Ruined Stones

by Eric Reed

  The brooch made her think of aeroplanes. On those days when the sky was clear and blue, the planes, flashing in the sunlight, looked the same size as the brooch. Veronica knew they were actually big and only looked little because they were a long, long way up. But she liked imagining they were really were small, like the brooch, tiny little things buzzing around. You could jump up and grab one if you were quick enough.

  If you caught one from the Luftwobble you could throw it on the ground and stamp on it.

  She straightened Teddy’s brooch and held him at arm’s length to admire the effect.

  Low voices came from beyond the door.

  “Why are you bothering us again?” her mother was saying. Then she said about something or other being “on the loose” and “two already. I’m not sending Veronica to school alone until he’s caught.”

  The voices grew louder. She heard her auntie’s name. Phyllis.

  Putting Teddy on the bed and putting a finger to her lips to tell him to stay quiet, she crept over to the door and put her ear against its cool wood.

  “It weren’t me,” her father was saying, making Veronica wonder if her father had been bad. Was that why the police lady was here? She couldn’t imagine her father being naughty, let alone naughty enough to make the police come round.

  Before she could speculate further, she heard them talking about somebody called Ronny. She didn’t know who Ronny was but whenever she heard his name her parents voices became raised.

  “Come over and threatened us a few days back, he did,” her mother was saying. “We feared for wor lives. We had no choice but tell him where she lives.”

  “But you didn’t tell me.” The police lady sounded like Veronica’s teacher when she was annoyed. “Are you afraid Phyllis was involved? Is that why you lied to me?”

  Her father laughed, but it was a funny sort of laugh, not like when he was laughing at something funny. “Ronny don’t get his, he’ll cut your throat likely as not.”

  “I’d advise you to be careful in your dealings with the police from now on, Mr. Gibson. You have an ugly history with Ronny.”

  “I defend me family from a criminal and it’s me under suspicion, is that it?”

  Veronica didn’t know what suspicion meant but it didn’t sound like anything you would want to be under. The voices grew quieter. The last words she clearly heard were those of the police lady asking for her father to write down Auntie Phyllis’ address.

  Well, even Veronica knew that Phyllis lived in Goat’s Head.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Peter Elliott met the doctor on the landing.

  “She’s in no danger, Mr. Elliott,” the doctor told him. “No sign of a heart attack, but she thinks that’s what it was. Convinced she’s dying. I’m going to check her again tomorrow.”

  Elliott loosened his scarf to show his clerical collar and continued up the stairs, rubbing his hands together to warm them. From above came the burbling of women’s hushed voices. A half dozen women turned their heads expectantly as he entered the front room.

  A woman rushed over and grasped him by the hand. He recognized her as a parishioner but couldn’t recall her name. “We’re so glad you’re here, vicar. Poor Agnes has been crying out for you. Well, not you personally, but for a man of God. Those were her exact words, ‘A man of God. I must see a man of God.’”

  Elliott muttered reassurance so automatically he was hardly aware of speaking. He was surprised to see a wardrobe blocking the window, making the room oppressively gloomy. It was a peculiar room for a wardrobe and an even more peculiar spot.

  “I found her sitting on her doorstep,” the woman continued. “Looked dazed she did, so I helped her upstairs.”

  “It’s to do with that temple across the street,” another woman said. “Worship of idols is going on there. It’s bringing God’s vengeance down on us.”

  Elliott rather doubted God was interested in retaliating for idol worship by making an aging woman ill.

  The women had clustered round him, like so many pigeons around a man with a bag full of bread crumbs, burbling and bobbing.

  “It’s not God done it to her,” another put in. “It’s the demons been called up by them blasphemous goings-on.”

  “Blood sacrifices in front of them altars and the bodies laid out like swastikas,” someone else chimed in. “Blasphemy is what it is, vicar.”

  “Where is Mrs. Cooper?” Elliott asked, not certain what the women expected from him.

  “Miss Cooper,” corrected the woman, who continued, annoyingly, to grasp his hand. “Miss Cooper is lying down.”

  “Take me to her, if you would, Mrs. Walker,” Elliott said, relieved to have remembered his parishioner’s name.

  Agnes Cooper was, in fact, propped up in her bed. Under hair full of curlers her face was the color of a gravestone.

  Elliot sat on a chair pulled up beside the bed. “Miss Cooper, I am Mr. Elliott, from St Martha’s. I was asked to visit you. The doctor tells me you are in no danger. Illness troubles our souls. Would you like to pray?”

  “Not yet, vicar. I need to tell you things first. They are after me, you know. Any moment now…”

  The woman’s voice sounded so weak and rasping it made Elliott wonder if the doctor’s prognosis had been too optimistic. “You’re perfectly safe here in your own room, Miss Cooper.”

  “Not from the things that are about. When I was scrubbing Satan’s prints off my doorstep today I could feel eyes staring at me back. Fiery eyes, from the direction of them ruins. Then it felt like a hand reached right into me chest and squeezed me heart in its claws. It’s because someone is sacrificing to pagan gods over there.”

  “There are no pagan gods. There is only one God. Anyone who thinks he is worshiping such gods is deluded and worshiping demons.”

  “Demons is bad enough, vicar. Demons is bad enough.”

  Before Elliott could decide what to answer, Agnes gestured toward the chest of drawers littered with religious statuettes, arrayed next to the glass housing false teeth at night. “It’s in the top drawer,” she whispered.

  Elliott got up and pulled open the drawer. Inside was a piece of folded brown paper.

  “Look inside that,” Agnes said. “I wrapped it up when I found it by over there.”

  Elliott carefully undid the paper. He stared at the contents, then at Miss Cooper.

  “It’s a holy wafer isn’t it, vicar? Someone up to no good stole it. It was Cyril Rutherford, I’m sure of it. He’s always out there at nights. Anyone will tell you.”

  It did look like the remains of a wafer. Elliott lifted it to his face. Did the crumbs smell faintly sweet or was that his hopeful imagination? “It’s only the wafer part of a chocolate bar, Miss Cooper. Someone must have dropped it.”

  “It isn’t, vicar. It’s a holy wafer.”

  “I assure you we are very careful with the host. Anything left over is consumed immediately.”

  “That Rutherford’s a sly one. He was on church grounds for them meetings.”

  “We don’t reserve any of the host at St Martha’s. There would be no way for anyone to steal any, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  Elliott felt he was being watched. Turning, he saw the women had clustered by the doorway, still resembling hungry pigeons.

  “She’s telling the truth,” one said. “Rutherford’s always studied evil things. This war suits him well.’

  “Aye,” Mrs. Walker chimed in. “Evil’s loose in the world, running at the heels of Hitler. It’s come alive again in places where it was sleeping for centuries.”

  Elliott thought evil was more likely to descend on Newcastle from the sky in the form of German bombs than crawl out of what remained of the temple on Chandler Street in the guise of an ancient god.

  “We need it destroyed,” Mrs. Walker said. “Can’t you
do that ceremony over there, vicar?”

  “I would need special permission, Mrs. Walker. Exorcisms are rare.”

  Elliott had spent his career dealing with evil as it affected people or was exhibited in people’s actions. He believed implicitly that Satan walked the Earth but he had never considered confronting Satan personally.

  It was necessary to calm the women before hysteria swept the street. He did his best to reassure them and left.

  ***

  Before evensong Elliott made his way around the empty pews of his church, checking as always to see if any of the homeless were sheltering inside. At first he supposed he would be alone for his prayers. Then he heard a noise, a faint keening.

  He glanced around. He couldn’t tell what direction it was coming from. It was a sound of pain. Of a soul in agony. Suffering so intense that the utterance it gave rise to was inhuman.

  He shivered. What if Miss Cooper was right about demons? He immediately chided himself. Still, he felt his heart speed up and his breathing quicken.

  Elliott moved toward the front of the pews. The sound grew louder.

  Was someone badly hurt? The cries were shrill yet terribly weak. Eerie.

  They came from the altar. Was that blood running down its front?

  The awful squealing continued as he approached.

  There, soaked with blood, squirming spasmodically and crying, nailed to the altar, was a rat.

  ***

  By the time Grace left St Martha’s church the sun had set. The cold streets felt warmer than the church interior. The vicar had been amazingly composed, considering the nasty surprise he’d had. He was greatly upset that the church had been violated, less outraged than sorrowful. The rat’s suffering pained him.

  The rodent was dead when Grace arrived but after sending for the police Elliott had gone back to the altar and waited, forced to listen for what felt like a long time to the creature’s final agonies.

  “I thought I shouldn’t interfere with the evidence,” he told Grace. “And I didn’t want anyone else to move it, either. Mind you, I have no compunction about setting out rat traps, but it’s not the same, is it?”

  Children playing a vicious prank, he had guessed. And Grace agreed.

  “I shall have to notify the church authorities of this desecration so appropriate measures can be taken. Until then services can be held in the church hall,” he continued. “We’re being pulled apart by hatred and hysteria. I just came from visiting Miss—well, never mind her name—a local resident who showed me the remains of what she insisted was a holy wafer. Found it at the ruins, she said. It was nothing but a bit of a sweet. People are in such a state between the war and these murders closer to home they get upset about anything.”

  Outside the church Grace flicked on her torch and walked around one side of the building.

  A coating of frozen snow crunched under her feet. Shining the light toward the ground she could make out bicycle tracks. No doubt the culprit had lurked, hoping to see the reaction of the congregation, not realizing how poorly attended these services were. As it happened his effort had only been witnessed by the vicar.

  Elliott had asked Grace to be discreet with her inquiries. He didn’t want people gossiping about sacrilege in the church, especially after recent events.

  Grace followed the bicycle track out into the road, where it met almost bare asphalt and vanished.

  She couldn’t help suspecting Stu McPherson. It was unfair to the boy, of course.

  She told herself to put her work away for now.

  This evening Hans was taking her to the cinema.

  ***

  Hans held Grace’s hand as they made their way up the narrow aisle, having allowed the bulk of the crowd to leave ahead of them. One or two patrons were still in the auditorium and followed the pair into the lobby where shaded torches were switched on and pointed downwards as their owners emerged into the blacked-out street.

  Each time the lobby doors opened, a cold wind gusted in as if to welcome them back to the real world after an hour or two spent sitting in shabby plush seats in a cavern lit only by discreet wall lights and the shifting illumination of black and white images.

  Grace had had a difficult time concentrating on the film, constantly aware of Hans’ hand on hers and afraid to glance at him too often. When she did steal a swift look she was disappointed to see his attention engaged by what was happening on the screen.

  As if he had heard her thoughts he suddenly spoke as he buttoned up his coat. “Would you have thought such a charming old lady had secrets, Miss Grace?” he said, referring to the film they had just seen.

  “A good question!” she replied. “Did you like that hint she really had been on the train? You know, the empty tea packet?”

  “It was very clever. So very English, too. I am sorry I do not know all the words of your national anthem to sing with everyone at the end. It is an embarrassment to me.”

  “Don’t worry about that—” Grace began as they reached the outer door. She was interrupted by a loud bang.

  Hans yanked her roughly back from the door and dragged her toward the staircase leading to the circle. An usherette attempted to stop him. It must have seemed as if Hans was attacking Grace.

  “Quick! Take cover!” he cried. “Planes are firing at us! Bombs will be next!” His voice shook. He released Grace and fastened his hands on the usherette’s arms.

  The frightened girl shouted for the manager as Grace attempted to reassure Hans. “It’s only a car backfiring, nothing to worry about!”

  Grace realized this was one the episodes Hans’ friend Joop had told her about. Hans must think he was back on the fishing boat, under attack by German planes.

  She managed to pry Hans’ hand from the terrified usherette’s arm. He was looking around wildly.

  A portly man, evidently the official summoned, appeared at the top of the staircase. The usherette yelled. “Call the police! This man hurt me arm!”

  Grace tried to restrain Hans but he shook her off. The manager ran downstairs and got hold of him. Hans struggled, crying out in Dutch.

  Finally between the manager and Grace they succeeded in restraining Hans. The dead look in his eyes departed. He collapsed on to the bottom step and put his head in his hands.

  Grace was trembling. “He’s a refugee with bad memories, sir,” she told the manager. “Got in a panic and didn’t mean any harm. I’ll get him home.”

  She had expected the manager to be angry. “Poor devil! The terrible things some of them must have gone through. You and your friend come into me office and he can sit down for a bit to calm down, like.” He turned to address Hans. “Bombed, were you? Sorry to hear it. Those bloody Huns. This way, then.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Next day Grace and Wallace caught a Scotswood Road tram to the Central Station, the city’s great railway hub. They intended to question Phyllis Gibson, the mother of Ronny’s daughter, at the address Grace had obtained from the Gibsons.

  They then boarded a Gateshead tram at the monument to George Stephenson, not far from the Central Station’s portico.

  “Local lad, Stephenson was,” Wallace had remarked as they waited, sheltering from a light rain under Grace’s umbrella. “Me favourite’s always been that one.” He had pointed to a larger-than-life statue of a miner lounging at one corner of the steps at the foot of the monument. “Me grandad was a pitman and used to crack on he was the model for it. Grandma would say she could well believe it, given how much time he spent lying on our front room sofa.”

  The tram crossed the Tyne to the Gateshead side on a bridge Wallace called the High Level, which struck Grace as odd because it consisted of two levels. A train emerged from the upper part as their tram approached the lower. Running trains on what was essentially the ceiling of a pedestrian and traffic bridge struck Grace as a pre
carious arrangement.

  Glimpsed through the tram’s rain-pocked windows, the city and the river presented the appearance of an impressionistic painting, albeit a monochromatic one.

  Wallace tapped on the glass. “That baby bridge between us and next one is the Swing Bridge, where Tommy stood outside the long arms of the law.”

  Grace recalled Charlie Gibson’s complaint that he didn’t want his injured arm to turn him into another “Tommy on the bridge.” She said, “I heard about that. And the bridge beyond it is the Tyne Bridge. When I was coming up to the city on the train a whole crowd of servicemen rushed to the corridor windows on that side as we approached the river. The man standing next to me told me that was the name of the big green bridge and he was always glad to see it.”

  “Aye, Geordies love it. Symbol of home, you see. If we’d walked over this bridge we’d get a good view of the quay and all. Some afternoon when you’re off work, you should go down there and explore the alleys running off it. What we call chares. Steep, narrow, lots of stairs, the kind of place visitors think must be full of Victorian romance but all they find is bad smells and worse language, and lucky to get away without a knock on the head if they’re stupid enough to go into them at night. But there’s a canny little museum in one you should see. Devoted to the Great War. The lass that runs it, her man was killed in the war, and she never married. Keeps it up as a tribute to him and all the dead.”

  He settled back in his seat and continued. “Speaking of the dead, now and then some poor soul bent on doing himself in jumps off one of the bridges. Favourite one’s the Tyne Bridge. Sometimes they miss the river and hit the quay. On the other hand, if they fall into the river and are still alive when the River Police fish ’em out, they’re rushed to hospital and introduced to a stomach pump. Not pleasant, to say the least.”

  “Do the authorities ever have cases where they accidentally fell or were pushed?”

  “It would be hard in either case, since they’d have to climb over the railings.”