“Hello. I’m very worried about Alice, that’s the problem and I’ve been trying to tell Ruby to do something. ”
“Who’s Alice?”
“Ruby’s daughter, but we don’t know where she is. We tried to find her once but we got him instead.”
Becky nodded slowly, carefully. “Him?”
“Dad. Ida was there too, and she woke up and came in, started screaming.”
“Who’s Ida?”
“The witch.”
“Not Ruby’s mother?”
“No. Natalie’s Ruby’s mother, although she looked after his father down at The Mill. Did stuff for Ida, as well. Some of the little kids were Uncle Derek’s and some were Uncle Rick’s, but mostly they were his and Natalie’s, or Kath’s.”
Becky swallowed her disgust. Tried to focus on the worst of it. “Hang on a minute, what little kids? Where are they now?”
“Sacrifices. In the cave, mostly, or buried in the cemetery. They moved them after that woman came snooping round so mostly they’re in the cave.”
“I beg your pardon?”
The politely spoken young woman sighed. “I can’t find any documents for any of us children - probably there’s hundreds. Sometimes the gypsies take them, but mostly they’re skinned before or just after they’re born.”
The colour drained from Becky’s face, bile rising in her throat. Fuck! “Satanic rituals!”
“Yes. I’ve been trying to catch him and find evidence but I’m always on the run, hiding, using different names. Years go by and the next thing I know I’m looking in a shop window at myself in Leeds and I’ve got a drug problem. I don’t know - I keep blacking out.”
“Marie - hang on a minute - are you the host or is Ruby?”
“Ruby. Me. Shit - I never thought of it like that. We all work together. We are ‘we’, I suppose.”
“Yes. Oh my God. Look, we can help you Marie, we really can. But here’s the thing - our entire team is in serious danger - we’re all getting sick. Or worse. And now there’s only me left and I have to track this man down. Are we talking about Paul Dean? Did he do this to you?”
She nodded. “There are more than him but he works for the father. The father of lies…”
“The father? Is that what you call him? Good God. Who else is involved?”
“His brothers - Derek and Rick - they’re in the coven. And Ida. Then there’s the doctor at Bridesmoor, and the local copper, although he’s retired now, and the Reverend Gordon. There are men they bring in from outside too, who stay in …” Her voice trailed off a little and her colour faded…
Becky squeezed her hand. “It’s okay, it’s okay. I need to know this. You’re safe, Marie. You’re quite safe.”
“..they stay in caravans. And there’s Natalie and Kathleen. Witches.”
“What do you mean? I thought Natalie was your mother?”
“Yes but they used to read us the Satanic Bible on the common. They told us we were bad children and deserved to be punished. I saw them at the Black Mass. I saw it - underground - I saw them. I watched. Natalie was a human altar. Everyone fucked her afterwards.”
“Underground? Marie - stay with me. Who is this father of lies?”
“The gatekeeper.”
“Can you explain?”
“He’s left us now - he got out that day - you saw him! But now he’s not here anymore we can talk to each other in the system - there are hundreds of us - but we’re piecing it all together cos he’s not here to stop us now and scare the little ones. And that’s how I can tell Ruby about Marie - because the Gatekeeper has gone…the father of lies - he kept us all locked up in here…. Down long, dark corridors imprisoned with iron bars and locks. But he’s gone to your friends now, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, he’s everywhere…he got out…”
“Marie, just stay with me okay? Priorities now - where is this little girl we should be looking for - Alice?”
“We tried to find her, I told you.”
“On the night you attacked Paul Dean?”
“We couldn’t find her. She wasn’t there.”
“Do you think Alice is in that house?”
“She was at the window. Sometimes.”
“Marie - are you telling me that you, I mean Ruby, had a daughter and she’s in that house? We have to tell the police.”
Ruby’s expression began to fade, the eyes staring into a distant place.
“What? Marie - please don’t go. Not yet!”
Ruby’s blue eyes lost their light, leaving her face as vacant as a plastic doll’s. A minute passed.
“Ruby?”
Slowly Ruby’s eyes registered recognition. She leaned forwards clasping her head between her hands. “Oh God, my head.”
“Headache?”
“Oh God my head hurts. Jesus!”
“I’ll get you something.” Becky prepared to stand up, but then held back. “Ruby, think -can you remember anything you’ve just told me?”
Ruby had bent over on her bed, whimpering with the pain. “Oh God, I don’t know. I get fragments of stuff…”
“It’s okay, we’ll get there. I promise you - we’ll get there. Now, please, do you think we are looking for a young girl? Alice?”
Ruby’s eyes widened, the pupils dilated to black ellipses. Then slowly she shook her head. “I don’t know the name.”
Becky left the room, unlocked the drug cupboard to get a couple of paracetamol for Ruby, and returned deep in thought. Next thing would be to contact the police, in the hope they would take Ruby’s information very seriously in connection with Callum’s disappearance. A cave underneath the mill…
Ruby washed down the tablets, then looked straight at Becky, her eyes glittering. “I need to see someone - Celeste,” she said, in her strong Yorkshire accent again. “She lived at Woodsend when I were at that mill. They’re saying I should be working…but I’m scared to. If I’m not in control he might come back and get in me again - get us all.”
Becky nodded. How clever Ruby the child had been - the Disassociative identity disorder had saved her soul. “Hmmm, I’m sure Martha visited a lady called Celeste Frost before she died - wasn’t she driven out of Woodsend by local people for being a witch?”
“Yes. I need to see her. Urgently. Please.”
“Okay, I’ll find her phone number.
***
Chapter 31
Christmas Eve 11.30pm
Callum woke with a dull sickly headache, the chill of a crypt at his back. Slowly he sat up. It looked like he was in a cave of some sort - certainly underground: the place was coal-face black and oozing with damp. He rubbed the base of his skull, wincing with the pain, and listened intently. Nothing but the echoing drip-drip-drip of water onto a stone floor. Alone then…
Gradually, as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he rose to his haunches, then carefully to his feet, feeling for a wall to lean on. The surface behind was glistening, slippery and rough. A mine shaft? A cave? A crash of blinding, oppressive pain nearly knocked him down again, but he remained standing, concentrating solely on breathing regularly and stilling his fear. There had to be a way out.
How much time had passed? Days? Hours? His watch had been taken. As had his phone, wallet and car keys. The only course of action was to start walking in case whoever had attacked him, came back. Perhaps he was supposed to just die in here? A rush of bilious nausea rose without warning and he stopped to vomit, the acid burning his throat leaving a metallic taste. Some kind of drug, then? A blurred memory surfaced - of a circle of faces shrouded in dark hoods staring down at him, swirling tree tops, flickering stars…and then nothing: spark out as if anaesthetised. Instinctively he surveyed his inner arms and sure enough the puncture marks and bruises confirmed his suspicions. Someone knew what they were doing. And yeah - he was here to rot.
Without a compass, or a single shard of light, it was difficult to know which direction to take. Blind faith then. Just start walking.
As he did so, his brain began to gather
facts, permeating a fog of pain and fatigue, and the irresistible urge to sit down, close his eyes and drift away. Keep walking. Don’t go to sleep. Keep walking so they can’t find you…
The question was, if this was underground then was he walking towards Bridesmoor Pit? Or further into a network of caves beneath the moors, in which case he’d be below Carrions Wood by now and west of the old mill. Where would it end? If ever? He could wander underground until he dropped and no one would ever find him. At least towards the mine there might, just might, be a way out - a vent, a shaft - something!
The thought of going the wrong way pumped a new wave of claustrophobic panic through his veins. Endless, frequently forked corridors beckoned - each blacker than the last, the darkness ever thicker, and less and less oxygen with every footstep. While overhead sat the mighty weight of sodden moorland, the insidious dripping of rainwater trickling through the peat and down the cracks, seeping into the caverns below. He kept on walking… I’m a dead man walking… palms flat to the slimy walls, footsteps cautious on the slippery floor. The dripping was becoming louder. The blackness blacker. He’d gone the wrong way. Shit. He’d gone the wrong way.
His heart lurched heavily, the terror of being buried alive screaming in his head. Should he retrace his steps and go back the way he came? Start again on a different route? But how many hours had passed? What if this was a maze and he’d never get out? There was nothing he could do! Nothing!
Sanity, must keep his sanity. Breathe in and out. In and out.
Start counting out seconds and minutes.
Think! How long had he been here? Try to think!
His stomach was turning in on itself with emptiness and his throat was sore and dry. His head banged and his limbs were trembling. Low blood sugar. He ran fingers down his ribs. Two days? Okay, so start counting. As from now. And get water…Don’t lose it you stupid bastard. Don’t lose it!
Ahead there was the sound of a more solid trickle. It would be a fresh spring, and he picked up pace as best he could, eventually turning a corner into a huge cavern. In front of him an icy spring splashed onto the stone floor and he sank to his knees, crawling towards it until his clothes became soaked and his whole body lay prostrate beneath the gushing water - as pure as nectar and startlingly, brilliantly cold. He splashed it over his face and scooped it into his palms to drink, gulping and gasping. Whoever had left him here had stripped him of all but his shirt and trousers, leaving him without a coat or shoes. Men in hooded robes. A woman. A woman’s laugh as his head hit the floor with a nauseating crack. Faces lit by flames. Faces he would remember to his dying day.
He would not die.
More images came - skulls on the walls, dancing shadows, a low humming sound. He closed his eyes for a moment, reeling from an unexpected and vivid flashback - there’d been an altar like one in a church, except the candles were black and the cross was upside down. A putrid, acrimonious stench hit his nostrils - like decaying flesh and old blood….
A sudden cramp gripped his stomach with colicky pain. He doubled up, breathing hard, breaking a sweat. Then stood once more. Keep walking man! When in hell keep walking…
The stomach cramp brought him down every few steps but he forged ahead, feeling along the walls, and praying. Praying like he’d hadn’t prayed since he was a child. Was this what all mere mortals did in their hour of need? With no emergency services to call, and no one to hear their cries? Call on God? Did he believe? Callum rubbed angrily at the hot tears coursing down his cheeks. Was it a weakness to call on God? Again he stopped, bent over with the pain, weak with exhaustion. Was this the end then? Was it time to make peace with himself?
The urge to sit down was overwhelming yet somehow he kept on walking. Kept on counting. Kept his legs moving.
It would be better to die of suffocation deep underneath a mine than in some kind of satanic cult. Not to give them the satisfaction of finding his dead body. God, it would have been good to bring those bastards to justice, though. They had abused those kids, hadn’t they? The girl, Ruby? The boy, Thomas? And how many more?
His body was shivering violently now, teeth chattering so hard they banged his jaws together, fingers and toes numb. But he kept on walking, losing count at a thousand before starting over again. He’d know those faces…know them…every single one of them…if he ever got out of here…he’d know them.
And he’d marry Becky.
***
Chapter 32
Christmas Day
Becky handed over the keys to the night staff just as the phone rang in her office. Her hand reached for the receiver, but then she hesitated: in some ways it had been a good day. Celeste had very kindly come in that morning to see Ruby, even bringing her a small gift of chocolates and soap; and the two of them had got on well, promising to keep in touch. It had been a good start to their relationship, and although it was far from conventional, Ruby was going to need friends because one day she’d have to fend for herself again. Yes, she’d done the right thing calling Celeste.
Mark had changed the locks when she’d shown up last night and who could blame him? Probably it was for the best, and besides, how could she cope with his pain and his questions when she had so much else on her mind? Hopefully there would come a day when they could talk and he’d listen, possibly never understand, but listen - to her story.
She stood looking at the ringing phone. Should she answer it? The last bus was in ten minutes but the night staff consisted of one senior staff nurse and two orderlies, and the new patient in room 10 was already screaming down the walls. In the corner the tinsel tree flickered with coloured lights and a box of half eaten chocolates sat on the desk. That was the extent of Christmas in a place like this!
What if the call was urgent?
She sighed, leaned across the desk and picked it up.
“I’ve been told to ask for Becky - this is Sergeant Hall….”
Becky’s breath caught tightly in her throat, her voice coming out in a squeak. “Yes, it’s me. I mean, yes…”
“We’ve picked up D.I. Ross and he’s at the D.R.I. He’s asking for you.”
Quickly thanking him she rang for a taxi. No chance. She rang Noel.
“I’ll be there in ten,” he said. “Grabbing my keys as we speak.”
Later, some time in the early hours, as she sat stroking Callum’s hand in the blue-grey light of dawn, the only sound the bleep of a cardiac monitor, Becky wondered about the fate of her colleagues: Jack had apparently spent Christmas with his parents, playing chess and reading in front of the fire. He said he couldn’t remember a thing yet he slept with all the lights on and a bible by his bed. His mother said he kept busy, but looked ‘gaunt’. ‘I’m feeding him up but well, you can imagine…We’ll get there,” she said to Becky, before thanking her for calling. “We’ll get there…”
Kristy had been transferred to Laurel Lawns, and according to the nurse in charge, a woman she’d worked with many years ago thank goodness, or she’d never have been given the information, had, in a lucid moment, asked to see a priest’
“Get the same one who helped Jack McGowan,” said Becky.
“He’s ill,” came the reply. “On indefinite sick leave. Actually, I understand he won’t be returning at all. To be honest, our current M.O. doesn’t agree with that sort of thing.”
“Current M.O.? What happened to the other one?”
“He left. Struck off by the GMC for professional misconduct.“
“You’re joking?“
“No. No, I’m not. Under his watch there were several suicides and more relapses than we’ve ever had in the history of Laurel Lawns. Other members of staff weren’t at all happy when a priest was brought in.”
“But…”
“Look, sorry, Becky. I have to go. You can come in and see Kristy any time you like - just give us a call first, okay? She has good days and bad days.”
After the call had ended, she could only hope and pray for Kristy Silver. Meanwhile, Callum ha
d been saved. By something. Or someone. Please God he found something to get to the root of all this evil, the ripples of which were devastating and seemingly never-ending. He couldn’t be left alone though, not for a minute - because sooner or later they, whoever they were, would know he was alive. And talking.
At Six-thirty, one of Callum’s colleagues poked his head round the door. “Do you want to go get a coffee? I’ll sit with him for a bit, if you like - let you know if he comes round!”
She smiled faintly, reluctant to leave, living for the moment his eyes opened again, and the corner of his lips lifted in recognition.
“Okay. I won’t be long, though. Any news on where he’d been? He isn’t speaking to me yet - did he say anything to Sergeant Hall?”
The young officer shook his head. “Only that when he were picked up on Bridesmoor, he were covered in soot and delirious. We think he’d found a mine shaft and somehow scrambled up. We don’t know - it’s a bloody miracle.”
“So he’d been underground?”
“Aye. And we’ve got his phone - it were in’t woods near the old mill - must ’ave dropped out of his pocket. I’ve just heard there were pictures on it - of skulls and stuff…they’re being examined now. There were shots of dark shapes and trees, all upside down, but on one of ’em there’s this girl of about nine or ten… in a nightie. Standing there in t’ woods….just watching in t’ background.”
Becky’s hands flew to her face. “Oh my God, that’s Alice! She’s real then? That’s Alice! He found her.”
THE END
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Acknowledgements:
The author of this book would like to add that a considerable amount of research was undertaken in order to broaden her knowledge of DID, which affects many people, and in 90% of cases can be attributable to child abuse. Thank you to those who helped with this research.
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