Scaderstone Pit (The Darkeningstone Series Book 3)

by Mikey Campling

  Matthews stopped walking and turned to look back at Grigson. “Come on, man,” he said. “A little mud never hurt anyone.” He raised an eyebrow as he watched Grigson picking his way through the frozen puddles. “Where there’s muck, Grigson, there’s brass. And that’s a fact.”

  Grigson forced a smile, his lips pulled tight against his teeth. “Quite so, Mr. Matthews. Quite so.”

  Matthews scratched his nose. “Anyway, we don’t need to go any farther. You can see the place from here well enough.”

  Grigson nodded and looked out across the tangled mass of unkempt bushes and straggly trees. “I see,” he said. “Very…very promising.”

  “You see nothing,” Grigson snorted. “You’ve not got my eye, my imagination.”

  “Perhaps I could help you further, if you’d tell me something of your plans, Mr. Matthews. Grigson’s Chartered Surveyors are the soul of discretion. I can assure you that confidentiality is our watchword.”

  Matthews waved his words away. “Yes, yes, I know all that.” He frowned for a moment as if deep in thought then reached into his inside jacket pocket. “Cigar, Grigson?” He held out a silver cigar case. “They’re not bad these. I have them sent up specially—from London.”

  Grigson shook his head politely. “Thank you, but no. I’ll join you in a smoke, but I’d better stick to my herbal cigarettes. The doctor prescribed them for my catarrh.” He produced his own cigarette case which, although it was silver-plated, seemed a sorry sight compared to Matthews’ cigar case. I must get myself one of those, he thought. A good way to impress new clients.

  Matthews was already puffing away on his cigar and Grigson lit his own cigarette, holding his lighter carefully to show off the engraved pattern on its side; it matched his cigarette case and he liked people to notice. But Matthews barely glanced in his direction before looking out over the scrubland again.

  “People called me a profiteer, Grigson. Did you know that?”

  Grigson nodded unhappily. “I may have heard something of the sort.”

  “Bloody nonsense. Our lads needed mess tins, I made them mess tins. They needed helmets, I built a factory.”

  Grigson looked down at the ground. “I was too old to enlist. And with my catarrh…”

  But Matthews wasn’t listening. “It was all for the men,” he went on. “All for our brave lads, not for me.”

  “Very commendable.”

  “Yes, the War Office paid me for the goods I provided, but I always asked a fair price. That’s all. Not like some people.”

  Grigson coughed and spat a gobbet of phlegm onto the ground. The herbal cigarettes were clearly doing their job. He must remember to recommend them to his eldest son—the lad was forever coughing and catching colds.

  “Are you listening to me?” Matthews demanded.

  “I certainly am,” Grigson said. “You’ve done a great service to your country and to your community, Mr. Matthews.” He smiled. “And now, you have plans for another venture?”

  “I do indeed,” Matthews said. He puffed on his cigar. “A terrible business, the war, but that’s all over now. What’s needed is a boost to get things moving again. We need new homes, roads, businesses.”

  Grigson frowned. “And you see this as a potential site for development? Isn’t it a little too far from the town centre for that?”

  “No!” Matthews scoffed. “Use your eyes, man. Can’t you see what’s up there, beyond the treetops?” He pointed and Grigson raised his eyes to peer through the trees.

  “I don’t quite—”

  “The rock, man,” Matthews interrupted. “Scaderstone Rock. Surely you can see it from here.”

  “Yes,” Grigson said slowly. “But I still don’t see what you’re getting at I’m afraid.”

  Matthews bent down and picked up a lump of stone. He held it out to Grigson. “Do you know what this is?”

  Grigson studied it. “Limestone. That’s the predominant bedrock in this region.”

  “Exactly. Now we’re coming to it. Limestone. That’s the key to the whole scheme.”

  “You want to quarry the stone for building? I’d have thought that brick would be more in demand.”

  “I know that, Grigson.” Matthews exhaled loudly. “We can use some of it for building, but not many people can afford stone houses—not in these straitened times.”

  Grigson nodded thoughtfully.

  “I had a man take a look at this. He tells me it’s oolitic limestone. Know what that means?”

  “Ah,” Grigson said. “Cement.”

  “Finally, the penny drops. Cement, plaster, aggregate for concrete—these are what’s needed. These are the building materials of the future.”

  Grigson smiled and dropped his cigarette stub on the ground, pressing it into the frozen mud with his foot. “I see. So you’d like my firm to survey the site, and assess its suitability.”

  “Precisely. I want to know how much of it there is and how much I can take out. I need to know the grade of the stuff. I want facts, figures. I want projections, year on year.” he gave Grigson a wink. “I want to know the bottom line. I want to know how much profit there is to be made.”

  “I understand,” Grigson said. “And my firm stands ready to assist you.”

  “And I want it done by Christmas.”

  Grigson’s face fell. He opened his mouth to say something but Matthews didn’t give him the chance.

  “Your preliminary report anyway. The first findings. You know, the rough scale of the thing.”

  Grigson licked his lips. This would be a big job and good for his cash flow. Very good. And if Matthews was in a rush then so much the better. But this deadline was a damned nuisance. “We’ll do our very best, but Christmas will soon be upon us. And for those of us with families, certain arrangements must be made.”

  “Nonsense,” Matthews said. “I’ll make it worth your while. But don’t try and talk your price up or I’ll go to someone else.”

  Grigson pulled himself up to his full height. “I assure you, our fees are set at a professional rate.”

  Matthews looked him in the eye. “All right, Grigson. Keep your hair on.” He held out his hand. “Here—seal the deal.”

  “With pleasure.” Grigson shook his hand.

  “By Christmas,” Matthews said, and he raised his eyebrows as if struck by a sudden thought. “I’ll tell you what—you’ve a young lad by the name of Marley in your firm haven’t you?”

  Grigson hesitated then gave a little nod. “Trevor Marley. A decent enough lad. Hard-working.”

  Matthews shifted his head back and scowled. “Do you know, he had the temerity to come calling on my Iris. Him sniffing around my only daughter. Has he no sense of propriety?”

  “I’m sure I couldn’t say. Would you like me to have a word with him?”

  Matthews pursed his lips and let an uncomfortable silence hang in the air. “This survey—it’s an important job. It’s a bleak spot out here, but we’ll need someone to stay on-site at all times. Someone to supervise.”

  Grigson started to shake his head, but he caught the look in the other man’s eyes. Matthews wasn’t asking a question, he was making a statement. “Yes. I believe you’re correct.”

  “They say we’re in for a cold snap. And with Christmas coming up…” he let his voice trail away.

  “I wonder,” Grigson said, “if one of our juniors might be best suited for the job. Mr. Marley, perhaps. After all, he has no wife or children to consider.”

  “There you are then. Perfect.” Matthews bared his teeth in a cold smile. “The sooner he starts, the better.”

  Grigson returned the smile. “Consider it done, Mr. Matthews. Consider it done.”

  Chapter 5

  2021

  THE TOURS NORD HOTEL was nothing special. It was one of those modern places: dark brick and plate glass on the outside, and clean but somehow faintly depressing on the inside. I checked in as quickly as I could, very keen to get the formalities over with so I could g
et something to eat. I tried asking about the car at the station, but it only caused more confusion. Apparently the daytime staff had gone home, and the evening staff had no idea what I was talking about. In the end, I gave up and headed to the restaurant, where I was served a chewy steak and lukewarm French fries by a waitress who, like the side salad, had long since given up the will to live. At least the beer was ice-cold, even if it was vastly overpriced.

  Afterward, alone in my sparse room, and with the door safely locked and chained, I lay down on my bed and stared up at the ceiling.

  I’d already messaged Dad to let him know I was OK, and I’d booked a taxi for the following morning to take me out to the site where Cally was filming, so there was nothing I really needed to do. I closed my eyes and thought back to the events at the station. There could very easily be a completely innocent explanation for what had happened: a simple miscommunication between the hotel staff, an employee trying to help, a message not passed on. I’d probably see the driver in the morning, and no doubt he would tell everyone at the hotel to steer clear of the unhinged English guy who’d just arrived.

  “Oh my god,” I muttered, “why did I have to try and hit him?” I shook my head. I’ve no idea what I’m doing here, I thought. I’m making a fool of myself. Back in Dad’s flat, it had all made sense: get some answers, put my past behind me, move on. But now, I wasn’t so sure. Opening myself up to the memories of those dark days made me feel like I was right back in my teenage years. It took me back to the time when all this started: a time when I’d been lost and confused. And I didn’t want to go back there. Not ever.

  Maybe I should just go home, I thought. Maybe, first thing in the morning, I should go back to the station and see what I can do about my ticket. I let out a deep sigh. If I turned tail and went home it would be a failure. It would be a defeat. But if I stayed, could I really go through my plan to see Cally? And would it actually help, or would it make things worse? There was so much in my past I did not want to face.

  I closed my eyes and tried to get my thoughts in order. But after getting nowhere for ten minutes I rolled over onto my side and buried my face in the pillow. And I fell asleep.

  ***

  The dream, when it came, was always the same. I saw the old man staring at me in silence, just like when I’d first seen him, back in the old quarry. His leathery face was gaunt and careworn, his hollow eyes burning with a nameless need. He beckoned to me, and though I couldn’t recognise his words, I somehow understood exactly what he was saying. He wanted me to go with him, into the darkness and dismal decay. He wanted me to stay forever in the miserable gloom and oppression of his shadowy world. But whenever I tried to talk to him, whenever I demanded to know what he wanted from me, he just stared at me with his glassy eyes, shaking his head very slowly. “It’s too late,” he seemed to say. “What’s done is done.”

  In the dream, I turned away from him and tried to run, but my legs were heavy, and the stony ground hurt my bare feet. I struggled on, but then the savages came, a whole mob of them, appearing from nowhere. They swarmed around me, their painted faces twisted in anger, their hard bony fingers grabbing at my arms, my legs, my face. They pushed me down, grinding my face into the dust, and when I tried to crawl away they grabbed my arms and dragged me over the rocky ground. The sharp stones tore into my flesh and I begged them to stop. I yelled at the top of my voice. But the savages shrieked and jabbered and howled, drowning out my cries for help. I struggled against their grip but they hauled me up, forcing me to stand. And suddenly there it was, looming over me, like a shadow made solid: the glittering tower of smooth black stone. It blotted out the light and sucked the life and warmth from me, prickling my skin, chilling me to the bone. And then came the chorus of disembodied voices: whispering, calling out to me, hissing their murderous threats in the darkness. And my unseen tormentors were close. So close. Their voices were all around me, echoing from every direction, louder and louder, until their malevolent words reverberated inside my skull. And deep within the black stone, something stirred, like a slumbering creature stretching its limbs. And when it reached out to me, its arms were wrapped with a million beams of brilliant blue light. Its cold fingers brushed against my skin. And there was nothing I could do to stop it. Nothing.

  I woke up with a start, drenched in sweat, the bedding tangled around my legs. The bedside lamp was still on, and for a moment, I lay there, staring at the unfamiliar room and wondering where the hell I was. Then I remembered. I sat up and checked the time on my phone. It was 3 o’clock in the morning. My head hurt like hell, I had a raging thirst, and I was still fully dressed. This isn’t fair, I thought. It’s like having the punishment of a hangover but without the fun of the night before. And I almost smiled.

  I swung my feet down to the floor, pushed myself off the bed and staggered toward the en suite bathroom. The bathroom was small but functional, and when I pulled the cord to turn on the light, I had to squint against the glare reflecting from the gleaming mirror and the stark white tiles. I bent over the sink and ran the cold tap, splashing my face over and over again.

  I towelled my face dry and stared at my reflection in the mirror. Everyone always said I looked young for my age. And I was. According to my passport I was 25, but I’d only lived through 21 years my life. While I’d been in the past for the longest day of my life, as far as the rest of the world was concerned, I’d been missing for four years, and there was nothing I could do to set the record straight. Sometimes I felt cheated, as if those years had been stolen from me. But most the time I was just glad to be back in the modern world: living from day-to-day, working in the office, watching TV in the evenings, going out for a drink at the weekends. And I told myself it was enough.

  I took a breath and looked my reflection in the eye. “It’s not enough,” I said. “It’s never been enough.” And I nodded to myself. I had to go through with this. I wasn’t that confused teenager who’d wandered into the old quarry. Not anymore. I was stronger, more sure of myself, and there was only one thing standing in my way, one niggling doubt that kept me from enjoying life to the full; I had to understand what had happened to me on the black stone. I had to know. And I’d already taken the first step in coming to France. All that remained was to follow through with the plan.

  I headed back to the bed. “I’d better get some sleep,” I murmured. “It’s going to be a busy day tomorrow. A very busy day.”

  ***

  The next morning I woke early, and I’d showered, shaved, and had my breakfast by 8 o’clock. I’d booked the taxi for 9 o’clock; Cally was filming in the middle of nowhere and I didn’t want to arrive too early and find nobody there. So with an hour to kill, I went for a walk. I needed to stretch my legs and it seemed like a good idea to get a feel for the place.

  In the daytime, Saint Victor was quite an appealing town. A few of the shops were open and quite a few people were strolling past or hurrying home with fresh baguettes poking out from the tops of their shopping bags. The cafes were already doing a good trade, but though I was tempted by the smell of fresh coffee, I wasn’t in the mood to sit down. I wanted to get going.

  I walked for about twenty minutes then decided to head back. As I turned around, I caught a glimpse of a dark-coloured saloon car speeding toward me. Instinctively, I stepped back from the kerb, and the car accelerated and swept past, its engine roaring. I turned and watched the car as it sped away, my heart in my mouth. I couldn’t be certain if it was the same car I’d seen outside the station, but there was one thing I could see very clearly; the car’s windows were heavily tinted.

  I hurried back to the hotel, keeping an eye on the road. The incident with the dark-coloured saloon was probably meaningless—an irate driver in a hurry. But I couldn’t help thinking that the car had accelerated because I’d turned around and spotted it. You’re being ridiculous, I told myself. You’re just nervous about meeting Cally. And that was true. I’d been jittery all morning. It was so important that our meeting we
nt well, but I had no contact information for her, no way to warn her I was on my way. All I could do was turn up uninvited and hope that everything went according to plan.

  I walked a little slower. It was a warm day and I didn’t want to turn up at the site looking dishevelled. I ran my hand through my hair then straightened my shirt. It was a little creased, but it would have to do. It was the only decent shirt I’d brought with me.

  As I neared the hotel, a taxi drew to a halt by the entrance, and the driver climbed out and went inside. I checked the time. It was 8:45, so this was probably my car. I picked up the pace again, but as I approached the hotel door, the driver came out and looked me up and down.

  “Hi,” I said. “Have you come to collect me?”

  The driver looked doubtful, perhaps expecting someone older.

  “I booked a taxi for 9 o’clock,” I assured him. “To take me out to the place where they’re making the TV programme.”

  “Ah, you are working with them, yes?”

  “No, not exactly.” I hesitated, searching for the right words. “One of my friends is working up there. I’m going along to visit her.”

  The driver smiled and nodded. “Bien. Jump in. The journey will take us about vingt minuits—twenty minutes.” He opened the back door of the car for me then climbed into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. A moment later, we were off.

  ***

  About twenty-five minutes later, the taxi ground to a halt and the driver turned in his seat. “This is it,” he said. He pointed out the window. “Walk that way in a straight line for a few minutes. You will see them when you get over the ridge.”

  I looked out of the window. The land rose gently toward the horizon, and there was little to see: just an area of scrubland, and in the distance, a couple of trees. But there was a rough path heading in the right direction, so this was almost certainly the place. “Thanks,” I said. “Do you think I could arrange to call you later, so you could come and pick me up?”