The Devil in Green

by Mark Chadbourn

  Gardener grew introspective. ‘You don’t choose who you are,’ he said after a while. ‘Life makes you the way you end up. You think you’re going down one road, then something comes up … something you can’t control … and you end up going down another. And then you get sent off on another journey, and then another, and then when you finally stop and look back, you’re miles away from where you were.’

  His bleak tone put Daniels off pursuing the conversation, but Miller appeared oblivious to it. ‘What are you saying, Gardener?’ he asked.

  Gardener acted as if he were talking about something worthless. ‘We all need ways of making sense of this life. That’s mine.’ As he considered this line, a shiver crossed his face. It appeared to prompt him, for he picked up the conversation again. ‘I married Jean when I was twenty. We’d already known each other for seven years. Met her on the Dodgems at Gateshead.’ A faint smile slipped out of the greyness. ‘She wasn’t what you’d call pretty, but she’d got a mouth on her like a sailor. I liked that. She gave as good as she got. We had a few barneys in our life because of that mouth, I tell you, but there was never a dull moment.’

  He adjusted his hood so that his eerily glassy eyes retreated into shadow. ‘We always wanted kids … tried for years … until we found out I wasn’t able. Jean took it well. We could have adopted, I suppose, but Jean said, “We’ve still got each other”. We’d had the best times before. That’s how we’d carry on into our retirement. Then Jean started feeling tired all the time … got ulcers in her mouth. I carried on doing the bins, came back after every shift, she’d mention it in passing. It wasn’t important - she’d get over it.’ He shook his head. ‘All that time … wasted.’

  ‘What was it?’ Miller asked quietly.

  ‘Leukaemia. Acute myeloid. Little chance of a cure, the doc said. We gave it a go. All that chemotherapy … her hair falling out … moods swinging like a bloody pendulum. I tell you, that foul mouth worked overtime.’ There was such affection in his voice that Miller winced. ‘She died. Here I am. I’m just passing time till I’m going to be with her again. No point looking for anyone else. Jean was the only one, for life. Without her, there’s nothing here for me.’

  Nobody knew what to say. Daniels attempted a half-hearted apology, but it appeared pathetic against the weight of feeling that hung around Gardener. Yet Gardener himself seemed untouched by it. It was as if all his emotion had been considered and was now held in abeyance for some future time.

  It was Gardener who eventually spoke first. He carefully surveyed the trail ahead, and then said, ‘What are you looking for, Mallory? You’ve been watching the way we’re going as if you’re expecting the King of Shit to come round the corner.’

  ‘When things are easy I start to worry.’

  ‘And you’re calling me a pessimist.’ Gardener peered into the misty middle-distance. ‘Though you’d have expected most of the footprints to have been washed away by now.’

  ‘It’s all the things he dropped,’ Mallory said. ‘They’re like signposts so we don’t lose our way.’

  ‘Or perhaps you’re just being paranoid,’ Daniels said. ‘What could possibly be the point? Who even knows we’re looking for him?’

  ‘Do you think we should mention this to Hipgrave?’ Miller asked. As usual, the captain was trotting ahead, out of hearing range.

  ‘Do you think he’d even listen?’ Mallory replied.

  As twilight approached rapidly, they considered making an early camp, but Hipgrave insisted that they press on. ‘We must be getting close to him now. How would we feel if he died of exposure tonight because we delayed? He might be just over the next rise.’

  Mallory made treasonous utterings, but the others accepted Hipgrave’s view and continued against their better judgment as the light began to fade and the landscape slowly turned greyer. Soon after, they crested a ridge and saw a large hill looming up ahead of them.

  ‘We’ve reached the edge of the Plain.’ Gardener pointed out a church steeple rising up due north.

  Hipgrave rode back to them with the sodden map that had until then been of little use in the secretive heart of the army land. ‘That’s Westbury Hill,’ he said. ‘On top, there’s Bratton Camp, an Iron-Age hill-fort. If we need to, we can make camp there.’

  ‘Look!’ Miller said suddenly. They followed his pointing finger to a dark figure moving across the hilltop.

  ‘That could be him,’ Hipgrave said. ‘Nobody else in their right mind would be roaming around a place like that now.’

  ‘I love these leaps of logic,’ Mallory said, to no one in particular.

  Hipgrave spurred his horse towards the hill, with the others following close behind. It felt good finally to ride at speed, making them believe they were too fast for danger, once more untouchable.

  Through the thin late-afternoon light, Westbury Hill loomed with seemingly unnatural steepness in the flat landscape, so heavily wooded around the lower reaches that they had to dismount and tether their horses. At Hipgrave’s urging, they forged on, the breath burning in their lungs from the exertion of the climb. Finally, they reached the flat, treeless summit where the wind blew fiercely. In the twilight, they could just make out a figure picking its way over the banks and ditches of the hill-fort about half a mile away.

  ‘I don’t like it up here,’ Miller said. ‘There’s a bad feeling.’

  As they moved uneasily across the open space, crows flapped all around, their eerie calls sounding like human cries for help.

  ‘We were told to keep away from old hill-forts in one of Blaine’s briefings,’ Daniels said.

  Mallory recalled his experience on Old Sarum, and knew why.

  ‘It was one of the classes before you joined us,’ Daniels continued. ‘They gave us a list of places we should approach with caution: hilltops, particularly where there were standing stones or ancient earthworks, some lakes and rivers, places that folklore linked with fairies or other supernatural creatures.’ He smiled thinly. ‘I presume they thought we might be corrupted by the sheer paganness of them.’

  The icy wind made the hilltop feel even more lonely. They came across a standing stone set in concrete with a plaque that said, To commemorate the Battle of Ethandun, fought in this vicinity, May ad 878 when King Alfred the Great defeated the Viking army, giving birth to the English nationhood.

  The Iron-Age defences made the going hard; pits and slippery banks lay hidden in the undergrowth, so they were constantly in danger of turning their ankles or breaking bones in a fall, but the uncomfortable atmosphere made them even more cautious. There was no longer any sign of the cleric.

  Bratton Camp lay on the north-western edge of the hilltop, overlooking a drop that was so steep and high it took their breath away. The B3098 was like a white snake far below. Next to the road, a giant factory that had scarred the ancient landscape now stood abandoned like some child’s toy. In the last of the fading light, the shadows of clouds scudded across the surrounding fields.

  ‘Look at that.’ Miller indicated an area of white on the steep slope below them. As they moved around, an enormous horse came into view, carved in the chalk that lay just beneath the scrubby grass.

  ‘ “The oldest white horse in Wiltshire”,’ Gardener read from a sign, ‘ “dating from 1778 but preceded by a much older version, date and origin unknown”.’

  ‘Join the knights and see the sights,’ Mallory quipped, before adding, ‘What do you reckon, Daniels - Iron-Age camp, ancient white horse, a standing stone and undoubtedly lots of folklore? Are the alarm bells ringing?’

  Hipgrave raised his voice above the howling wind. ‘Stop chatting - keep your minds on the mission. We need to fan out …’ His order was cut off when he caught sight of movement from the corner of his eye.

  The figure was disappearing behind an enormous earthwork that looked to Mallory like a neolithic barrow mound: he glimpsed only white face, shock of white hair, black clothes, the fleeting glimpse of a dog collar.

  ‘Ther
e he is!’ Hipgrave said. ‘Halloooo!’ he yelled, waving in the figure’s direction.

  But the figure had already disappeared. A few seconds later, they heard a muffled scream. They all stared into the growing gloom, listening intently.

  ‘Quick!’ Hipgrave barked. ‘He’s in trouble! Let’s get over there!’

  Even in the heat of the moment, Mallory couldn’t shake the feeling that what he had seen hadn’t been quite right. It was a long way away and the light had been poor, but the vicar’s white face had appeared oddly inhuman. Something in the shadows of the eyes and the black slash of mouth had made it seem more an approximation of a man, perhaps not a man at all.

  They ran across the fort, past the barrow mound. There was no longer any sign of the cleric.

  ‘Take it easy,’ Mallory cautioned.

  ‘No!’ Hipgrave yelled back. ‘He might be in trouble!’

  Yet even he was forced to come up sharp when he saw what emerged from the near dark on the other side of the fort. Ranged across the northern corner, branches had been roughly hammered into the ground and from them hung the skulls and dismembered carcasses of a variety of animals: badgers, foxes, rabbits, crows, smaller birds. Some were mere bones, picked clean by scavengers. Others were fresh kills, mouldering as they hung, glassy-eyed.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Gardener said. The scene had an unnerving element of ritual about it.

  ‘A warning,’ Mallory said. They eyed the grisly display warily, each of them trying to discern some meaning in the arrangement of carcasses. Though it was probably their imaginations, the wind appeared to pick up at that particular spot.

  Drawing his sword, Hipgrave cautiously approached. The others followed, keeping watch on all sides.

  Beyond the barrier, they could just make out a series of shadowy pits scattered seemingly randomly. They were surrounded by a complex arrangement of twisted bramble torn from another location, and more embedded branches that had been fashioned into lethal-looking spikes.

  ‘It’s a maze,’ Daniels said.

  ‘What’s behind all this?’ Gardener said uncomfortably.

  ‘Call out to him,’ Miller said, patently hoping they wouldn’t have to venture further.

  ‘I don’t think it would be too good an idea to announce our presence.’ Mallory moved up beside Hipgrave to scrutinise the area more closely. ‘It’s a trap. Got to be.’

  Hipgrave had already come around to the same way of thinking. ‘If he’s in there, we’ve got to go in. It’s our duty.’

  ‘I know,’ Mallory replied, ‘but the question is, is he really in there?’

  ‘You think all this is .some kind of elaborate plan to get at us?’ Daniels said. ‘With all due respect to my esteemed colleagues, we’re not worth the effort.’

  ‘Look, here.’ Mallory pointed to a route amongst the pits and barricades. ‘If you go carefully, you can enter. But you wouldn’t be able to get out at speed. It’d be easy to slip into those pits - God knows what’s at the bottom of them - or trip and get caught up in the brambles, or fall on those spikes. It’s cunning, in a basic kind of way. Even worse if it’s dark. We should leave it till morning.’

  Hipgrave fingered his chin nervously, but kept his implacable face turned towards the pits. Mallory could see that the captain didn’t know what to do, and was desperate not to make the wrong decision.

  ‘He looked all right when he went in, didn’t he?’ Mallory pressed. ‘We can afford to wait.’

  But just as he appeared to have swayed Hipgrave, Miller piped up, ‘Whatever built all this might have got him.’

  Mallory flashed him a black look, but it was already too late. ‘OK,’ Hipgrave ventured uncertainly. ‘We go in, but with extreme caution. Draw your swords.’

  ‘What kind of thing would do something like this?’ Gardener said again. He sounded sickened.

  ‘Maybe it’s not here right now,’ Miller said, with forced brightness. ‘We could get the vicar, get out and be off.’

  ‘Maybe it’s out hunting,’ Daniels said blackly, ‘for a few more little birds.’

  ‘Those are the things it doesn’t eat,’ Mallory said. They all fell silent at that.

  To his credit, Hipgrave led the way. The stink of decomposing animal flesh was unbearable as they passed the boundary line. Beyond it, the entire area felt different; it was almost too subtle to register, but it hummed away insistently deep in their subconscious: a sense of tension, a feeling of detachment as if they were just waking, or just falling asleep. The wind disappeared completely.

  Mallory stuck close behind Hipgrave, followed by Daniels, then Miller, with Gardener bringing up the rear.

  ‘I don’t hear any sign of him,’ Hipgrave hissed. ‘He could have fallen into one of the pits … unconscious …’

  Mallory wasn’t listening for the cleric’s cries - he no longer believed they would ever hear them.

  At the first pit, they all peered inside in turn. The clustering shadows gave the illusion that it went down for ever, though from the echoes of a displaced pebble Mallory guessed it was no more than fifteen feet deep. A damp, vegetative smell rose from within.

  The construction of bramble and spike was complex and deadly, hinting at the arrays of barriers and barbed wire that littered First World War battlefields. It was impossible to tell what kind of intelligence could have established it, how long it had been in place. It was structured to form an impenetrable obstacle in some areas while simultaneously serving to direct them along a prescribed route that wasn’t clearly visible from a distance. As they walked the precarious path amongst the pits - some of which were shallower than others, barely trenches - Mallory was struck by the design.

  ‘It’s like a ritual pattern you see in some ancient structures,’ he said. Hipgrave was clearly suspicious of this show of information. ‘It was symbolic, designed to put you in the right frame of mind before the revelation of some secret or mystery.’

  ‘Listen,’ Daniels interrupted. ‘Can you hear anything?’

  They halted, bumping into each other nervously. The wind had picked up again faintly, soughing along the edges of the area so it was difficult to identify any other sounds. But as their ears adjusted, they could just make out another noise, low and rough, rising and falling.

  ‘What is it?’ Miller looked like a ghost in the twilight.

  Mallory knew what it sounded like, and he could tell that Daniels and Gardener thought the same: breathing.

  At their backs, darkness drew close to the horizon.

  The path wound amongst the barriers until they were presented with a pit that hadn’t been visible before. They knew instantly it was what they had been working towards. It stood alone, large and round where the others had been ragged holes torn from the turf and soil; its sides sloped down, but it was positioned so that the fading light allowed them to see the eighteen or so feet to the bottom where five dark holes indicated branching tunnels. More bleached skulls had been carefully placed around the perimeter, all looking out. Next to it, two tree branches had been strapped together with brambles in the shape of a tilting cross, a marker, and from it hung the tattered remnants of some kind of pelt.

  ‘Oh Lord, I have a horrible feeling about this,’ Miller muttered.

  ‘That makes two of us,’ Gardener said in a low, gruff voice that didn’t draw attention to itself.

  ‘If he’s anywhere, he’ll be down there,’ Hipgrave noted. He peered into the depths, then spied something. ‘Here!’ He proudly showed them a shiny cuff link.

  ‘There you go again,’ Mallory said.

  Hipgrave drew himself up in a bid to imbue himself with some gravitas. ‘OK, Mallory, you’d better go down, check it out—’

  ‘You can’t send him down there!’ Miller protested. ‘Not alone!’

  ‘We’re not going to risk all of us.’ Hipgrave’s demeanour left no doubt that he had made his mind up; it was pointless Mallory arguing. ‘The sooner he gets down there, the sooner we can all get out of here.’r />
  Steeling himself, Mallory stepped over the edge and skidded down the slope in jerks. At the bottom it was cold and there was an unpleasant smell of decomposition drifting from one of the tunnels. He looked around: no footprints anywhere; there was no point mentioning it to Hipgrave - he’d long since given up listening to reason. The knights were all peering over the edge, their faces white. They all looked human, their emotions clear - apprehension, bravery, compassion, contempt - and he couldn’t help thinking back to the glimpsed face of the cleric and the gulf between the two.

  He moved around the tunnel entrances, trying to decide which one to explore, though he had no intention of venturing in too far. He could no longer hear what he had thought of as breathing. Perhaps he had been mistaken. Or perhaps it was simply holding its breath, waiting for him to draw near. He looked back up. Hipgrave gestured vehemently for him to press on.

  ‘Bastard,’ he said under his breath.

  He went around the tunnels again, listening, peering into the dark, smelling the air currents that came from them for any clue. Eventually, he chose one at random and edged his way in, his sword held out in front of him. With the fading light, the dark within became impenetrable after a matter of feet. The tunnel was small - his head brushed the ceiling and barely a quarter of an inch of space lay beyond his shoulders on either side - and the claustrophobia was palpable. Caught in there, he wouldn’t stand much chance of getting out alive. He brushed the packed earth of the ceiling, afraid of a collapse. If Hipgrave wanted to investigate further, he’d have to do it properly, with a team and lights and supports.

  Returning to the foot of the pit, he attempted to convey this information to Hipgrave in sign language, but if the captain understood he wasn’t having any of it. He jabbed a finger in the direction of another tunnel. Cursing, louder this time, Mallory turned back.

  The shape erupted out of one of the tunnels, hitting him like a wrecking ball. He went flying on to his back, seeing stars. He could hear the others yelling something, urging him to get up, get out, and then there was a tremendous weight on his chest and a sickening blast of hot, foul breath on his face. Slowly, his scrambled thoughts coalesced and he realised he was looking up into something that swirled with brilliant flecks, like a distant galaxy hanging in the cold void. They were eyes, he presumed, though he couldn’t be sure, and if there was any human intelligence there he saw no sign of it.