Trespass: A Tale of Mystery and Suspense Across Time (The Darkeningstone Book 1)

by Mikey Campling

  CHAPTER 53

  1939

  THE PAIN RIPS THROUGH Vincent’s hands. It slashes the skin from his fingers, tears the flesh from his arms. It seethes through his body, shrieks into his mind and slices into his heart. The whole world is white-hot.

  The explosion throws him backward. He thumps into the ground, flat on his back, but he doesn’t feel the impact. He lies in the wet grass, his eyes wide open, dazzled. For a second, he is stock still, then his chest shakes, and his breath returns, shallow and far too fast. The pain soaks away into the cold ground. The colour returns to the leaves that sway and drip above him.

  Vincent groaned. Slowly, he lifted his hands to see his wounds. The scorched skin will be blackened and blistering. But no. Nothing—not a mark on him. He blinked, turned his hands around, flexed his fingers. They didn’t even hurt. Thank god for that, he thought.

  He forced himself to take a deeper breath. “Come on, lad,” he said. “Get yourself up.” He rolled onto his side. His arms shook as he pushed his body from the ground. Slowly he stood and brushed himself down. He was wet through and muddy, but apart from that he was all right. “What the bloody hell…?” he said. He looked toward the stone slab and shook his head. He’d get no answers there. Whatever happened, he thought, I’m still in one piece—that’s the main thing. Now, he had to get out of there and get back down to the quarry before they came looking for him. He was a bit wobbly, but that wouldn’t show, would it? He looked a mess, but he could explain that, say he slipped in the mud. “Now then,” he muttered. “Where have I dropped my tools?” He scanned the ground, turned around and tried to picture where they might have landed. “Dammit. Where are they?”

  It was useless. He couldn’t see them anywhere. But what could he do about it now? His mind whirled. He felt giddy, light headed. He gritted his teeth. “Think,” he said. He ran a hand over his face. Maybe it didn’t matter. Easier to get new tools than a new job. And in a way, losing the tools made sense. He’d told everyone he’d lost them, and now he really had. It all tied in. He wouldn’t even have to lie about it. He just had to dash back down, then he could walk out across the quarry with his head held high.

  He’d keep quiet about the whole thing. He needn’t mention the ledge or what might’ve happened. There was no need to say anything about it. Not to anyone. Not ever.

  CHAPTER 54

  2010

  I HANDED THE HAMMER back to Matt. “Could the CC stand for community college?” I said.

  Matt shrugged. “Then what’s the V for, Vulcan?” It wasn’t a bad joke, but neither of us felt like laughing.

  “This is what they were working on,” I said. “Cally called it the Black Stone of Scaderstone.”

  Matt gave me a sideways look. “Oh yeah?”

  I shrugged. “Yeah—it’s all a mystery about what it is and why it’s up here and stuff.”

  Matt snorted. “Well I can tell you that for a start,” he said. “For one thing, it’s a gravestone, and for another, it’s in a quarry—as in, a place where stone comes from.”

  “No,” I said. “I thought that at first, but Cally said –”

  “Ooh,” Matt cut in. “Cally says this, Cally says that.”

  I scowled at him. “Oh yeah?” I said. “So where’s the name and stuff?”

  Matt just smirked and carried on. “It’s obvious. It’s been here a long time, hasn’t it? Look at how the grass has grown up all around it.”

  “So what?” I said.

  “Well, years ago, rich people used have those huge tombs built, didn’t they? You know, for the whole family.”

  “A vault?” I said. “But they’re underground, not stuck up on a ledge.”

  “No. Don’t be an idiot. A mozzer-whatsit.”

  I pulled a face. “What are you on about?”

  “You know, like Lenin’s got one—sounds like museum.”

  “Er, a goatee beard, a bald head, bad breath?”

  Matt punched my arm. “You moron,” he said.

  And then it clicked. “Oh, a mausoleum.”

  “That’s it,” Matt said. “Maybe you’re not a moron after all.”

  “Er, thanks,” I said. “But this isn’t a mausoleum.”

  “I know it isn’t the whole thing, it’s just a part of it—a wall or a panel or something.”

  “Yeah, but Cally said it goes right down into –”

  “Cally says, Cally says,” Matt chanted. “I’m telling you. They were making a tomb or something, and this bit must’ve been spare, or maybe there was something wrong with it, so they just left it there.”

  I ground my teeth together. He was wrong, but there was no talking to him when he got like this. The stone was special. I knew it. But what could I say? There was no way I was going to start rambling on about bad dreams and visions of a strange old man.

  “Hey,” Matt said. “Did Lenin really have bad breath?”

  “Who’s talking about Lenin?” I snapped. “I was thinking about you.”

  Matt grinned. “Ouch,” he said. “That’s a grave insult.”

  I snorted. I usually made an effort to laugh at Matt’s jokes, but that one was old, and I was in a grim mood.

  “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go. Before you do that joke about the dead centre of town.”

  Matt laughed. “All right,” he said. “No need to have a dig.”

  I smiled and shook my head. And as we turned away from the stone platform, we both heard the voices at the same time. We looked at each other. Matt wasn’t too worried until he saw the look on my face. After all, he had no idea who it could be. But I was certain. I recognised their jeering laughter. It was the Brewers. And unlike Matt, I knew that the only way I’d managed to get out of the quarry was to go back down onto the quarry floor. We were trapped.

  The voices grew louder.

  CHAPTER 55

  3,500 BC

  BURLIC SLOWED AS HE REACHED HIS HUT. It was barely dawn, but already smoke swirled from the roof, and there were voices—women’s voices—chanting, calling out. Was he too late? Had Scymrian slipped away? Burlic’s throat tightened. He placed his hands on the hut’s wall and leaned heavily against it. He hung his head and closed his eyes. “What have I done?” he moaned. “What have I done?”

  For a moment, the rhythmic chanting faltered, but Burlic hardly heard it. He didn’t even hear the door opening or notice the old woman’s rattling breath as she pulled herself up to her full height.

  “Get away from here!” The shrieked command hit Burlic like a spear through the chest. He lurched back, reeling, raising his arms to defend himself.

  “Oh, it’s you,” the woman sneered. “I should’ve known. Look at you—cowering like a child.”

  Burlic lowered his arms and tried to look the old woman in the eye. “Bettonice,” he said. “I didn’t know it was you.”

  “No, you wouldn’t, would you?” she snapped. “You haven’t been here to look after your wife, while some of us have been here every day.”

  “I…I’m sorry, I thought –”

  “Thought?” Bettonice said. “You? You never thought a thing in your life.”

  Burlic opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off. “Don’t waste your words on me, you fool. It’s your wife you should be saying sorry to.”

  “Scymrian is…all right?” he said. He stepped toward the door. “I must see her.”

  “Oh no, you must not,” Bettonice said. “We are tending to her, and that means no man can come inside.”

  Burlic nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I understand. I just…if I could see her. I won’t…I just want to see her face.”

  Bettonice looked horrified. As an elder and a healer she wasn’t used to people questioning her orders. But Burlic looked so dejected, so forlorn. She rolled her eyes. “Whatever next?” she tutted. “But I suppose you can look in at the door.”

  Burlic made to step past her, but Bettonice put her hand on his chest. “Not for long, mind,” she said. “And don’t you dare
set one foot over the threshold, and do not say a word.”

  “I won’t,” Burlic said. “Thank you, Bettonice.”

  “Hmm,” she said. “I’ll have words with you later. Now let me get on.” Then she turned and went inside.

  Burlic peered in. At first, he could hardly pick out Scymrian from the shadowy figures crouching inside. The fire barely glowed. It was piled up with bunches of smouldering herbs. The bitter smoke filled the hut, made his eyes water, caught in his throat. He blinked, swallowed back a cough. And then, as Bettonice shuffled across the hut, one of the women moved to one side to make way and he saw her. Scymrian lay on the floor; the other women squatted beside her. As Burlic watched, Bettonice knelt down and pressed one hand against Scymrian’s forehead and the other against her stomach. At first, Scymrian flinched. But then, as the chanting continued, she became very still. Her arms dropped to her side, her fingers uncurled, her lips parted and she sighed.

  Bettonice murmured something and one of the other women rose and walked to the door. “Burlic,” she said. “You must go now.” Burlic stared over her shoulder. He couldn’t take his eyes from Scymrian. She looked so frail, so small. But when the woman gently pushed him, he stepped back. The door was closed, and he was alone.

  Burlic stared at the closed door. Was this really his door, his hut, his home? “It’s not right,” he muttered. “Nothing’s right anymore.” He pressed his hands against his eyes and pictured his Scymrian lying helpless on the floor. He let out a long breath and looked up at the lightening sky. At least she’s still alive, he thought. At least the women are tending to her. And she was still young. She would grow strong again, and then they’d be together as they should. All he had to do was wait.

  But what about his son? He’d been so small, so weak. How could he have survived without his mother to feed him? It was too late to do anything about it now. He should’ve stayed. Now all he could do was to bury the child in the proper way, make sure its Shade would not return. Perhaps that too would help Scymrian. Bettonice was right. It was about time he acted like a man and did his duty.

  It wasn’t far to Tellan’s hut. As Burlic approached, he saw the thin trails of smoke from the roof, heard their voices. He hesitated. Inside they’d be stretching their limbs, stirring up the fire and making their first meal of the day. He shouldn’t just barge in. He could come back later. But before Burlic could turn away, the door opened, and Tellan stepped out, yawning and scratching his scalp. It was too late. “Tellan,” he said, and raised his hand.

  Tellan’s yawn turned into a gape. “Burlic?” he said.

  Burlic nodded. “I was coming to see you,” he said. “But…not now…I’ll…I’ll go.” He didn’t wait for a reply. He hung his head, turned his back on Tellan and walked away.

  “Wait,” Tellan called. But when Burlic did not respond, Tellan knew what he had to do. He dashed back into his hut, reappearing with a bundle of furs in his arms. He opened his mouth to call after Burlic, but suddenly there was no need.

  The whole village heard the baby’s cry. Tellan’s nearest neighbours were used to it, but even they raised their eyebrows and shook their heads. The effect on Burlic was different. The sound pierced his heart, stole his balance. Burlic half stumbled as he turned. He gasped then covered his mouth with his hand. Could it be…?

  Tellan took a few steps forward. “Yes, Burlic,” he said. “Your son has a strong voice.” He smiled as the baby struggled in his arms. “And getting stronger every day.”

  Burlic couldn’t breathe. His throat was too tight, his mouth was too dry. Tellan walked slowly toward him. “I think he’s hungry,” he said. “He usually is.” He held the writhing, screaming bundle out toward Burlic. Cautiously Burlic reached out and parted the furs. The baby he’d left behind had been pale and limp. This baby was small, but his skin was pink and plump, and his arms and legs were a blur of fury.

  Burlic looked Tellan in the eye. “How…?”

  “Celepone and some of the other women,” Tellan said. “They take it in turns. The women with babies of their own have been feeding him.” He smiled apologetically. “He cries a lot, Burlic—howls. The women have been calling him the shouter—Cyrman.” He pushed the baby toward Burlic’s chest. “Here,” he said. “It’s time his father gave him a proper name.”

  Burlic put his hands into the warm furs and wrapped his fingers around the tiny, heaving chest. Gently he held his son up in front of his face. The baby struggled to hold his head upright, and for a moment he stopped crying. Father and son stared into each other’s eyes. And then the baby howled even louder. Burlic smiled. “Cyrman,” he said. “Cyrman will be just right.”

  CHAPTER 56

  2010

  I BACKED AWAY FROM THE EDGE, as quietly as possible, kept going, right to the back of the ledge. I beckoned to Matt. He picked up on my urgent expression and followed, copying my careful footsteps. We squatted down. Matt tugged at my sleeve, whispered, “Who the hell is it—VCC?”

  I shook my head.

  “Who then?” he hissed. “Is it that girl and her mates?”

  I looked at the ground. “No. It’s…” I chewed my lip. “It’s the Brewers.”

  Matt didn’t reply. I sneaked a look at him. The look on his face was pure comic-book horror. “Listen,” I said. “It’ll be all right. They…” But Matt held up his hand to stop me. The voices were getting louder, nearer. Rough voices. Hard words. The soundtrack to a nightmare. But we’d be all right, wouldn’t we? If we stayed put, they couldn’t possibly see us. Unless…I stared at the place where the stairs brought you to the ledge. Did the Brewers know about the stairs? Had they been up to the ledge? Were the tools something to do with them? I had no idea.

  I took a breath. “It’ll be all right,” I said. “They don’t come up here. They just…hang around down there.”

  “Do they?” he said. He grabbed my arm, squeezed it tight. “And how would you know that?”

  “I should’ve told you,” I said. “They came in here the other day. I think they hang out in here. I was going to tell you, and then…I don’t know…” I forced myself to look him in the eye. “I made a mistake,” I said. “I’m sorry. All right?”

  He let go of my arm. Then he punched me in the shoulder. “You moron,” he muttered. We both started at a burst of boisterous laughter from the quarry floor. “Bloody hell,” Matt said. “What are they doing down there?”

  I rubbed my shoulder. “I don’t know,” I said. “The other day, they just stayed down there—by the car.”

  “What for?”

  “Well,” I said. “I was hiding so I couldn’t really see, but they come in here to…” I swallowed. “They come in here to drink.”

  Matt’s eyes stretched even wider. “What?”

  “You know,” I said. “Booze.”

  Matt rubbed his eyes. “That’s all we need,” he said. “They’re bad enough already—never mind when they’re off their faces.”

  “It’s all right,” I said. “They have their drink then they clear off. All we’ve got to do is wait.”

  Matt turned his face away, stared straight ahead, thinking. “Go and look,” he said.

  “What?”

  He turned back to me. His voice was hard. “Go and look,” he said. “This is your fault. Go and see what they’re doing.”

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll have a look. You stay there.” I lowered myself onto my hands and knees and crept forward. Matt was right. We needed to know what was going on, and this was the only way to find out.

  I stopped near the edge and listened. Their voices were close, but they weren’t getting any nearer. They must be at the car. I lay flat and crawled on my stomach, head down. I could smell the grass, the earth. I’d be OK. They wouldn’t be looking upwards, would they? So they wouldn’t see me. They didn’t know anyone else had been in the quarry. Why should they be on the lookout? No reason.

  At the edge, I lifted my head as much as I dared and peered through the grass. Ther
e. They were at the car. All four of them, sitting on the roof. They sat close to each other, their legs dangling down, like small boys happily dipping their toes in a swimming pool. Jordan and Mitchell Brewer were facing in my direction. The other two had their backs to me, but it was easy to tell who they were.

  There was no mistaking Macka. You could fit three of me into his black leather jacket, but on him it stretched almost to bursting point. By his side, Robbo was stick-like. His hooded sweatshirt and baggy trousers hung from his wiry body. He was the lightweight of the gang, but he scared me more than the others put together.

  The four of them looked settled in, chatting, smoking, laughing. Good—that meant they thought they were alone. Jordan pulled a flat glass bottle from his jacket pocket. The light caught the clear liquid as he held it up. The others cheered. Jordan had the first swig, tipping his head back, holding the bottle to his lips for as long as he could. He laughed, passed the bottle to Mitchell. Go on, I thought, get it down you. It wasn’t a big bottle, and they passed it around quickly. At this rate, they’d be gone in no time.

  I froze. A noise from behind me—someone moving. Slowly, I turned my head. Matt was crawling forward to join me. I shook my head, mouthed, “No.” But he came anyway. I put a finger to my lips then pointed down to the Brewers. Matt stiffened—he’d seen them all right. And I’d seen enough. I pointed back toward the back of the ledge, mouthed, “Let’s go.”

  Matt nodded.

  But before we could move, Robbo suddenly leapt to his feet. He stood on the car’s roof and turned to face our direction. We ducked our heads down. Had he heard us? Could he have seen us? No—we were too high above them. But Matt wasn’t so sure. He stared at me, searching my face for some sign that we were going to be OK. I tried to give him a reassuring smile. It wasn’t easy.

  A shout, “What the hell? Who did this?” I had to look. Very carefully, we raised our heads. Robbo was standing on the quarry floor now, one arm leaning against the car’s roof. From the way the other three were staring at him, it looked like Robbo had been the one who’d shouted.