The weather for the last few weeks has been just beautiful.
The grass that I lie on is dry, and I take time to listen to coastal birds calling to each other, high above me. With arms stretched out behind my head, prolonged moments of relief can be enjoyed without fear.
Dezza is babbling on next to me about the whole adventure. He talks without stopping, often asking the same questions over and over again. It’s his way of coming to terms with an event that has affected him greatly.
My mind drifts in and out between listening to him and mulling over my own personal reflections on the saga.
I consider all the people I know and appreciate a little bit more.
Alan Washwater is making a slow recovery. We’re all so grateful for this. But, me in particular (in a selfish way), for this event has brought me even closer to his gorgeous son, Eren, who is occupying every, other thought. Truthfully, despite every evil thing that has happened here, I can’t get him out of my head. He smiles at me a lot and I think about him all the time: Did I mention that?
Elvis was captured by the police shortly afterwards. He’s fifteen, and is awaiting trial at a youth court. Talk about a hatful of charges against him - he’s already had the reprimand and the youth offending team, so a young offenders institute beckons.
Mark and Mum – all fine. They keep looking at me funny, not quite sure what to make of it all. I guess, for them, something happened at St Harold’s. Something happened in the library at the old school – but as far as they’re concerned, it was only criminal activity that took place; nothing supernatural. Astra has been guarded in what she has told mother; maybe not quite believing it all herself. Sadly, whenever I have brought this up with her (only I bring it up), much to my frustration, all she seems to remember is the Church collapsing all around her. She then remembers waking up in the old school with no idea how she got there.
A few seagulls take flight nearby and I listen to the gentle lapping of waves on the shore. Dez and I rest on a hillside on the outskirts of Boule, in the warm, caring sun.
Camille’s been distant. All of this has had a great effect on her. I’m desperate to talk to her about the things we see. I’ve tried to call – only a couple of times – but I doubt that we will ever be best friends. I believe she’s been deliberately taciturn. Her boyfriend’s about to go to kiddie prison; she obviously thought about him an awful lot. Can’t get my head round that; treat ‘em mean and keep ‘em keen. Maybe, anyway.
I consider Arthur’s eventual personal confession that John Walker blackmailed him into giving him the AKM sleep inducer because he threatened to publish a story in the Jacobsfield press about him. Apparently, years earlier, one of his other devices had gone terribly wrong: It had caused a serious injury to someone he knew in Harley. Being an English teacher, Walker had an open door for writing any article he wanted for the local rag. It also kept his finger on the pulse of every event, past and present, in Jacobsfield.
John Walker had already told AKM that he was going to print an inflammatory article about Sean Llewellyn, and that he was next on his hit-list. He made good on his word – the same article appearing in the paper on Arthur’s table that day. This threat clearly terrified Arthur. Hence, his aloofness in the kitchen about the ‘other’ device that laid under the sheet when he gave me my present. Mr McFadden explained that this second machine – the twin – woke people up in a semi-hypnotic state, where they could be influenced by the power of suggestion, much more easily than with hypnosis. The inventor tried to explain to me the principles underlying NREM and sleepwalking – it went way over my head. Regardless, John Walker had managed to blackmail Arthur into giving him this machine.
‘Much more powerful.’ He’d said.
I surmise that my Head of Year wanted to work under the radar in a human body, and owning this kind of machine allowed him to maintain his human shell, until the time was right for his ‘big reveal’.
And then, in the midst of the relief, a worrying enigma:
John Walker’s or the Carrion Crow’s body was never found. The caretaker’s son’s body was found in Dealdead forest instead. A coronary report will be available in due course; no details at present. I find this disturbing. Did the Crow die? Why was the Caretaker’s son even there? I saw him take flight…and then, come down: Deeply disturbing.
It transpires that John Walker himself came to the Island from the mainland ten years ago. He worked for the local newspaper, before quickly getting his Qualified Teaching Status and rising through the teaching ranks. He combined both teaching and journalism. He is listed as missing. DI Rosenthal has questioned me – I kinda quite like him. He keeps me informed with info I probably shouldn’t know, like, there are absolutely no records of John Walker even existing prior to ten years ago. He falsified his criminal check so that he could work in the school. I get the impression that I have a believer on my side in the portly Inspector.
No sign of any Whispers, no sign of the Cherub; although I still have her book, which I look through from time to time: Lots of interesting sections.
The Reverend is busying himself with healing (as I am to a lesser extent). The line of enquiry is that, his life-threatening wounds were caused by the collapsing church and an assault by Elvis, and he certainly does have many scars and bandages. Since he came out of hospital last week, he’s been trying to get funding for repairs for St. Harold’s; no mean feat. He’s always been quiet anyway. I’d love to talk to him sometime. I went to the Vicarage the other day, but he wasn’t there. I then took my bicycle to the church, but he wasn’t there either. I strolled over to Evelyn’s grave. I was relieved to see that police tape has been taken down all around the cemetery. I spent a few moments looking at the grave, partly talking to the Stone Angel. While I sat there, I thought about Buddy’s grave – which Mark and mum took me to see outside a small hamlet on the west side of the Island. They couldn’t stand to have two children in the same graveyard. It was an incredibly powerful moment for me. I talked to him. I don’t know if I was giving him strength, or receiving it. I talked to the silent Stone Angel about my visit to Buddy’s grave and as I wistfully contemplated all of this, the Reverend appeared behind me. He asked me how I was.
He has been shaken by all of this and clearly doesn’t want to talk.
But…he did volunteer one piece of interesting information. Actually, it was almost as if he couldn’t keep it inside: He’d turned up at St. Harold’s early one morning, a few weeks ago and had seen that the Ladies Chamber was wide open. When he went further in to investigate; he’d seen that it was lit up and the light stretched quite far back inside. He had found John Walker on some steps leading down into the blackness at the back. He was shocked to see one of his parishioners inside looking for something. When he’d asked Mr Walker what he was doing and why – innocently presuming it was some investigative journalism - he’d become blasphemous and angry, threatening to reveal his past to the people of Jacobsfield. This had riled the Scotsman and they’d got into an argument which developed into a fight. At this point, The Crow had not revealed his true self – biding his time for his final move, his final play of bringing complete chaos to the Island. He’d manage to haul John Walker off the steps leading down. My Head of Year had departed quickly after that. The Reverend had sensed something ‘ridiculously’ evil in him. He’d consequently prepared the sermon about the bloodied tongue which he delivered to us all at school. Shortly afterwards; the article had appeared in the Jacobsfield news about the Reverend’s past; Llewellyn knew that he’d been up to no good. He’d had no idea what he was searching for within the tomb though.
But, that’s all the Scotsman wanted to say and before I had chance to talk to him about the Carrion Crow and the other incredible events, he’d turned and gone. No discussions about the events at the old school. He just wanted to forget about it and ‘commit it to God’, is all he would say. He’s possibly a nice bloke – I haven’t made up my mind yet; maybe a bit too quiet though.
An
yway, here I am. Enough about the past…
There’s a warm sun and a gentle breeze on this lovely August day. I’m just enjoying the silence, well... maybe not. I’m definitely trying though.
Dezza, just shut-up!
I repeat this phrase over and over in my mind as he witters on.
I stop myself and wonder if a Whisper has influenced me to think that.
Nah. It’s just my pal, blathering and being irritating.
~~###~~
About Shelly Clover
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Thanks again
James Steven Clark
Mis-fit, Misplaced, Miss Shelly Clover Page 25