The Haunting of Winter Hill

by Eddie Blakemore

  “Robert Owen is not a half-wit,” spluttered Becks, “He is autistic.” Mrs Worthington completely ignored her.

  “So we need a man with a rock solid foundation, like a wife and family, to get to grips with this, Lord knows some of your predecessors were woefully inadequate. Why are you not married Mr Cunningham?” She asked bluntly.

  “Put simply, over the last few years I have been too busy with the church to take much interest in anything else, like marriage,” said Mike taken by surprise.

  “Not the marrying kind?” asked Mrs Worthington pointedly. There was a long, loud silence.

  “Mrs Worthington, I am not gay,” said Mike pausing for effect before adding. “But some of my boyfriends have been.” Most round the table laughed, Mrs Worthington looked like she was going to have a stroke.

  “Any other business,” boomed Dacre desperately. There was an even longer, louder silence. Nobody looked at Mrs Worthington.

  “Facebook,” blurted out Becks suddenly.

  “What?” said Mike doing a double take.

  “Yes, Mike was telling me earlier that he thought it would be a good Idea if the church had a Facebook page,” said Becks smiling at Mike.

  “I did? oh yes, I did,” said Mike stalling. “We need to be more inclusive, and social media is a good way of getting in touch with people who are otherwise off the radar,” he bluffed.

  “Great idea,“ said Robin Dacre. There was a chorus of approval around the table, bypassing Mrs Worthington.

  “And with my new social media expert here,” he looked at Becks meaningfully. “We intend to get it up and running ASAP. In the meantime, I hope to see you at my first service on Sunday.” With no further business the meeting broke up. The council members could not have left the building quicker if a CS gas canister had been lobbed through the window. Becks came back from seeing a fuming Mrs Worthington through the door, to find Mike sitting alone.

  “Tough crowd,” he mused, raising an eyebrow.

  “Yes. Tom said you had an uncanny ability to wind people up,” smiled Becks.

  *

  “Facebook?” said Mike incredulously.

  “Well someone had to say something, otherwise she would have started up again,” shouted Becks. They both had to talk loudly to be heard above the roaring of the wind. They were walking up on Winter Hill itself, not far from the huge TV mast. Becks’ dog Cookie , ran around happily, her tail revolving like a propeller.

  “So what about this undercurrent of badness,” said Mike. “The bishop failed to mention it.”

  “There isn’t one,” replied Becks. “Just a little nine year old girl who tragically died and a nasty old woman who wants to make some mileage out of it. It just isn’t fair. Alan and Claire Owen are wonderful people. They fostered Robert, who is autistic, then adopted him a few years ago. They fostered Ellie Parsons about a year ago. If all had gone well they would probably have adopted her as well. Her real mum sadly died of a drug overdose. They were great happy kids. They used to come round and play with Cookie. Then one day, nobody knows exactly what happened, the poor girl went off the motorway bridge in front of a truck.”

  “Was she troubled in some way,” asked Mike.

  “Well,” said Becks slowly, “there had been some bullying at school, mostly by Gary Koenig, Malcolm Koenig’s boy from his previous marriage, not with Sylvia. But the school had cracked down on that pretty hard. Nobody knows what really happened, so it was put down as an accident. Poor Robert lost his little sister and has never been the same since. This was two months ago.”

  “Will the Owens be at church on Sunday?” asked Mike. Becks nodded. “I will make a point of speaking to them after the service, see if there is anything I can do. So what’s the story with Mrs Worthington? Like, is there a Mr Worthington?”

  “There was”, replied Becks. “She says he’s dead, but several people remember him, and reckon he just upped and buggered off one day. She’s not disabled by the way. She had a knee operation a couple of years ago, got a wheelchair for a few weeks, and never got out of it. Poor Gareth has been pushing her round ever since. She keeps trying to get him registered as her carer, but the council won’t have it. I live right opposite her and, at night, when Gareth is upstairs, I see her walking round the lounge. She’s no more disabled than I am.”

  “Nice,” grimaced Mike, “She’ll make the parish council meetings fun then.”

  “Well, she likes Robin Dacre, because she fancies him,” Becks went on. “But she hates Sylvia Koenig because she’s beautiful, she hates Harold Farnsworth because he won’t put up with any of her crap, and she hates Stephen Priestley because he’s gay.”

  “Is he?” said Mike surprised. Becks raised an eyebrow.

  “Oh come on Mike it’s obvious.”

  “Sorry,” laughed Mike. “My gaydar is non-existent. I did think he was rather well groomed though.” Becks shook her head smiling. “So, apart from that lot,” continued Mike “is everything normal round here?”

  Becks looked thoughtful, “It depends what you mean by normal. There is a marker over there,” she said pointing, “called Scotchman’s stump, from a famous murder years ago. There were two plane crashes up here. And further over there.” She pointed again, “Is Leadmines Clough which is supposedly haunted. So we do have some weird stuff.”

  “Hmm,” mused Mike. “That’s the sort of weird I want to avoid. How much detail did Tom Preston go into?” The question took Becks by surprise.

  “Oh, not much,” she said hurriedly. Mike stopped walking and turned to face Becks.

  “You know what Tom’s group do?”

  “Yes, paranormal stuff,” admitted Becks, “They operate out of a small retreat in Derbyshire.”

  “Well, I’d been with them for a couple of years,” Mike went on, “most of the stuff we investigated, turned out to be the usual rubbish, not at all paranormal, but some instances were genuine, and in some extreme cases, we actually performed exorcisms.” Becks looked astonished. “Yes, exorcism in the Church of England,” confirmed Mike. “About which there are two rules.” Becks looked expectantly. “Rule one, we do not talk about exorcism in the Church of England, and rule two, well you can guess rule two.” Becks smiled. “Well we had such a case, a nineteen year old girl in Nottingham called Amanda Poole, it had been thoroughly investigated, and it was obviously not the usual teen psychosomatic stuff. There was genuine paranormal activity in evidence, and it was decided to perform an exorcism. It was just a normal semi-detached house in a quiet suburb of Nottingham. I went along with a priest called Gregor Fergusson, thank God for him being there. We started the exorcism rite, and all hell broke loose. We got it wrong, terribly wrong. To cut a long story short, I blacked out, and Gregor got me out of there, but we let the girl down, I let the girl down, and she died. I had pretty close to a nervous breakdown. The church managed to cover up the full details of the poor girl’s death, and I was packed off to a rest home for the best part of a year, and now I’m here,” Mike finished brightly.

  “Wow,” said Becks slowly. “Tom never told me that.”

  “Well, I thought you should know,” said Mike, “as we’ll be working together.” Becks said nothing, just stepped forward and gave him another of her hugs. She gave really good hugs thought Mike.

  *

  They drove back to the village in Becks’ ancient Astra, dropped cookie off at her house, and went for a drink in the Black Barn. It was surprisingly busy, full of people having a drink after work to start the weekend. The landlord was behind the bar, a stocky balding figure whose face bore an almost permanent incredulous scowl, as if he just didn’t understand most of what was going on in the world and the bits he did understand, he didn’t agree with. Becks introduced him.

  “This is Kenny Bradshaw, the most miserable host in the north of England. He does serve good beer though apparently.”

  “What are you talking about Becks,” snorted Kenny. “I’ve not stopped smiling since we voted to leave the EU, if t
he jocks had voted to bugger off as well I could have died a happy man, what are you having vicar?” Mike had a pint of Blackedge, Becks had an orange juice, and they took them to a table in the corner.

  “Bit of a character then?” said Mike taking a large swig from his pint. “He does serve a good pint though.”

  “Yes, he’s a good soul basically, but some of the stuff he puts on Facebook is pretty close to racism. Basically, if you are not white, and from within ten miles of here, he’s suspicious of you.” sighed Becks. “I suppose we’ll all go that way when we’re his age.”

  “What?” said Mike.

  “Well my old dad used to say,” continued Becks, “If you‘re not a socialist when you are young, you have no heart. If you‘re not a capitalist when you are old, you have no brain, and he should have known. He went from being a firebrand left winger in his youth to being Enoch Powell just before he died.”

  “Now I’m depressed,” said Mike. “Right, how do we do this Facebook thing?”

  “You have a laptop right?” said Becks.

  “Yes. It’s flat and level and makes a great TV dinner tray,” admitted Mike. “I’m not really up to speed with social media and such like. I’ve only just learned how to access the voicemail on my mobile.”

  “New phone?” enquired Becks hopefully.

  “I’ve had it for four years,” deadpanned Mike. “I may need to delegate Facebook.”

  “Indeed,” said Becks swigging her orange juice. They chatted for a while and had a couple of more drinks. Becks bought some crisps and opened the packets and spread them on the table to share them.

  “So, did none of the temporary vicars work out?” asked Mike.

  “Well one guy called Robert Forrester was here three months actually,” said Becks. “He really liked the parish and would probably have stayed if hadn’t got side-tracked and left the church.”

  “Go on,” said Mike raising an eyebrow.

  “Well he worked incredibly hard, not just in the parish, but at soup kitchens and drop in centres in Manchester and Liverpool, just trying to help people who had fallen by the wayside.”

  “Yes?” said Mike prompting.

  “Well, he met an out of work Ukrainian pole dancer called Kreska. He drew out his life savings to pay for a boob job for her and moved in with her in a flat in north Wales. As far as I know they are still happy together in their nookie nest in Rhyl.”

  “Now that’s dedication,” laughed Mike. Becks shook her head and smiled,

  “Mrs Worthington was not amused.” They went back to Becks house and ordered a Chinese takeaway which they ate with a bottle of wine. It was dark when Mike said goodbye and walked back down the main street to the vicarage. He was starting to feel good about Winter Hill. Not just because he felt he had made a good friend in Rebecca. He was confident he could do a good job here and put the doubts that the last year or so had put in to his mind behind him. He made a cup of tea, went to bed, and fell asleep almost immediately.

  *

  “Alan,” said Claire Owen, breaking into his thoughts. He looked away from the TV. Claire was in the hall at the bottom of the stairs. She gestured him over.

  “Come and listen he’s doing it again.” He looked uncomfortable. “Come on,” she said quietly but firmly. Finally he moved, dumping the TV remote on the couch and going through to the entrance hall. Claire was already half way up the stairs. With a sigh he followed his wife up the stairs and along the landing.

  She paused outside Robert’s bedroom door. “Listen,” she whispered putting her finger to her lips. He bent closer to the door. He could hear Robert talking to somebody. He looked at Claire who raised her eyebrows and shrugged. He continued to listen, becoming increasingly aware of his wife looking at him. Finally he straightened up, took a breath, and knocked at the door. The talking stopped.

  “Robert, are you OK?” said Alan.

  “Yes,” replied Robert brightly from the other side of the door. Alan looked at Claire.

  “Is it OK if we come in?” asked Claire.

  “Course,” replied Robert. Claire opened the door and they stepped into the bedroom. Robert was sitting on the edge of his bed in his pyjamas, lit by the moonlight streaming through the bedroom window. He smiled brightly at them. “Hello mum, hello dad,” he said.

  “Could you not get to sleep,” asked Claire, “We thought we could hear you talking.”

  “Yes I was,” said Robert, “I was talking to Ellie.” Alan exhaled heavily, turned the bedroom light on and glanced at Claire, who went over and sat on the bed, putting her arm around Robert.

  “You remember we talked about this,” she said delicately. “And we explained that Ellie had gone from this world.”

  “Yes, I remember that,” said Robert, “but she came back to talk to me tonight, it was great.”

  “You know that’s not possible,” said Alan smiling gently.

  “It is,” said Robert, “she was stood right there.” He pointed to a spot next to the window. “She only went away when you knocked on the door.”

  They both looked at the spot. There were specks of water on the wood laminate flooring. Alan looked at Claire in desperation, out of his depth.

  “I’ll tell you what,” said Claire, “You go to bed, and get some sleep, and we’ll talk about this in the morning.”

  They tucked Robert in, wished him goodnight and turned out the light. Closing the bedroom door they descended the stairs in silence.

  “Jesus, what‘s going on,” said Alan.

  “He’s obviously not dealt with Ellie’s death as well as we thought he did,” said Claire quietly.

  “Really!” blurted Alan. “You heard what I heard, even through the bedroom door, there were clearly two voices.”

  Claire nodded. She had heard it as well.

  Chapter Three - Saturday

  Saturday started just as Friday, cool but dry. Mike went for his morning run and was disappointed to be even more out of breath when he got back to the vicarage. He made himself a large breakfast in sheer defiance and enjoyed every mouth full of it. He spent an hour working on his first sermon until, satisfied that it was as good as it would ever be, he put it to one side. About eleven, he walked up to Becks’ house. She was taking him to meet the church organist Mrs Douchamps. He rang the doorbell and heard cookie barking excitedly. The door opened and he was nearly flattened by the dog as it hurled itself at him.

  “Sorry Mike,” said Becks hauling the dog back inside.

  “It’s OK,” gasped Mike, brushing dog hair from his jacket, “nothing wrong with a bit of affection.” He fussed the dog while Becks made coffee. “Just finished my sermon,” said Mike, “although to be honest it’s based on the first sermon I ever gave at my first Church. I just added some stuff about people pulling together in difficult times instead of sniping at each other. I can’t think who I had in mind when I wrote that.”

  “Really?” said Becks raising an eyebrow. They got into her car and drove the couple of miles in to Horwich where Mrs Douchamps lived. Her home was a neat little terraced house just off the main road. Becks made the introductions. Emily Douchamps was a large, rotund, West Indian lady with a dazzling smile who immediately grasped Mike in a bear hug that nearly cracked his ribs. They gave good hugs round here thought Mike. She went in to the kitchen to make tea, which she brought through on a silver tray.

  “So this is the new vicar,” said Emily archly. “The rumours were true, he is a looker, better than the last half dozen we’ve had. Single as well. Could do with filling out a bit though,” she nodded towards Mike’s almost flat stomach.

  “I’m sure you’ll soon get to work on that,” said Becks smirking. Mike just laughed politely and sipped his tea. Mike went through the music for the Sunday service with Emily who had an almost unending knowledge of music, and a sheet music collection that was vast and varied. They picked a few unusual and modern pieces that complimented the more traditional hymns.

  “Right,” said Mrs Douchamps
when they had sorted out the service “Dumplings.” And she bustled off in to the kitchen. Mike looked at Becks enquiringly.

  “Emily’s West Indian cooking is legendary,” said Becks, “And you are about to sample some.”

  He certainly was. For the next 45 minutes food rolled out of the tiny kitchen like a production line, deep fried dumplings, goat curry, and rice and peas. By the time they made an excuse and stood up to leave, Mike’s stomach was straining his waist band. Another bear hug from Emily on the way out, and a parting shot.

  “Don’t go taking any notice of that Joan Worthington. For a so- called Christian woman she has a very un Christian tongue on her.”

  “OK Mrs Douchamps,” promised Mike as he climbed into Becks’ car. They drove back to Winter Hill laughing. “She’s like a force of nature, that one,” said Mike” and she’s not a fan of Joan Worthington either.”

  “Not many are,” agreed Becks.

  *

  They left the car at Becks’ and called in at the Black Barn for a drink. As they arrived a thin spotty young man in a grubby hoodie was leaving in a hurry and barged past them.

  “Excuse you,” said Becks. The youth completely ignored her and stalked off down the street.

  “Don’t take any notice of that arsehole,” said Kenny following him out. “He’s barred, I don’t know why he even tries to get served in here.” He went back inside muttering to himself.

  “Who was that?” asked Mike.

  “Just a local low life called Jesse Whitehill,” said Becks following Kenny inside. Mike followed frowning to himself. It wasn’t like Becks to talk about people like that. Plus, the name Whitehill rang a bell.

  They had a drink at the bar as the pub was quite busy, Saturday lunchtime football and food drawing a healthy crowd. Becks introduced Mike to a middle- aged Asian man sat at the bar called Sanjeev, who was sipping at a Gin and Tonic.