So perhaps some medieval genius had found a way to weatherproof stone?
Such an inventor would have kept his discovery a secret, so that it died with him. He might well have had a reputation as a magician, witch, or alchemist. That might even account for the tower's sinister reputation. Everything else would be down to suggestion, men's nerves playing tricks on them.
Yeah, that's possible! Joe, you might actually be onto something.
Joe had visions of fame, perhaps even fortune, if he really was onto something. But he would need a sample of the stone.
Looking down, Joe saw a few people strolling on Cathedral Green, traffic passing in the middle distance. There was no sign of any black-robed clerics, no sense that anyone was watching.
It's perfectly reasonable to take a sample, he told himself. Nobody could object.
He reached for his work belt and removed a small hammer and chisel. He examined the nearest effigy for a small part that could easily be chipped off. The saint was holding an open book in one hand, pointing to a passage with another.
Presumably indicating some uplifting, or more likely terrifying, passage from scripture.
A finger seemed reasonable, as it could be cemented back in place without leaving a discernible mark. He glanced down to make sure nobody was standing directly below. A little finger would not do much harm falling from a height, but best not to take risks.
The coast was clear. “Okay, your esteemed holiness,” said Joe cheerily. “Time for some minor cosmetic surgery.”
He braced himself against the wall and raised his tools.
“This will hurt me more than it will hurt you, I promise.”
He positioned the chisel and brought hammer down precisely. The sharp edge sheared off the saint's finger, which flew past Joe's head, following an arc that would take it down to the green. Joe reattached the tools to his belt and prepared to lower himself, smiling at his cleverness. Then he froze, stared, blinked. Stared some more.
A drop of blood was oozing from the stump of the stone saint's finger.
“You should not have done that!”
A boy was standing on the ledge above J0e. The boy was scrawny, red-haired, with huge dark eyes in a pinched, pale face. He was wagging a finger at Joe in a gesture that was almost comical. Almost.
Before he could think, Joe reacted instinctively, reaching out his arms.
“Christ, grab hold of me, son, or you'll fall!”
Joe's right hand brushed the boy's fingertips and the world Joe knew went away. In its place was a place of nightmare. He was still hanging from the tower, still dressed in his work gear, but everything else had changed. The tower was transparent now, as if fabricated from some unearthly crystal. He could see clean through the fabric of the huge edifice, observe every block of stone, every mortared join. And there was more. He could feel the tower, too. And it was a living monster that sought to consume him. He felt its appetite, sensed the insatiable hunger of the great stone beast.
“Oh God!” he screamed. “Oh God, oh God help me!”
Fixed at intervals in the structure were pulsing hearts; hearts Joe knew were both human and inhuman at the same time. The glowing red sacs throbbed, driving blood through a network of arteries that reached through all the fabric of the tower. And with that urgent flow of blood came pain. It was not mundane pain, but an agony of the spirit, a torment of the soul. A terrible suffering overwhelmed Joe, pulverized his mind, and left it in ruins.
Time passed. Joe gradually became aware of time passing.
He sensed the summer wind blowing through his hair, ruffling the fabric of his overall. He looked around him, and saw the great gray wall of the tower.
“You all right, mate?” said a friendly voice.
Joe looked round to see a smiling man in a yellow helmet and black jacket rising, as if by magic, beside him. His hearing recovered enough to hear the sound of an electric motor whining somewhere below. He looked down and saw a huge red truck with blue flashing lights. And lots of people.
“Come on, Joe,” said the fireman, reaching out. “Get on board, we can take you down. Tracy's been very worried, I can tell you!”
“I'm sorry,” said Joe.
Poor Tracy, I've let her down again.
Joe let the fireman drag him clumsily onto the ladder. He helped detach the lines from his harness, waited patiently as they descended. Before they reached the ground, he had collapsed.
***
“Physically, he's fine,” said the doctor. For a man delivering good news, he did not look especially happy about it.
“I can't tell if he recognized me,” said Tracy Sullivan, twisting her wedding ring. “The kids keep asking if they can see their dad but–”
The doctor raised a hand.
“Definitely not advisable,” he said. “Not until we've established – well, exactly what the problem is.”
“Is he – is he brain damaged?” asked Tracy.
The doctor shook his head.
“Scans show no damage at all,” he reassured her. “No cranial injuries, and clearly he did not suffer asphyxiation or drug overdose up on that tower. So once we've eliminated all the usual causes, we're left with extreme shock. Post-traumatic stress, it's called now.”
“Does that mean he won't be able to come home?”
The doctor looked down at his clipboard of notes.
“I can't say,” he said. “But I would recommend a period in a psychiatric care facility, if only as a precautionary measure. Some of his symptoms are – well, anomalous is too mild a term.”
“What about his hand?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
The doctor looked puzzled.
“His hand? I assumed that was just an old injury.”
Tracy shook her head, sobbed.
“He never had it before! Don't you think I'd have noticed?”
She looked into the room where Joe lay in bed. They had dressed him in National Health Service pajamas. He stared blankly out of the window.
“I could tell him what I'm proposing if you like?” suggested the doctor.
“No!” Tracy was suddenly firm, more composed. “I'll tell him. I need him to know that I'll be there for him. We all will.”
The doctor retreated down the corridor. Tracy went and sat beside her husband, reaching out to take his hand. It felt cold, unresponsive, as if he slept with his eyes open. She looked down at the fingers she held lightly in hers. The tip of one was gone, the flesh sheared off and healed up. There was no trace of blood or scabbing.
An old injury. Looks like it, yeah. But it's an injury he didn't have this morning when he left for the tower.
“Joe?” she said, leaning forward into his field of vision. “Joe? What happened?”
There was no response at first. The staring eyes did not flicker. But then Tracy saw Joe's lips moving slightly. She leaned in closer, still clutching his maimed finger, to try and hear what he was saying.
“The Seven, the Seven,” he whispered. “They are imprisoned, and want to be free. But the bargain – the price is too high!”
His voice rose, and he looked at her suddenly. There was no sign of recognition, and his eyes seemed like those of a stranger. His hand closed on hers, gripping tightly, painfully. She began to struggle but couldn't break free.
“It is the dreadful Day of Judgment!” Joe shouted, lunging at her, forcing his face into hers. “We will all be judged, all found wanting. Oh God, where is Your mercy?”
He was still ranting when nurses arrived to free Tracy and sedate him. He was moved to a special unit and her next few visits were carefully supervised. Sometimes Tracy thought he was improving, that he might even be able to go home. But the improvement was always temporary, and Joe quickly reverted to mental chaos, religious mania. Tracy struggled to come to terms with the loss of the man she knew while making ends meet.
Eventually she sought solace elsewhere, and stopped coming.
***
“Oh, I
keep meaning to ask,” said Erin, as they arrived back at Louise Tarrant's office. “I saw this old guy by the cathedral, he seemed to know a lot about it. Is he some kind of local eccentric?”
“That's Holy Joe,” said Mike Smith. “He's harmless most of the time, but he has his wilder moments. Probably best steer clear of him.”
“Oh,” said Erin, disappointed. “He seemed kind of sad – dignified in a way. I wondered if he was some kind of expert on local history? From the way he talked, I mean?”
“No,” said Mike, dismissively. “He's just a random old nutter.”
Back in Louise Tarrant's office, Erin signed the contract to take on her new position.
“You look slightly stunned by it all,” observed Louise, as she checked and filed the document.
“Yeah, I guess I am,” admitted Erin. “I thought I'd blown the interview, so I was kind of resigned to going back to the States.”
“And that's not a pleasant prospect?” asked Louise.
Yeah, for a whole bunch of reasons, thought Erin, none of which are your business.
“Let's just say,” she said carefully, “that I didn't fancy running home with my tail between my legs. Metaphorically speaking.”
Louise gave her a slightly chilly smile, then picked up a small plastic folder containing a sheaf of papers.
“One of your duties as assistant director will be to supervise the local Antiquarian Society,” she explained. “You may have heard that one of its leading lights died yesterday? A rather tragic accident?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Erin, “I think I caught it on the local news. Terrible thing.”
“Indeed.”
Louise handed the folder to Erin.
“Professor Maspero was going to deliver this paper to the society yesterday evening. As usual, he emailed it to us so Saffron could print out copies for all the members. I thought you might like to take a look at it – tell me what you think?”
“Okay,” said Erin, taking the folder. “Bit outside wheelhouse, of course, but I'll give it the old college try!”
She tucked the folder into her bag and left, finding her way out of the labyrinth easily this time. She bade a cheerful 'See you later!' to Saffron and stepped outside into the autumn sunshine. The day was so pleasant she decided to walk through the heart of the busy city back to her hotel.
Things are looking up, she thought. Put all the weird stuff behind you, girl, and focus on the job at hand.
Chapter 7: Children of the Quincunx
“Sorry, Mel, but I still don't get it,” said Jen Deighton, looking around the neat little kitchen. “You say you weren't attacked?”
Melody Lee shook her head, raised a steaming mug of tea to her lips. The rim chattered against her teeth. Jen had made Melody drink some strong tea as it usually helped victims shaken up by violent crime. The comforting familiarity made it easier for them to just talk, get the facts out. And yet now someone Jen knew, a level-headed colleague, was obviously lying to her.
“Sorry,” said Jen again, “but your neighbor was quite emphatic when she made the 999 call. You were screaming for help.”
“I just …” Melody glanced up from her mug at Jen, her eyes pleading. “I just don't want to make a fuss, that's all.”
A uniformed officer looked around the door.
“No sign of forced entry, boss.”
Jen nodded, waved him away.
“Mel, why were you sitting at your desk when we broke in? What were you doing?”
The computer expert shook her head, eyes downcast, face almost hidden behind her long dark hair. Jen tried another tact.
“You've got bruises, scratches,” the detective pointed out. “But you want to keep it off the books?”
Mel looked up at that, her eyes wild with surprise, fear.
“Please,” she said. “Please Jen, don't push this.”
“If we check the security camera footage,” said Jen, “we won't see anyone entering or leaving, will we?”
Mel looked down again, shook her head slightly.
Jen stood up, sighing.
“If you weren't one of ours, I'd be pretty pissed off at this point,” she pointed out, stepping around the table. She put a hand lightly on Mel's shoulder.
“If you change your mind about making a statement, or if there's anything I can do, just ask. I wish–”
Mel looked up, took hold of Jen's hand, clutching it urgently.
“There is something,” Mel said. “If you promise not to ask anything about it?”
Jen nodded, glanced out of the door to make sure none of the male uniformed officers was within earshot.
“I need something from a pharmacy,” explained Mel. “Pregnancy testing kit. We've been trying for months, thought about asking for help from the NHS. But now I think–”
Mel managed to laugh at Jen's baffled expression.
“Look, I just need to know, okay? Call it a woman's intuition if you like.”
***
Erin got back to her hotel after stopping to buy some sandwiches and sodas. She stopped off at the checkout to see if she could extend her stay for a few days. Luckily, it was not the height of what passed for Weyrmouth's tourist season, and she got to book the same room for a whole week more.
Should give me a fighting chance to find a place to rent, she thought, as she set her frugal meal down on the small desk. Erin looked around the room, wondering why it looked slightly different. It had been cleaned, of course, and the bed linen changed. It looked just as bland and functional as before.
But there's something that's changed. Damn, that's gonna bug you all night, and you know it'll turn out to be trivial.
She shrugged off the thought and opened the folder to look at her 'homework' from Louise. She assumed the director wanted Erin to show a bit of initiative in tackling an area she had little training or experience in. She sat down to read Maspero's paper, full of good intentions. It took less than a minute for her to fire up her laptop and start to Google words and phrases. She began to scribble notes, wondering if Louise was in fact sending a message that Erin was not welcome on her team.
But that makes no sense, she thought. She gave me the job. Would have been far easier to hand it to that jerk Smith.
Erin tried to focus on Maspero's esoteric theory about the cathedral tower. It was interesting. She discovered that the official name of Weyrmouth Cathedral was 'The Cathedral Church of Saint Cuthbert and All Angels'. The tower, Maspero noted, had fallen down twice during construction, 'on the second occasion causing several deaths and great damage to the medieval town'. When it was finished successfully on the third attempt, 'some church scholars attributed the success of the project to divine intervention, but others suggested beings of a somewhat lower order were involved'.
Yet again, the thought that there was something wrong with the room surfaced, hindering her concentration. She looked up, peering at the furniture, the TV set, the window. Her gaze settled on the familiar British hotel kettle and its array of coffee and tea packets, plus sugar and sweeteners. Some of the small rectangular packets had been spilled, were lying on the floor under the shelf.
Erin got up, walked over, and looked down. There were four packets arranged in a neat cross. She looked at the sheaf of papers in her hand, turned back to the first page where Maspero defined his terms. One phrase leaped out.
'The quincunx can be represented in several ways, including a simple cruciform shape in which the four arms are of equal length.'
“Coincidence,” said Erin, trying to convince herself. “Or a very tidy poltergeist.”
She squatted, picked up the packets of brown sugar, put them back into their bowl. On impulse, she switched on the kettle to make some coffee. As she waited for it to boil, she skimmed Maspero's talk to the end, trying to grasp his conclusion.
If there even is one, that is, Erin thought. He seems to be urging people to search the museum archives for more information.
Realizing that this was why Louise
had given her the task, Erin began to formulate a strategy for finding more material on the tower. It would involve dredging through old records, which would take a lot of time. But what others might see as a thankless grind was something Erin could enjoy, because it involved rummaging in the past. And she knew from experience that, given enough time and effort, something unexpected and interesting almost always emerged.
In the meantime, let's go back to the beginning and read this damn thing again.
Erin munched on her sandwiches while she worked through the paper, annotating and underlining. Eventually, she felt she had done as much as could reasonably be expected. It was getting dark when she decided to move on to local property websites, and see what was on offer. She was looking at rentals in the Cathedral Close area when there was a gentle knock at the door.
“Yeah, what is it?” she called.
There was no reply, just another knock, more insistent this time.
“Hi, I'm working, what do you want?”
Silence.
Erin got up and went to the spy-hole, squinted at the distorted view of the door opposite. Either there was nobody there, or they were standing to one side. Then there was a third knock, much louder. Startled, Erin jumped back, then leaned forward again to peer out.
“Fooled you!”
It was a child's voice, mockingly playful. And it was coming from behind her.
***
“Sorry, Louise, so sorry, it's just, I thought I'd better ask.”
“Come in, Saffy,” said the director. “What is it?”
Saffron bustled into the office, followed by Park. Louise forced herself to smile at the cadaverous man. As usual, he gave her the up-and-down glance, and Louise had to force herself not to reach for the top button of her shirt. It was never undone, but Park's gaze always made her feel for a moment that it must be.
“What can I do for you today, Mister Park?” she asked, after Saffron had closed the door behind her.
Curse of Weyrmouth (Curse of Weyrmouth Series Book 1) Page 9