked, more to indulge him than out of any sense of curiosity. I thought Frank was harmless but also completely bonkers. I indulged him because I liked to hear alternate theories. They made me consider mine and in doing so sometimes forced me to form new ideas.

  ‘It is probably a classic phantom. Very possibly the spectral image of the first Mr. Barker's business partner.'

  ‘Or?' He had made the last statement in a manner that suggested he thought it might be something else.

  ‘Well.’ He started. ‘I think.’ He was really drawing this out. ‘That you have a much bigger problem.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Some of the evidence points to this being a phantasm.’ Frank had locked eyes with me, he was trying to convey how serious he thought this was.

  ‘And the difference is?’ I asked.

  Frank rolled his eyes. ‘Phantoms are not exactly benevolent, but they are also not known to be violent. This one is. Only a few days ago another man was burned in an attack. Phantasms have been recorded as the most violent of all apparitions. Well, behind wraiths of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So, I think the Phantom of Barker Mill is actually a phantasm. A particularly nasty one. Prone to violent acts and not to be underestimated.’

  Trouble at Mill. Monday, 11th October 1950hrs

  Rather than take my car, which only had two seats, I had arranged for Big Ben to pick me up. We then collected Frank and Poison as they lived quite close to one another and headed to Dartford with a car full.

  Big Ben and I were wearing our usual outfit for such activities which was an all-black set of combat-style fatigues with black combat boots, black, fingerless gloves with Kevlar knuckles and a vest that had Kevlar plates in and pockets to the front in which useful items went. I had instructed everyone else to wear black as we wanted to merge into the shadows and be invisible. In a bid to make sure they did, I had made it sound like we were carrying out a daring raid inside enemy lines. I had told Frank to come dressed as Batman, then, after I had put down the phone, realised my mistake and fretted for the next two hours that he might do exactly as instructed.

  Luckily, he had not taken my instruction literally so was wearing hues of black and grey - a hoody over a Black Sabbath t-shirt. Poison, the athletic little minx that she was, had on sports gear. It was all black including her trainers, but as was often her way, her midriff was showing. I acknowledged that her stomach was a flat, wondrous canvass that ought to be displayed, but it would reflect any light and reveal her position. I elected to not worry too much about it.

  On the way there, I had regaled th
e car occupants with what I had learned about the Phantom so far.

  ‘So, the Phantom is Owen Larkin?’ asked Big Ben in confirmation. ‘Why don’t we just have Amanda arrest him at his house?’

  ‘Because if we catch him in the act it will be very hard for him to deny his guilt. Currently, all we have is my testimony that I heard Owen and Brett Barker talking about the Phantom. If it went to court, any decent lawyer would rip the case apart and I always try to present the client with a watertight solution.'

  ‘But isn’t the client in this case also the man behind it all?’ asked Poison.

  ‘Well, I admit I am a little confused by Brett Barker’s move to hire me to solve the Phantom’s identity if he is the one pulling his strings. I think the answer to the why of that will be solved this evening if we catch Owen.’

  The forming up point I had chosen was the car park of a large national supermarket chain. It was situated on the other side of the road from the Mill so provided a good field of vision to the front gate. The overhead lights of the carpark provided illumination for the shoppers going to and from their cars and held back the inky gloom in every parking space and trolley park save for the corner that I had chosen to gather in. Here, two broken lights close together gave us the shadows I wanted.

  The seven of us were performing final preparations for what I worried might be a long operation. It was 2007hrs, so the last shift of the day could be seen leaving the Mill on the opposite side of the road.

  My team looked like a poor man’s paramilitary group when viewed together. Everyone was in black as instructed, everyone had a radio clipped to their belt with a mouthpiece extension clipped onto their jacket collar and most were wearing some kind of tough army-style boot. If one ignored the radio and viewed the chaps separately they just looked like they had made lazy wardrobe choices, except for Poison who always wore black and managed to make it look like a kaleidoscope of colour just by being in it. Big Ben and I were the problem, I suppose. Our matching Kevlar body armour vests and combat outfits needed only to be accessorised with an additional cape and pointed-ear cowl and either one of us could be Batman. I was fervently hoping the supermarket did not have cameras on the car park that were being monitored inside, as a contingent of anti-terrorist police descending on us would make a swift end to the evening.