Something Wicked This Way Comes

by Amy Rae Durreson

  I took a shower, which didn’t help at all until the beat of the water on my bare face suddenly made me think of running through the thunder with Niall, of the shock and wonder of his kiss.

  That was an entirely different, but far more welcome, distraction. I stumbled out of the warm shower, still feeling hazy and flushed, and wriggled into bed determined to dwell on that very welcome distraction.

  BUT SLEEP came with bad dreams, fractured and almost feverish—my parents, Niall, cars sliding and spinning, row upon row of gravestones arching up over the fells, and like a blow, the malevolent face of the old man I had seen by the hedge.

  I jerked awake and, for the second time that day, heard the passing of the night riders. They were heading towards the river again, and I wondered why I had never heard them going the other way. Did they vanish at some point on the other side of the border, then reappear over here? Or were they following an endless looping patrol?

  I was still wondering when I drifted back to sleep. This time, I didn’t dream—or, if I did, I couldn’t recall it come morning.

  I LINGERED over breakfast, making plans with the Elliots to tour Vainguard. I didn’t like the idea of anyone in there, but better to show them round myself than risk Mac heading in alone. I knew from long experience that it was easier to channel or redirect a child’s curiosity than to ban it.

  I remembered to pick up my own umbrella that morning, as well as chucking everything I’d borrowed from Niall into a bag, but it didn’t look like I’d need it. It was one of those cool, damp British summer mornings where the sun kept creeping out from behind the clouds and everything smelt clean and green. The path was soft underfoot—the mud silky and liquid from the trickles of water that ran across it, bursting out of the mossy slope, and the stream murmured cheerfully below me. I left deep footprints in it, sinking to my ankles in places and hopping between tufts of grass when it got too deep.

  There were no other tracks on the path—no sign that any real horses had passed along here.

  In this fresh morning, the thought of ghosts seemed absurd, and I smiled it away, more preoccupied by what would happen when I saw Niall again. Would he be embarrassed by all our emotional outbursts yesterday, or would he reach out and pull me close again—take up where we had left off before the album?

  You can’t blame me for hoping it would be the latter.

  Birds were singing brightly. A rabbit lolloped across my path. On the other side of the river, a roe deer lifted her head to watch me go by.

  It was almost like a holiday.

  Then my phone rang shrilly, making me jump. I fumbled it out of my pocket, surprised when I saw it was Jem, my friend at head office. It was gone nine, so he should be at work by now.

  “Hey,” I said. “What’s up?”

  “What isn’t?” he replied, a grim note in his usually light voice. “You have no idea how much shit is currently hitting the proverbial fan.”

  I closed my eyes, my good mood fading. “I’m guessing you found something bad in the archives, then?”

  “You could say that. It’s pretty clear that no one’s even looked at these since they got scanned in the sixties, because it’s all right there. The powers that be are shitting bricks.”

  I closed my eyes. “What’s in the files?”

  He was quiet for a moment, then said, “Terrible things. Terrible, terrible—” He swallowed. “I had to pass it up the line.”

  “I know. I’ve found a few things here which I was going to pass on too. Just hints of something, though.”

  “This is more than hints. They—they wrote it all down and tried to justify themselves.”

  “Shit.”

  “You’ll be getting an invitation to a conference call later, but I wanted to give you a heads-up. Copies of the files are coming your way, but they’re confidential. Not a word to anyone outside the organisation until we’ve got a grip on it.”

  “Of course.” I thought briefly of Niall, with regret, but I knew better.

  “Yeah.” He hesitated. “Look, once you’ve read them, remember I’m on the other end of a phone line.”

  “That bad?”

  “That bad,” he confirmed grimly.

  After I hung up, I stopped for a while. The day had not changed, but I could no longer find joy in it. What was waiting for me at Vainguard? What had truly happened to the Armstrong boys, to James Adams, Ronald Parfitt, and Albert Billings?

  At last, reluctantly, I set out again, heading up and across the road by the bridge, then back down into the firs below Vainguard.

  The scent of pine was even stronger than before—a wet green hum that made me think of winter, of ice underfoot, of the drifting slide of a car spinning out of control.

  No. I wasn’t going to think about that. I was an adult, and it was almost thirty years in my past. My whole life stood between then and now. There were more important tragedies to worry about today.

  The woods were quiet. There was no birdsong here, no rabbits darting through the green shadows or scuffling through the thick carpeting of dry pine needles. Only a few midges hung in the air.

  “The woods are lovely, dark and deep,” I said aloud, because poetry is supposed to take our fears and transform them, “but I have promises to keep.”

  And, like the fall of a coin that has been balanced on its edge, the quality of the silence changed, and I knew I was not alone.

  It made me angry. Whatever was going on here, whether it was supernatural or merely human malice, I wasn’t a vulnerable child anymore. I refused to be prey.

  I turned slowly on my heel, surveying the empty woodlands, and said, with all the cool authority of over fifteen years of teaching. “This stops now.”

  Only silence answered me. I nodded as if I had won grudging cooperation from a rebellious child and headed off again at a brisk stride. I made it all the way to the edge of the woods. Then, as I stepped out into the sunlight, something laughed in the shadows.

  I spun round.

  Only the quiet woods stood behind me.

  I hurried up to Vainguard. I had started the day with the intention of waiting until later to call on Niall—a reward for the morning’s work. Now I had to get the album back, hopefully before he headed out to any morning appointments.

  I dropped my bag in the bungalow and headed down the drive, fixing a smile over my disquiet.

  I found Niall in the workshop, where the forge was already roaring. He nodded to me and came out, taking his gloves off. “Morning.”

  “Morning,” I said, and my cheeks heated up. Even in protective gear, he looked delectable. “I brought your stuff back. Thanks for the loan.”

  “Any time,” he said and winked at me.

  I couldn’t help smiling. “So, er.”

  He rescued me by waving me inside. “Let’s grab your bits while the forge is warming up.”

  “How long does that take?”

  “Not long, and I shouldn’t leave it unsupervised.”

  “Shame,” I said, deciding it was my turn to wink. “I quite fancied having you grab my bits.”

  “Cheeky.”

  I laughed and went into the bungalow. Despite everything else, it was easy to flirt with him, and it made the rest feel a little less overwhelming. He had my clothes folded on the table, and I gathered them up. “I’m going to take the album back up to Vainguard and store it with the other papers.”

  “Do. I don’t want the damn thing in my house.”

  I bit my lip, feeling bad. I reminded myself I had only known him for a few days, and I owed Becky’s the last thirty years of my life. My loyalties were clear, however guilty I might feel.

  “I’m in the workshop all day today if you fancy wandering down later.”

  I turned to smile at him. “I might take you up on that invitation.”

  He reached out and caught me by my belt loops, reeling me in. “And maybe tonight, once the forge can be left?”

  “Well, that might depend what invitations you’re
offering, then.”

  He chuckled and kissed me. It was an easy kiss rather than the passion of the previous day, but it still quivered through me until I couldn’t help smiling. He let me go with a sigh. “I’ll have to come up with some good ideas.”

  “I’ll look forward to it.” I pulled away reluctantly and tucked the album under my arm.

  The encounter had lifted my spirits. Could Niall and I leave all the tangled mess of the past untouched and enjoy each other? Was that even possible?

  I hoped so, and that hope carried me most of the way to Vainguard. My steps faltered as I reached the gate. I stared up at Vainguard where it squatted on the landscape and finally admitted to myself that I hated this place. I didn’t want to live here—didn’t want to bring children here.

  It was illogical, so I forced myself past it and went back inside. The papers were still stacked neatly on the table in the big room. Dust still hung heavy as fur in the folds of the curtains. No one had been here or touched anything.

  And yet I had the creeping sense someone—or something—had left the room moments before I arrived.

  “Idiot,” I said aloud to myself. “The boy got you spooked yesterday.”

  I made myself a cup of tea, then sat down in front of my email. There were two new ones—from Jem with attachments, and from the CEO’s PA, asking me to be ready for an 11:00 a.m. conference call. That gave me just over an hour to read the files. I didn’t want to—didn’t want to destroy the illusion that there was one organisation left that wasn’t tainted by this horror.

  Strange to realise how naive you can still be as an adult.

  Grimly, I opened the first one.

  It was the full death certificate for James Adams, aged thirteen years. He had died on the 4th January 1944, and the coroner’s verdict read “misadventure.” That rang a bell, and I reached out for the album.

  It was the same date and verdict as Francis Armstrong’s.

  The next three were for the other boys—all on the same day with the same verdict.

  I opened the next and saw line after line of slanting handwriting. Warily, I enlarged it and began to read.

  Chapter Eighteen

  STATEMENT OF Martha Cairns, matron, regarding the events of January 4th, 1944.

  The orphans, having completed their chores and evening prayers, went to their dormitories at eight pm. Lights out, as usual, was at eight fifteen. Due to earlier insubordinate behaviour, Irene Mellor, Shirley Atkins, and Jean Parfitt remained in the chapel for extra prayers. Miss Jenkins stayed with them. Just after midnight, I was awoken by the sound of crashing. The infirmary is situated immediately above the chapel, so I was the first to arrive in the room. I found Mr Hearn there. He was unconscious and bleeding from a head wound. Miss Jenkins was lying at the foot of the stairs and was too hysterical to convey any report of what had taken place. The pews and altar had been overturned. I attempted to render aid to Mr Hearn, but Miss Jenkins was insistent that I proceed to the barmkin. There I found the orphans.

  The three more distant boys I identified as James Adams, Albert Billings and Ronald Parfitt. They were all lying on the floor. Jean Parfitt was tending her brother and the other girls were with Adams and Billings. All the girls had suffered minor cuts. Francis Armstrong lay across the threshold to the chapel, with his brother Martyn unconscious besides him. Believing the girls to have the situation in hand, I hastened forward. I immediately became aware that the floor of the courtyard was entirely covered in broken glass. On looking up, I saw that the windows in the outer wall had all shattered and that several of the bars had been hurled into the courtyard. Inconceivable as it seemed that a bomb could have fallen on such a remote area, it seemed the only rational explanation. I went to the entrance to the courtyard to assess whether there was any further threat and whether I would need to rouse the men to douse any fires.

  There was no fire and no sound of aircraft engines, so I returned to the courtyard. There Jean Parfitt addressed me in such vile terms that I was obliged to call on Miss Jenkins to help me restrain her. The resulting commotion woke Mr Horton and Miss Kettering, who assisted me in removing the girls to the infirmary where I administered a sedative.

  “Rather than treat the poor kid’s dying brother?” I said aloud.

  Having sent the men for the doctor, I returned to see to Mr Hearn and the boys. Upon close examination, it was apparent that Adams, Francis Armstrong, Billings, and Parfitt had all suffered significant wounds from the broken glass and had perished of exsanguination.

  By the time the doctor arrived, Mr Hearn had regained consciousness, although he was still somewhat confused.

  When questioned, he told us that he had seen the boys entering Vainguard from his window and had gone downstairs to order them back to their own duties.

  Why had they been outside in the first place? Why would they leave the building, walk around the outside, then go back in? Maybe the main door had been locked, but in that case surely the back door would have been too? It didn’t make sense.

  When he arrived, Mr Hearn found the boys inside the chapel. He entered the chapel, where he found such wickedness I cannot record it on paper. Mr Hearn immediately intervened to stop their foul actions. It was only then that he saw Miss Jenkins unconscious on the floor. He was then struck from behind and recalls no more.

  Wicked? Foul? Sex, I guessed, but the very thought made me uncomfortable. Maybe the older ones—but the little ones? It wasn’t impossible. Equally horrible things had happened elsewhere. But it didn’t make sense. Why would the children risk attacking the adults when they could just wait for another chance? Or was it something else? Had the boys died at their friends’ hands—some twisted hazing ritual, perhaps?

  Except Jean Parfitt had broken down over her brother’s body. Not the actions of a sadist, surely?

  Hell, who knew what counted as wicked in 1944. They could just have stolen leftovers from the kitchens.

  That was the end of the matron’s statement, so I turned the rest of the documents. Neither Mr Hearn nor Miss Jenkins had made a statement, but there was a copy of something called a discipline register which dated from the start of December to the end of January. It made for grim reading. Page after page recorded the tiniest of infractions—leaving food uneaten, unmade beds, the inevitable bed-wetting, insolence, incorrect attire, inattention in class, speaking in chapel, incorrect sleeping position, raised voice in the hallways, entering a female dormitory (Ronald Parfitt, that one, and I wondered if he had simply been seeking out his sister). In the next column came the punishments—the belt, more often than anything else, but also details of other punishments—“made to wear soiled sheets” for bed-wetting, bread and water for a week after failing to finish a meal, and over again “late duties.” These were divided into “chapel” for the girls and “barn” for the boys.

  From the matron’s report, I knew what the chapel side of that meant—being kept to pray until after midnight, at least. But what had the boys’ side been?

  I’d jested to Niall about locking orphans in the outbuildings, and now those words came back to haunt me. Had they forced little boys like Francis Armstrong to spend all night in the barn, in the middle of winter, in the dark?

  It had been a less compassionate time, but the sheer relentlessness of the punishments went beyond different social norms. This was abuse, without question, and certain names appeared again and again: the Armstrong boys, the Parfitts, James Adams, Irene Mellor. By rough count, they had been punished at least once a day between the 1st of December and the boys’ deaths.

  How bleak had life been for these kids?

  I turned to the next document and found a familiar name. Here again was PC Arthur Crozier of Blacklynefoot. His official report carried little of the sense of outrage and resignation I had seen in his letter to Martyn Armstrong. He recounted the same events as the matron, but ended with the conclusion that the children had been planning to run away.

  “Good for them,” I muttered. Th
at explained why they had taken the risk of knocking out their keepers.

  Crozier also noted that there had been no evidence of a bomb, although he admitted that it was not inconceivable that a bomber might have divested its remaining load over the border. Even so, no one in the village had heard an explosion. He noted that it was unlikely, but not impossible, that the glass had been broken after the children’s deaths.

  I rather liked Arthur Crozier, though his implications had clearly never been enough to cast doubt on the orphanage’s story. The next document was the coroner’s report—misadventure, with a scribbled note that tragedy should not be allowed to blight the careers of the selfless employees of the orphanage.

  Well, that was sickening. Hell, the whole thing was disgusting. It made me want to scrub my brain out, then get very drunk and throw myself at someone who would hold on to me until the world felt less hopeless.

  Niall. I wanted Niall, who knew enough about this to understand.

  Instead, I had ten minutes before my teleconference with the trustees. I got up and went to make a cup of tea. It was only as I stood that I realised I was shuddering and hot tears were running down my cheeks.

  Damn.

  I half filled the cup and carried it to the window in shaking hands. The clouds were slowly pulling further and further apart, and the far side of the valley shone green under the sun, the last curls of mist rising faintly. It looked very peaceful, but I couldn’t help imagining what it was like in winter. What had it been like that winter? Had there been snow on the ground? Had the boys shivered in the barn that night? There must have been animals kept there then, surely? That would have kept the place a little warmer.

  I wasn’t convinced.

  What had been their plan? Where had they meant to go? Back to the city to risk the bombs? Martyn, the oldest at fourteen, would still have been years too young to join up. Or had they been so desperate they didn’t care?