Darkness at Dillingham: An Austerley & Kirkgordon Adventure #2
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G R Jordan
The Darkness At Dillingham
An Austerley & Kirkgordon Adventure #2
First published by Carpetless Publishing in 2017
Copyright © G R Jordan, 2018
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
G R Jordan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
G R Jordan has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.
Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.
Second edition
ISBN: ePub: 978-1-912153-15-2 Mobi: 978-1-912153-16-9
Cover art by J Caleb Clarke
Editing by Caroline Orr
This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy
Find out more at reedsy.com
To Chrisella,
a passion for language I’d never seen before.
Contents
Prologue
Mind the Gap
Care Home for an Austerley
The Not-So-Honourable Captain Smith
Tania
Father Jonah
The Offensive Side of Havers
Delivery and Collections
Observations
Gibbet Point
Escape
Plans
Should Have Read the Manual
The Austerley Express
Museum Work
Austerley Meets His Match
An Old Friend Checks In
The Redoubtable Miss Goodritch
Back From The Dead
Team Austerley
A Spin Around Town
Dangerous Streets
Debate
Manhunt
Only a Foot
Consequences
The Battle of Gibbet Point
Care Home Chaos
In The Dark
Back in the USSR
A Small Request
Bonus Chapter: Chapter 1 of Dagon's Revenge, A&K #3
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by G R Jordan
Prologue
What the hell are they doing to her, thought Wilson. In all his experience, never had he seen such a transformation, such an impact on a person’s visage and such a draining of colour from someone’s cheeks. Many times he had read about weird and unusual things in his line of work but to see magic at first hand was totally different.
And magic it was, but not of the illusionist’s variety. No, this was old and deep, taught by dark forces in the bleakest of nights to desperate souls who had abandoned all science and all goodly gods. Clearing the island of those frog creatures had been nothing compared to this.
He glanced at his watch, making a mental note: 2 am. His boss liked detail so he knew this report was going to take a while. He’d be lucky to be in his bed by eight. Maybe nine. For six weeks he had been watching the place for the department but only this week had there been a slip-up. His cover story – a cleaner in the care home – had allowed him access to all the residents’ rooms and he had seen the little brooch by their beds.
The brooch was unremarkable, made from emerald but poor in quality. The fastenings had rusted and the clasp operated poorly. Framed by some false diamonds, the emerald had a small plaque above it with one word: “Huthnamac”. The common man would not have thought much about what meaning there was but Wilson was a graduate in older languages and had been trained to spot the out-of-place.
The first room he had seen the brooch in was Mr Melville’s. An austere gentleman from Derbyshire, slightly eccentric, he was in the home for his own comfort and protection. Life stressed him, and he constantly complained about the boys ruining the flowers. Of course, there were no boys and the flowers were flourishing quite well for the time of year. Despite his happy madness, Mr Melville was physically very well. At least he had been. The day after Wilson had seen the brooch, Mr Melville was dead.
Wilson had broken into the hospital to examine the body before the autopsy. Mr Melville was white but with a faded look, like cheap emulsion. The life had been drained from him. And yet, two days later, the autopsy report said he had died from natural causes. The coroner must be in on it, thought Wilson.
During his next cleaning round he had noticed the brooch again, in the room of Mrs Moor – vibrant, but once again quite mad. Wilson had notified his superior and prepared to stake out her room.
They had come for her at midnight when the home was in shut-down – doors locked and residents asleep. Watching closely, he saw them place her into a car. Mrs Moor was asleep, or more likely drugged, for she gave no resistance. He followed them up to the hill at the edge of town. There had been several people guarding the site, unseen to the untrained eye but for those in Wilson’s line of work they were quite obvious.
Mrs Moor had been taken up to the highest outlook of the bay, a place called “Gibbet Point”. Six people stood around her. She was sitting in a wheelchair. They laid hands upon her and chanted a language that even Wilson didn’t recognize.
The wind picked up and a chill blew right through him. Several crows took to the air and rabbits left their burrows, fleeing down the hill. As the chanting grew, Wilson watched Mrs Moor age drastically. Her skin lost its rosy glow and turned pale. Her hair greyed before his eyes. Lines spread out across her face and her neck tightened. With a start, her eyes flicked open and shrunk back into their sockets. Can I stop this, thought Wilson, removing his gun from its holster. Any firing will bring the lookouts. The boss wouldn’t be happy if Mrs Moor was saved but the protagonists managed to flee. The greater good, he always said. His boss was the finest he’d known in their line of work, but he was also a cold, hard bastard when he needed to be. A consummate professional, they called him. Sorry dear, thought Wilson, you’re going to be sacrificed for the greater good.
Something, some… substance, left Mrs Moor’s body. Wilson didn’t understand what he was seeing. It displaced the light around her, as if her outline had dropped out of focus. The substance continued upwards and coagulated above her head before racing towards a large metal cage at the lookout point. Then… nothing. Wilson looked back at Mrs Moor. She was drained of all colour. It was as if she had aged another twenty years.
Time to go, thought Wilson. He turned quietly, scanning for the poorly hidden guards. But there was a figure just five feet away. At least, he thought it was a figure. There was that same displacement of the light, like looking through watery eyes. This time, it had a shape. It was human and nearly seven feet tall. Was it wearing a tri-cornered hat? Wilson saw an arm pull somethin
g from its side. Then there was a slash with a blurred sword. Wilson threw his hands up to block the attack but felt the invisible blade cut into him.
With the dark setting in, Wilson’s last sight was a blurred, colourless face, almost transparent, but with eyes that burned with hunger and passion. And hatred. With his last act, Wilson reached inside his pocket, pressed a secret button, and murmured “Havers”.
Mind the Gap
Kirkgordon pulled his bow case from the top rack of the carriage and sat down briefly, waiting for the train to stop at the platform. Tired from an early start, he had taken three trains to arrive at Dillingham-on-sea, some six hundred miles from his starting point on the east coast of Scotland. What had possessed Havers to send Austerley all the way down here? At the last minute, too. Surely there were equally good care homes in Scotland in which to prepare someone for a prosthetic foot? Especially as the work to fit the new appendage would take place in Glasgow. Madness!
With his bow case and small rucksack slung over either shoulder, Kirkgordon stepped off the train and took in the platform sheltered under a Victorian roof of corrugated form. There were few travellers about, no doubt something that would be remedied in the commuter rush of the evening. A small coffee cart stood at one side with a lacklustre teenager lounging behind it, fizzy pop in hand. Oh well, I’ll guess I’ll wait ’til the town for a decent cup, thought Kirkgordon.
Once clear of the station, Kirkgordon walked up a tree-lined road and stood at the summit of a small hill, looking down on the town by the bay that was to be his home for the next two weeks. At the shoreline there was a wide beach with the occasional walker enjoying the sunshine. There was a bottleneck of slow-moving cars leading into the town and a tight inner section of buildings with extremely narrow streets. Rising from the centre of this inner section was a church spire, and Kirkgordon resolved to see what time the services were on. Since the events on the island he had started seeking out a place to worship, a rekindling of his dormant faith.
The island. He shuddered at the recollection of the demon from the deep, not to mention the dragon who had ripped off Austerley’s foot. A pissed-off, three-headed dragon that was still on the loose. And trying to kill Austerley.
For the last two weeks, Kirkgordon had been staying with his estranged wife, Alana, trying to mend relationships with his family. In fairness, there had been a lot of love, even sexual love, but also a lot of resentment, nightmares and rage. Alana had tried to be compassionate but, in reality, he wasn’t ready to live with anyone full-time yet. And neither was Austerley. So for two weeks at a time, Kirkgordon had a babysitting job. Babysitting Austerley. Two weeks on, two weeks off. At least I don’t have to share with him this week, thought Kirkgordon. Normally, the odd couple shared a flat at the expense of their employer, SETAA, the Supernatural and Elder Threat Assessment Agency, a hushed-up government body.
On the walk into town, Kirkgordon spotted a small café and sat down inside to escape the noise of overheating cars. This wasn’t like Scotland – too many damn people living here. Ordering a latte, he picked up a local map to peruse. After quickly locating the bird sanctuary and the small natural spring the town was famous for, he studied the map closely for more useful locations. The library, supermarket, leisure centre and pubs were marked and also a viewing spot called “Gibbet Point”. It seemed to be a reasonable walk so he thought he might take a stroll before Austerley arrived on the late evening train, but as it was already mid-afternoon, Kirkgordon reckoned he should find his digs first.
The Shady Palm Guest House lacked the trees of its name and also lacked an en-suite bathroom. The elderly female proprietor was friendly enough and gave the promise of a large fry-up every morning, but the room had such a soft bed that Kirkgordon thought he might sink into its depths never to return. The drab pink bedspread didn’t do much for it either.
Forsaking his room, Kirkgordon set out on the stroll he had planned and a fresh breeze hit his face as he approached the shoreline. The salt air appealed to him at first but then brought back more memories of the island. He found himself checking the sea for tentacles. Focus, dammit, focus.
The rising climb to the viewpoint helped energize him. At the top of the climb was an odd-looking cage, swinging gently in the breeze, and the remains of a small building, now reduced to an archway. As he stood looking out to sea he began to feel optimistic that he could use these two weeks to recover. After all, how difficult would it be to babysit Austerley? There was nothing here to fuel Austerley’s obsession with the occult. Time to recuperate and repair some damage.
Something caught his eye on his way back down. Beyond the path, the grass was closely cut for about a foot before turning wild. His attention had been grabbed by a flash of red against the green, and he strode over to examine it. It was blood, dried blood, and in a significant quantity. Kirkgordon wondered what had happened here. Probably some toddler fell and bashed his head, his self-preservation reassured him, but his heart disagreed. Something kicked in him.
Not much I can do about anything anyway, he thought. I have no idea what happened so best just leave it. But his years of running security and protection details had given Kirkgordon a nose for the out-of-place, and it was hard to drown out what his experience was telling him. Still, that coffee had been good, time for another. He made his way back to the town.
He was recognized by the barista at the coffee house and engaged in a pleasant chat before retracing his previous steps back to the train station. Although SETAA would gladly foot the bill for a taxi, Kirkgordon was enjoying the freedom to roam. The air was fresh with a distinct, crispy saltiness to it and, breathing deeply, he felt invigorated. Then his impending meeting crossed his mind.
When Kirkgordon had last left Austerley, the air between them had been thick with anger. Feeling guilty, Kirkgordon had even asked to be forgiven for trying to kill Austerley during the demonic ritual on the island, but the former asylum detainee wasn’t to be moved. He just won’t listen to reason, thought Kirkgordon, nothing is ever his fault. Serves the stupid arse right for getting me involved in this occult nonsense in the first place.
Standing on the platform, Kirkgordon read the overhead display and saw that the train was delayed. Typical. He searched for the coffee cart from earlier and noticed it had moved to the other platform, so he descended the steps and followed the underground tunnel, ignoring the smell of urine in the subway. Emerging on the other side, he announced cheerily to the teenage server that he required a latte.
“Got black only, machine’s off. Or I can give you this UHT stuff.” Kirkgordon smiled wearily. Black it would have to be.
Austerley had rarely left his bed while Kirkgordon had been babysitting him, instead plaguing Kirkgordon with his constant demands. The mad expert of the occult had also been requesting various books from dubious libraries around the world, all vetted by Havers, SETAA’s top man, of course. The incident on the island hadn’t dampened Austerley’s taste for the strange, but it had reduced his mobility. Havers had suggested a prosthetic and Austerley had readily agreed. With a date two weeks away for the fitting of the limb, this sudden relocation seemed weird to Kirkgordon but hey-ho. Two weeks of sun and Mr Grumpy courtesy of the taxpayer shouldn’t be sniffed at. Better this than being stuck in the flat with him.
Austerley was so damn gung-ho with these dark matters they looked into that Kirkgordon had nicknamed him Indy, although it was a bit ridiculous. Austerley was too heavy and slow to be like Harrison Ford – more like a model T Ford with his deep jowls and rotund belly. And to think he calls me Churchy, thought Kirkgordon. Just because I believe there’s a big man looking out for me. One thing’s for sure in all this nonsense Indy’s got me into: I’m looking for the light again. Definitely looking. I must check out the service on Sunday.
A degree in sound analysis was needed to understand the tannoy announcement but, on looking at the electronic boards, Kirkgordon deduced that Austerley’s train was approaching. The smell of diesel
heralded its arrival and the train of four carriages pulled into the station proper. The carriages were obviously old stock and none opened automatically. Kirkgordon recognized a head appearing at one of the windows. Having pushed the window down, the man inside sought a fixture for opening the door. On finding it, he seemed to struggle for an age.
For three minutes, Kirkgordon watched the man struggle and laughed at his efforts. The man’s face grew redder and sweat started to form on his forehead; his hair became matted and its weak curls dampened so it looked like he was wearing a poorly made wig. This was fun.
The train whistled and Kirkgordon tried to wave down a platform attendant but there was none. There was a judder and the train started to move. Ah, bollocks, thought Kirkgordon, I am not chasing him in a taxi. He leapt onto the little wooden step at the bottom of the door as the carriage went past. He placed one hand inside the door and the other on the collar at the back of the man’s neck. Kirkgordon pulled hard and yanked him head first out of the carriage, spinning him clear and onto his back. He then dived into the carriage and threw the luggage out of the window. Just as the carriage was clearing the end of the platform and picking up reasonable speed, Kirkgordon leapt out head first, landing in a forward roll.
Standing, he looked back at the carnage he had caused. Four pieces of luggage were scattered down the platform, one of them open, exposing large white Y-fronts. Beyond these cases was a man in a bomber jacket and a purple knitted hat which reminded Kirkgordon of a tea cosy. His legs were inside jogging bottoms and one foot had a cheap-looking white trainer on it. The other leg ended in a stump. Dammit, I’d better help him up, thought Kirkgordon.
“I don’t need your bloody help. What the hell was that anyway? Can’t you just help people normally?”
“Good to see you too, Indy,” answered Kirkgordon. “I thought you might have had a spell or a rune to open the door with.”