Name: Price, William John
Rank: Pilot Officer
Service Number: 135487
Date of death: 29 March 1944
Age: 24
Regiment/Service: Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve, 362 Squadron
Cemetery/Memorial Name: All Saints Church, Leckonby, Lincs
Additional Information: son of Edward John and Margaret Alicia Price of London N8.
My late parents were indeed Ned, as he’d always been called, and Maggie Price. They used to tell people we lived in Highgate, but in reality, our part of N8 was bang in the middle of Hornsey. I took a deep breath and gripped the edge of the desk so that none of the other staff in the office would see my hands shaking. When I had calmed down a little, I tabbed back to the National Archives site and consulted the 362 Sqn Operational Record Book for 22 December 1943:
“Posted in from No. 1 Lancaster Finishing School, P/O W J Price, 135487.”
Today was the 21st of December.
***
I left the office early and reached the village of Leckonby just before sunset. The sky had that winter hue of clear, deep blue, fading to pink on the western horizon. The air was crisp and cold. Leaving the car in the Rose and Crown’s car park I crossed the road towards the memorial statue. The mark on the bronze airman’s leg left by the disc cutter was still visible, but the bare metal of the once bright scar had oxidised to almost the same matt colour as the rest of the figure. As I walked past, my feet sinking ankle deep into a carpet of fallen leaves from the horse chestnuts in front of the church, a movement caught my eye. The statue had turned round and was looking at me. No longer was the airman’s right arm held up to his eyes, shielding them from the rising sun – it was on his hip and his torso had turned through almost a half circle, now facing me, dead bronze eyes staring down.
Terrified, I turned to run but lost my footing on the wet leaves and fell heavily onto my side, winding myself. An earthy smell of wet leaves filled my nostrils as I twisted painfully over onto my front and hauled myself to my feet, hyperventilating with panic. Dreading what might meet my eyes, I risked a glance over my shoulder to see if the thing was following me. Instead, all I saw was the statue’s back, lit by the setting sun, immobile as statues should be and with one arm held up in front of its face. As I rose unsteadily to my feet, bent over with hands on my knees, gasping for breath, all I could think of was flight. Get back in the car I told myself, get the hell out of here and forget all about this whole lunatic enterprise. But then, with a jolt of fear I remembered Gilroy, and what Harrison had said might befall me if I missed my rendezvous at the Ferryboat Inn.
Nerves still jangling and casting nervous glances over my shoulder, I hurried through the lych gate and continued into the churchyard. There I soon found the military section with its rows of pristine white Commonwealth War Graves Commission headstones. Under the canopy of bare branches I could barely make out the inscriptions and had to use my torch to find what I was looking for.
My worst fears were realised and the cold evening air caught in my throat. Carved into the white limestone below the Royal Air Force crest of an eagle and crown I read the engraving, “135487, Pilot Officer William Price, Pilot, Royal Air Force, 29th March 1944, Age 24.” Below the formal inscription was the poignant Latin text, “Fugo, non fugio.” I fly, I do not flee.
‘I had hoped you wouldn’t come here.’
I almost jumped out of my skin with shock. The statue? No… instead, standing next to me I saw the slim form of Harrison, dressed in the same long tweed coat he had worn when we had first met at The Lags’ meeting. How had he got there without my noticing? ‘I wish you wouldn’t keep creeping up on me,’ I said, still gasping for breath.
‘It’s a good job I was here,’ he replied, nodding towards the statue on its plinth. He looked me up and down. Leaves and mud clung to the arm of my coat and I brushed them away with what I hoped was a nonchalant flick. ‘Looks like you had a bit of a fright,’ he said.
‘A bit jumpy, that’s all. You know full well I see things that aren’t there.’ My words rang hollow in my ears.
‘Yes of course, Bill,’ he said, ignoring my bluster and turning his attention to the inscription. ‘Can’t be easy seeing your own grave. Hope you’re not going to tell me it’s not real.’
‘No. Bill Price is a common enough name. And anyway, whose body is down there? It can’t be mine. I wasn’t even born in 1944.’
He continued looking at the headstone rather than at me. ‘You’re a stubborn man, Bill. When we’re alive we think we understand things like time. Don’t you see the pattern yet?’
My patience snapped. ‘Oh, so you’re telling me I’m already dead, are you?’
‘Not at all. I’m trying to tell you that your understanding of time is all wrong and that’s why the living can haunt the dead. That’s why you were able to come for a pint in the Snakepit, to fly on ops and to get on the wrong side of Gilroy. That’s why I’m talking to you now and why you’re not lying in the grass behind the statue with your neck broken. I’m trying to help you, Bill. Stop being so stubborn and don’t ask questions if you don’t like the answers.’
‘And if I do as you say? If tomorrow evening I come to a pub that isn’t even there, then what? Do I die in March 1944? What happens to my wife and daughter, all the things I’ve done in this life, all the people I’ve met?’
‘None of that changes, Bill. You don’t understand now. But in time you will.’
This was all too much for me. The adrenalin surge from my scare with the statue now crashed, leaving me shaky and tearful. I dropped to the ground, babbling incoherently, feeling the cold dew soaking into the knees of my trousers.
‘Are you all right?’ The voice came from close to, but it wasn’t Harrison’s. I looked up to see the outline of a shorter, older man, the last rays of the setting sun lighting his balding pate and reflecting off the clerical collar at his throat. ‘I heard a voice and saw someone flashing a torch,’ he said. ‘We’ve been robbed twice in the last year, you see.’
Embarrassed, I stood up. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not a burglar. I was… I was…’
He put a consoling hand on my muddy sleeve. ‘You don’t need to explain. Talking to a loved one who’s departed is perfectly normal. They hear us, just as the Good Lord hears us, and they’re close all the time.’
Too bloody close by half, I thought, but made no reply. I looked around for Harrison, but he had disappeared as suddenly as he had arrived at my side.
‘I’ll, er, leave you be then,’ said the clergyman. ‘Sorry to have disturbed you.’
‘And sorry to have given you a fright. I promise not to steal the lead off the roof,’ I replied, trying to draw a veil of humour over my embarrassment.
He turned back and said almost imploringly, ‘Look, why don’t you come in and have a cup of tea?’
I accepted and, as I turned to follow him, for a reason that I still cannot explain, I looked back towards the statue. It was still immobile on its plinth, but what troubled me most were the footprints in the wet grass. From where I had left the footpath by the churchyard lych gate there was only one set: mine. Harrison had left no trace of his presence.
My host introduced himself as the Reverend Paul Davis, vicar of All Saints, and led me through a side door into a modern, brick-built extension tacked onto the nave of the old church. In the light I got a better look at him – mid-forties, wisps of grey hair straggling round a shiny bald head, crooked teeth, a threadbare tweed jacket. Everything about him was suffused with that relentless forced jollity that I have always associated with C of E vicars.
Inside was a joyful clutter of decorations, balloons and two decorated Christmas trees, each with a pile of gaily wrapped presents underneath. ‘Children’s carol service tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Huge fun, but lots of work. Worth it of course when you see all their happy little faces.’ The Reverend Davis bustled about clattering cups and plates in the kitchen and soon returned with a tray of tea and biscuits
which he set down on a low table between us.
‘Are you doing all this on your own?’ I asked.
‘Oh my word, no,’ he replied. ‘Some of my parishioners are coming round at six thirty to give me a hand, but I thought I’d make a start.’
I noticed the wedding ring on his left hand. ‘Mrs Davis not on duty tonight?’
‘Afraid not,’ he said, and at once from his tone I realised I had made a gaffe. ‘Sadly, Mrs Davis decided a while ago that life as a rural parson’s wife wasn’t for her. So, no.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Please don’t be. These things happen. Anyway, what about you? I take it you were visiting the grave of a family member. Grandfather in the RAF?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ I lied. ‘My namesake, Bill Price…’ I stopped. No. This was bloody silly. ‘Actually, that’s not strictly true. My wife and daughter were killed in a car accident several years ago. I survived the crash, but with what the doctors call cranial trauma. And now I have hallucinations. I see things that aren’t there. That’s why I came here today.’
He frowned and I thought I caught the same look of fear I had seen on Harrison’s face earlier that day in the café. ‘I don’t wish to intrude,’ he said. ‘But would you be willing to tell me what sort of things you see?’
I started with the harmless ones – the cat walking along the worktop and out through the wall, the flying teacups, the splashes of colour. ‘That’s about it, really,’ I said.
His eyes bored into mine as though they could see right through my untruths. ‘It’s not though, is it, Bill? What else have you seen? What did you see that brought you here?’
I took a deep breath. ‘OK, but please don’t think I’m a madman. I see people who are dead. Buildings on the old airfield that were demolished years ago. Lancaster bombers and their crews. A few weeks back, I drank beer with some of them in a pub that closed in the 1950s. Then there’s the man I was with just now in the churchyard.’
‘But I saw you quite clearly. You were alone.’
‘No I wasn’t. I was talking to a man named Harrison and he’s solid flesh and bone. The one minor problem I have with him is that he died in 1944.’ What I saw in the vicar’s eyes was not the sceptical pity for yet another social misfit pouring out his deranged ramblings to anyone who would listen. No, once more, it was a look I had come to associate with Leckonby – fear.
‘You say you’ve been onto the old airfield. Who else did you see?’ His lower lip trembled as he awaited my reply.
I decided to sound him out. ‘A man and his dog. Well, when I say dog, I…’
His face fell. ‘Cavendish,’ he said.
‘So you’ve met him too?’ I asked. He nodded. ‘And that creature of his? Whatever it is, it’s not a dog.’
Davis finished his tea and replaced the mug unsteadily on the tray. He got to his feet. ‘By day it’s a black Labrador,’ he said. ‘By night, they say… well, come with me and I’ll show you something.’ Davis led me into the church. After the bright lights and decorations in the hall, the nave was gloomy, with the altar and side chapels in near darkness. I hoped it was the cold damp air that made me shiver, rather than anything else. Reaching the transept, he turned left and led me to a stout wooden double door set in a Gothic arch. ‘Have you still got that torch with you?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’ I handed it to him.
With a clang that reverberated round the church, he drew back the bolts and swung the doors open. Then he turned on the light in the north porch and shone the torch on the right hand door, just below the lock plate. ‘What do you see?’
I shrugged. ‘I’d say someone hacked at the door with an axe and then tried to set fire to it. Those look like scorch marks. The damage doesn’t look recent though.’
‘Apparently, it was done by that creature of his,’ said Davis.
‘You’re kidding?’ I said, aghast.
‘No, I’m deadly serious. It happened in 1745 according to the parish records.’ I noticed his hands were shaking as he spoke. ‘Tell me, Bill. Have you seen it? I mean close to. Have you looked it in the eye?’
I shuddered at the thought. ‘Yes. Horrible, bright red burning eyes. I’m sure it was a hallucination, but then Cavendish helped me up. I felt his hand.’ The memories came flooding back. ‘He looked terrible – like a corpse. And then there was this horrible burning smell.’
Davis stood rooted to the spot, staring out into the darkness of the churchyard. ‘Brimstone they used to call it. And as for that creature, if you saw its eyes, then God alone can help you. According to the legend you have twelve months at most to live.’
I rolled my eyes and said, ‘Not you as well? Cavendish… my hallucination or whatever it was said the same thing. What is this nonsense?’
‘Black Shuck.’
‘Black what?’ I was clearly dealing with a madman.
‘According to the legend, Black Shuck – and yes, I thought it was just a silly fairy story too – is a spectral dog, a hell-hound if you like. Not only is it rumoured to have killed people, but as I just told you, anyone who has looked it in the eye has less than twelve months to live.’
‘And you believe this tripe?’
‘I believe in evil, if that’s what you mean,’ he replied.
‘And you’re telling me that evil can take physical form?’
‘Yes. I didn’t used to, but I now think it can.’ Hurriedly bolting the door against the night and its terrors, he turned to face me once more. ‘I fear it’s starting again.’
‘What is?’ I asked, wondering whether Davis hadn’t at some time received an even bigger bang on the head than I had.
At first he made no answer, but as we walked back down the nave towards the west door he asked. ‘Have you noticed something about Leckonby? The names I mean.’
‘I’d always thought that place names ending in “– by” were Viking settlements.’
Davis stopped and turned to face me. Despite the cold in the unheated church, beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. ‘They are. I was talking about all the “Hobbs”. This very church stands in Hobbs Lane. The Cavendishes lived for generations at Hobbs End Hall. The river by the old railway station is called the Hobbs Bank Drain. Everywhere you go, you find the same name.’ He shone the torch into a niche above the west door. ‘Do you know what that is?’
I squinted into the darkness. In the niche a carved stone goblin stood on one cloven-footed leg, the other was raised, folded across its knee. Its head was crowned with horns and a leering, toothy smile glared down at us. ‘Looks like the Lincoln Imp. Same as the one they’ve got in the cathedral.’
‘It is. Only here, it’s called the Leckonby Hobb. Hobb is the old English word for The Devil, of course.’ He turned off the torch and handed it back to me.
I put it into my coat pocket. ‘Fairy stories to frighten the children,’ I said, trying to convince myself and failing.
‘How you can say that after what you’ve seen amazes me,’ said Davis, shaking his head. ‘You asked what I meant about things starting again. Do you really doubt the evidence of your own eyes?’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t want any of this to be real. It’s too horrible to contemplate.’
Davis tried to force a smile. ‘My wife felt the same. But she saw too many things happen here that were just not possible. Little by little, she lost her Christian faith and then one day she gave me an ultimatum. Either I give up the job here at Leckonby or she would leave.’
I saw tears glistening in his eyes. ‘But you felt it was your duty to stay and try to stop it?’ I asked.
He nodded. ‘Yes. I’m doing my best.’
‘Not working, is it?’
He looked down at his feet. ‘Not yet, I admit. However, I still have faith in the Lord.’
A conversation about the existence of God was the last thing I needed, so I changed the subject. ‘The memorial statue outside the church, the bronze airman – ’
‘Not you too,�
� he said before I’d had chance to finish. ‘That statue was the final straw that caused my wife to leave.’
‘Pretty weighty old straw.’
‘You wouldn’t joke if you’d seen what she saw.’
‘Don’t tell me, it killed the gypsy.’
‘Come,’ he said, leading me by the arm back towards the warmth and light of the hall. ‘The House of God is no place to discuss such matters.’
We sat back down, facing each other once more across the biscuit crumbs and empty tea cups. Davis continued. ‘Madeleine hadn’t been sleeping well and that night she heard a noise. You see, the vicarage is on the other side of the road, just along from the pub. Anyway, she got up to get a drink of water from the bathroom and that’s when she saw it.’
‘Saw what?’
He coughed and tugged at his ecclesiastical collar as though it was too tight. ‘She heard the noise again, looked out of the landing window and saw that the statue had gone. She thought someone had stolen it and was about to call the police when she saw something that – well, there’s no other way of putting it – simply isn’t possible. She swears on the Holy Bible that the statue came walking up the road and climbed back onto its plinth.’
The cold feeling of dread I had felt earlier in the church overwhelmed me again and I tripped and stammered over my words. ‘Tha- that ties up with what the other gypsy said.’
‘I know,’ he replied, avoiding my gaze. ‘But it’s not possible, is it?’
‘No, it’s not. Nor is what I saw just now.’ The words tumbled out as I told him about the statue turning to stare at me and the sensation of brooding malevolence that I had felt from it. ‘So what’s causing all this?’ I asked.
He furrowed his brow and shook his head. ‘Blessed if I know. I’ve spent hours in prayer, but the Good Lord hasn’t seen fit to tell me yet.’
I thought back to the group of dead airmen crowded round my bed. ‘Do you think that building a new town on the airfield may’ve disturbed something?’
He thought for a moment. ‘It’s possible. If it is something to do with the airfield, there is someone who might know more. One of my parishioners served there during the war. She’s in her nineties now and nearly blind, but her mind is still sharp as a tack.’
Bomber Boys - a Ghost Story Page 15