The Dave Hinchy Code

by Richard Ainsworth

  Of course. Lahabiel had saved Dave and claimed him for Michael, his archangel ‘boss’.

  Ruby understood then why Dave had been saved; not solely for his final action against Ahriman, but for what he was. Everybody in the village had always described Dave as a ‘simple soul’. How right they were. In old English, the word “simple” meant “blessed”. The angel had spared and redeemed the blessed. Even though Dave had never known it, deep down, his own path in life was marked out essentially for good. Lahabiel had recognised this within him, and had acted accordingly.

  Ruby smiled reassuringly at the still-trembling Postman.

  “You may not believe me right now, David, but I promise you... You are going to be just fine.”

  Chapter 22

  Ask

  The next morning, one by one, all of those involved in the events of the previous evening found themselves gravitating back towards Ruby’s caravan. Each had his or her own questions about what had transpired and for some reason had a sense that Ruby might have some appropriate answers.

  As each arrived and knocked on the door, Ruby offered the same cheerful greeting:

  “Come on in. The kettle’s on... I’ve been expecting you!”

  They all settled themselves in the living room and began telling one other their various versions of events; each admitting, during the course of conversation, that they didn’t know exactly why, but they'd felt that they simply must be here this morning. This was strange, all agreed, but recently they had come to accept the strange as, well, pretty normal, really...

  ‘Ting! Ting! Ting! Ting! Ting!’

  Ruby tapped her teacup with a teaspoon to bring their chatter to end and the meeting to order.

  Reverend Phullaposi and Pearl were seated in the comfy chairs. Malcolm was lounging on the sofa. Eddy and Chen were on the table and Tobias lay on a cushion on top of the cabinet near the window.

  “I expect you are all wondering why we all felt such a strong compulsion drawing us all here together this morning? I think it is a need for... what our American Cousins, in their tacky, cheap and confrontational television talk show programmes, would call... “Closure”. In order for us to begin to understand what we have been through, where we are now, and why we feel the way we do, we must first return to the very beginning of this momentous and perilous period in each of our lives...

  “I first started to suspect that something was amiss when David seemed so determined to reclaim a piece of paper that he insisted was worthless. To paraphrase the great bard: 'The postman doth protest too much.' Then it occurred to me that I couldn't quite remember the last Doctor ever actually leaving Widdowshins, nor the new Doctor, Hariman, taking over. And, as I soon discovered, neither could the Reverend. This was question number two: How could we not recall that event? Unless, of course, we had all somehow been rendered incapable of remembering. And why would that be? Who would profit by this action?

  “My suspicions were confirmed that some left-handed dealings were afoot during the bogus visit by the Doctor to examine me. While he was here, I was having trouble with the tea-light. I asked the Doctor for a match, which he duly supplied, but as is so often the case in life, it was a little thing that gave him away. He was betrayed by, of all things, the box of matches. A small, perfectly ordinary, new box of household matches, exactly like a million others. The problem, however, was the fact that it was new. You see, I noticed the brand name on the box as I was handed it: ‘Lucifer’. Hardly appropriate for me, but highly apt, as it transpired, for Hariman. But, you may ask, apart from the obvious connotations, why should I be perturbed by a box of matches thus named? Well, the fact that this particular brand of matches ceased trading a good while since did rather raise a question. How could anyone get hold of a box of 'Lucifer' matches, new, today? eBay may be a source of many rare objects, but a vehicle to travel through space and time is asking a little much, even of the Internet, I think you would all agree? That, was question number three.

  “Number four; Devizes and Nutter. The Doctor claimed that they were both close family. Devizes and Nutter are only related through an unholy alliance, ergo, I had to assume that the Doctor was himself of the same ‘family’.

  “Number five; Hariman’s wholly excessive, pantomime reaction towards tea and biscuits. This completely gave the game away. You remember, Reverend, how I recommended you make a similar purchase from Marks and Spencer? This was no idle promotion of a favoured store, not at all. For the benefit of those gathered who are not aware of the importance of home-branded merchandise, I would like to point out that the proprietary brand of Marks and Sparks is, of course... Saint Michael. Hariman could never stomach anything with such a connection, so his convulsions just underlined my earlier suspicions.

  “Now... Number six. David. Our poor Mr Hinchy was simply a fortunate ‘accident’ for them. He just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was helping to tend the cemetery and chose a particularly ill-fated moment to go into the privy to relieve himself. Here, I suspect, he heard a certain voice, calling to him...”

  At this point in the narrative, Malcolm stirred on the sofa, opened his mouth, and seemed about to make some form of objection or observation; but then, all at once, he paused; his face took on a baffled, confused expression, and he slumped back in silence, as Ruby continued:

  “I might add here, Reverend Phullaposi, that this voice never would have been given this opportunity had you talked to me about certain... esoteric and arcane matters, and gained a little background information, before having a little ‘dabble’ of your own. But I think that's a lesson learned now, is it not?”

  The Reverend coughed and shuffled uncomfortably.

  “Anyway, David was a perfect choice for Hariman’s purposes. Who else could pass through the village, seen by everybody but unnoticed by anybody; popping things through letterboxes that would spellbind the whole village into believing that our Demon Doctor had been here all the while. And he was easy enough to win over to the cause. Throw a few cheap promises in his direction – power, influence, and the like – and his loyalty was sealed.

  “The problems only started for them when David began to get so worried about leaving evidence of his ‘secret’ lying around that he decided to take Hariman’s written instructions with him. Of course, given the nature of David’s job and the sheer volume of paper that passes through his hands, it was statistically inevitable that at some point or other a mistake would occur. Normally a note with some garbled message scrawled on it dropping on somebody’s mat would arouse no more than mild curiosity, and would most likely end up in the waste-paper basket. But I am not your average Joe in the street. I admit that I was, at first, swallowing a bit of a red herring of my own creation. The phrase ‘Shutt it or Else’, I should have realised, was no spelling mistake, but a coded message within an invisible message. All very cryptic. It took me time to work it out. 'Shutt it, or Else'… If one is playing spy-type games, then one should expect spy-type messages. 'Shutt it' referred to what is described by John le Carré, Len Deighton, and other such authors, as a 'Dead Letter Drop'; a place that is safe to leave messages. One that is known to the relevant parties, but is a secret to all others. Now... where could David leave his messages for the Reverend, etcetera? At St Max's, maybe? After all, David had full access to the church and its grounds... But whereabouts, so as not to raise any questions? The cemetery, perhaps? I have no doubt in my mind that one of the rather large and ornate gravestones belongs to a family named Shutt? Is this not so Reverend?”

  The Reverend nodded sheepishly.

  “'Else',” I believe, “Refers to your wife - a pet name for Elise, is it not? The message meant, “Either leave your reply in the usual place or deliver it in person to Elise”. As for the mention of a surgeon, I can only assume that this is an alternative safe letter drop, another tombstone, obviously of a former surgeon?”

  Again the Reverend nodded.

  “The design of the logo given by Hariman to th
is society was mostly window dressing; a means to give it some depth and credence to those involved. Studying it wasted a lot of our time, as we struggled to find deeper and deeper meanings for the blatantly obvious, but the words ‘post centum quod viginti anos patebo’ did both alarm and warn me that something serious was afoot. Yesterday was one hundred and twenty years ago to the day since Widdowshins experienced a spate of particularly hostile poltergeist, occult and criminal activity. These manifestations were probably related to the relocation of old bones and graves being relocated during the relocation and building of the church. Not to mention the fact that it was also Nephthys night. However, the device designed by Hariman did reveal the crab connection to us, and this in turn led us to the rather striking open aura device favoured by Hariman’s mob. The reference to the seven-pointed star was a strange one, as it is usually used as a protection against evil. However it does represent the concentration of the vibrations of the universe, both material and non-material, and thus holds great power, which I imagine might be used for good, or ill. Nevertheless, the star was a deft artistic touch of Hariman’s. By incorporating this and the urn-like device (which squared so neatly with the church’s architecture) he was binding the building and therefore you, Reverend, to him. His fate, being ultimately, yours. His artistry even extended to the timing of his speech. Six minutes past seven. Cunning. For six minutes past seven is mathematically sixty six minutes past six. Six. Six. Six. A frivolous touch, but such was his wont.

  “Why your church? Why here? Well, why not? Ahriman prefers to sneak in through the back door. He would never expose himself willingly to a straight fight. That is not his, nor his Master’s style, at all. Your church, or more particularly, your church’s grounds, also have the added advantage of age. Believe me, Reverend, age was a bonus for them. An original Norman chapel stood here nearly a thousand years ago. And, this being the case, it would still have had a few sops and concessions to, let us say... previous belief systems, incorporated into the architecture. By this I mean it would have had a North Door. Are you aware of this concept, Reverend?”

  Reverend Phullaposi looked just as blankly at Ruby as when she had been telling him about Caravaggio.

  “The North Door was the nod to the old religion of the Green Man, or the Celtic Horned God Cernunnos, which, through dogma and misappropriation, was linked to the Devil. So Satan naturally thought, ‘You associated that portal with me? Thanks very much! That’ll do the trick!’ Think, Reverend: How many North doors have been latterly bricked up in churches? Simple remodelling? Perhaps. Or... to keep Old Nick at bay? I think that if we were to find the oldest plans we could find of the churchyard, I shouldn’t be at all surprised to discover that the old church had its North Door in the locale of what is now the privy. So, this place was tailor-made for Ahriman’s access to our plane of existence. Now... I trust that answers the physical hows and whys?”

  The others nodded, somewhat uncertainly.

  “Devizes and Nutter, of course, were just in it for the ride. They were after brownie points with their Mephistophelean Master and would have gone anywhere in the world to fulfil his bidding. They just so happened to be here when Ahriman arrived. Whether that be coincidence or design, I have no idea, but it worked out perfectly for Ahriman. I can assure you, though, that the Ugly Sisters won’t be bothering us again for quite some time, if ever. And I shall take steps to ensure further that this is so.”

  Ruby surreptitiously patted her little velvet drawstring bag, containing the chestnuts and scraps of parchment that she had gathered from the privy floor.

  “Now, Reverend, you still don’t look entirely satisfied with my summing up of things? I presume that this is because you have difficulty in understanding why, one moment, we are in the middle of a monumental struggle with evil, and all around is death, destruction and chaos, and the next, we are back at the village fête watching a picturesque scene of a pastoral firework display as if not one thing untoward has ever occurred?”

  The Reverend admitted that this was indeed what he couldn’t quite mentally get to grips with.

  “Reverend, we were not dealing in time as you are aware of it. From the second we were all in the privy and my athame had tapped against the wall, we were dealing solely with space. Time was frozen. Demons and Angels are immortal and do not play by the same physical rules as we must adhere to here on this mortal plane. We were operating in their ‘space’. To any outside observer, it was a mere blink of an eye between us all rushing into the privy and the remainder of us coming out again. If I may use an analogy. It’s a bit like Einstein conjectured about sitting on the edge of a black hole, but in reverse. Though I hasten to add, for some considerably anxious moments within the privy I did fear we were on the lips of a momentous abyss.”

  The Reverend was about to say something at this point, but Ruby cut him short:

  “You are about to ask: What of the villagers' experiences? The damage? The injuries?”

  Ruby smiled knowingly. The Reverend was struggling to keep track of it all.

  “They never happened. Simple as that. From the instant of the Demon’s banishment, all of his evil will towards this village was erased, from both time and space. Now, if his will had never been here, then neither had his physical presence. And if his physical being had never been here, then no damage could possibly have been done by it. That's quite simple and logical, surely?”

  “Kind of like somebody pressed a big 'RESET' button somewhere, and the universe went back to its default setting,” Malcolm suggested. “Makes perfect sense to me...”

  The look on the Reverend’s face indicated that Ruby’s explanation didn’t follow any kind of logic that HE was used to. “But it doesn’t make sense at ALL!” he protested. “How can something be done and then not done, be one thing and then another?”

  “Magick!” whispered Ruby, smiling widely, opening her arms expansively, and twirling on the spot.

  “Impossible!” retorted the indignant and confused Reverend.

  “As impossible as turning water into wine? Or walking on water, perhaps?” Ruby asked, playfully.

  “And I don’t remember you complaining too much yesterday evening about what was possible or impossible when the Angel Lahabiel made an appearance!”

  “That was an entirely different matter altogether!” spluttered the Reverend, mentally trying to cling onto something he could trust.

  “It would be wouldn’t it?” said Ruby in a voice that she normally reserved for announcing ‘checkmate’ in a particularly satisfying game of chess.

  As Ruby and the Reverend continued their friendly squabbling, Tobias lay on the cabinet near the window half-listening, half-dozing, wondering just when they would all shut up so he could have his by now well-overdue lunch. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something. Outside, up above them, in a tree overhanging the small caravan, was a squat, unkempt, ragged raven. High in the spindly branches, he too had been listening intently to Ruby's tale.

  “Er... Isn’t that Brocken, Devizes’ familiar?”

  From his position on the shelf, Eddy began to screech in alarm:

  “If it is, we need to exorcise him. He's still a spiritual link between Devizes, Nutter, Ahriman and our little village! They could find a way back and start this whole mess up again!”

  At these words, the raven gave a coughing, croaking laugh, then, lazily and clumsily, he rose up out of the tree, flapping his untidy, dusty, blue-black wings slowly away in the direction of Pendle, the hill and the forest.

  “Hmm I'm not sure if it was...” Ruby pondered. “'I don't think it was him, but he's long gone by now, anyway. It could just as easily have been some other old raven, and most likely that’s all it was. You must remember, chaps; we can't go round exorcising birds willy-nilly. We must all bear in mind that trusted, wise old saying: If it ain't Brocken, don't fix it!”

  Eddy groaned. Tobias sighed a tired sigh, closed his eyes and shook his head

  Ruby smi
led, winked at them both and shuffled off into the kitchen to refill the kettle. As she did so she called from the kitchen.

  “So... Reverend! When do we start planning something exciting for next year’s fête?”

  Epilogue

  Underneath The Spreading Chestnut Trees...

  The two great gnarled chestnut trees stood side by side, overshadowing the topmost part of the field in which Epona the pony grazed heedlessly. They looked centuries old, but in fact they had been there for less than a day. Though there was scarcely any wind, they shifted and creaked and groaned, and the painful sounds they made were almost human.

  Ruby stood before them, listening to their cries. The scraps of parchment she had found with the chestnuts had led her here. They were glyphs, part spell, part map, and it hadn't taken her very long to decipher their meaning.

  This, then, was the fate of Liz Devizes and Alice Nutter: their living spirits imprisoned in the hearts of two twisted, half-dead chestnut trees. Blind, deaf, dumb; unable to move, but able to feel everything; attuned to the natural world to an extent way beyond that of any human being; to an extent that would be agonising, even to one who practiced the Craft.

  Ruby shuddered. She would not have wished this even on her worst enemies.

  Turning to leave, she saw two figures yomping across the field towards her. The larger of the two was waving and shouting.

  “Rube! Ey up! Wait a sec!”

  It was Malcolm Oldthwaite, with a pallid, sick-looking Bethany Devizes close at his heels.

  Ruby sighed in anticipation of an uncomfortable scene.

  “Bethany was summoned, like, all the way from Glasto,” Malcolm huffed, breathlessly, as they drew nearer.

  “Oh God, Mother! Auntie Alice!”

  Bethany stumbled forward and dropped to her knees in front of the twin trees. Her face was gaunt and hollow-eyed with horror.