by WR Armstrong
There was a sudden knock at the door and a woman walked in carrying two mugs of steaming hot coffee. “Thank you Alice,” Carrington said, taking the one proffered to him. He waited for the woman to leave before continuing. “Besides face mapping we have processed computer generated pictures to gain an idea of what the people buried in that grave might have looked like.” He pulled a manila folder from a desk drawer and handed it to McGrath, who studied its contents with interest. “You really believe these individuals all died from head injuries?” he said, looking up from the pictures.
“Yes, though why is anyone’s guess at the moment. What we can be sure of is that they lived approximately three hundred and fifty years ago, around the same time that the non-conformist church was built, and where St Anthony’s now stands.”
McGrath handed back the folder. He was then invited to join Carrington in an annex adjoining the office, which was cramped, with only a wooden trestle table occupying it, upon which was an array of skulls in various states of repair.
“They’re all genuine,” Carrington said as if McGrath might doubt the fact. “Fluorine tests have been carried out to establish authenticity.”
“Fluorine tests,” McGrath repeated.
“They’re employed to compare the ages of two bones found near to each other in the same patch of soil. In limestone it doesn’t work so well, luckily we’re dealing with clay in this case. An old lecturer of mine, a Dr Oakley, used the method to establish the age of the famous Piltdown skull and jawbone and the associated fauna. That particular skull caused a great deal of excitement in the archaeological world once upon a time. Fluorine testing proved that although the skull was that of a fairly ancient man, he’d been doctored to match the gravel in which he was found. As for the jaw, it was that of a modern ape. In other words the Piltdown skull was a clever forgery.” Turning his attention to the skulls on the table, he said. “We suspect all those buried in the pit will turn out to be Caucasian.” McGrath inspected the ones on the table. Every cranium was irreparably damaged.
“We may never know with absolute certainty how these people met their end, or what their beliefs were,” Carrington said. “All we can do is continue digging and hope for the best.”
McGrath was next taken into an anti-chamber. The room was empty except for a padlocked wooden crate. A key kept hidden behind the door was used to gain access. The crate contained a large collection of the dagger/crucifixes unearthed in the underground. They had been coated with polyvinyl to protect them from the air, the process making their naturally shiny surfaces appear lacklustre.
“We think they’re ceremonial daggers,” Carrington said, “possibly for the purpose of pagan sacrifice.”
“Charming,” McGrath said, raising an eyebrow.
Carrington continued thoughtfully, “The method of execution of those buried in the pit has ritualistic overtones. It’s as though the executioners wanted to make doubly sure their victims were dead.” McGrath stared at the daggers in the crate, which glimmered dully beneath the fluorescent light. He had little doubt he was looking at weaponry. “We find them daily,” Carrington continued. “It’s anyone’s guess how many will finally be unearthed.” He closed the crate, re-locked it and led McGrath back into his office. “The burial site at St Anthony’s may well prove to be of major historical importance. Artefacts so far exhumed indicate an unorthodox religion practiced on our own back doorstep three and a half centuries ago. The community of which I have previously spoken might have been involved in a hitherto unknown religion.”
McGrath was sceptical. “Can you guarantee that permission to carry on digging in the underground will lead you to a pot of gold? Your findings so far have been found deep in the earth. I for one am at a loss to know why a grave would be so deep. That being the case, have you considered the fact you may not be able to reach other remains from ground level?”
“We have already established more finds are closer to the surface by means of a technique called Electrical Resistivity,” Carrington said confidently. McGrath frowned in ignorance. “Electrodes are placed in the soil,” the professor explained, “and systematically moved along in a line. Readings are set out in graph form. Any fluctuations indicate buried features. It’s very reliable and the readings are encouraging. An initial infrared survey was also carried out, which suggested a similar scenario. Without doubt, the pit contains the remains of many bodies. We may have begun to unearth the remnants of a community that held beliefs different to the rest of Great Britain in the seventeenth century, and who died for those beliefs. We obviously won’t be able to draw a final conclusion until the whole site is excavated.”
McGrath looked puzzled. “I still don’t understand how human remains could be buried so deep in the ground?”
Carrington also seemed at a loss. “Regardless of how they got there,” he said, sidestepping the issue, “they supply us with a great opportunity to learn more about our ancestry.”
McGrath pondered on what he’d been told. The trip over had been worth it. The experience had given him a better understanding of the archaeologist’s aims. He could also appreciate the importance of the dig being able to continue, but knew that it could not happen at the expense of the reconstruction work, which had to be completed on time and within budget. He wished Carrington success in his endeavours, but refused to fall into the trap of giving the man false hope. Should the Church refuse the archaeologists permission to dig within the grounds of St Anthony’s it would be unfortunate, but it was not the responsibility of the Transport Executive to grant them extended time in the event of that happening. For Carrington, time was running out, and he knew it. McGrath wasn’t so naive as to think he’d been invited into the archaeologist’s domain for any other reason than to give Carrington the opportunity to convince him to bat for the Archaeological Society, and use his influence to gain them a reprieve. As important as the dig was beginning to appear in historical terms, McGrath would be unable to help.
The manila folder containing the computer-generated pictures lying on the desk caught his eye; making him again consider what he’d been told about the possibility of a satanic cult existing in seventeenth century England; annihilated for its beliefs in a violent witch-hunt. The manner in which the annihilation had been carried out was extremely disturbing. Like Carrington had said, it was as if the executioners wanted to make doubly sure their victims were dead, suggesting that whoever those victims were, they were considered extremely dangerous.
Carrington said, “My colleague, Mr. Chrichton, thinks he has found evidence relating directly to the burial ground. Have you ever heard of a place called Baldock Hill, Mr. McGrath? You haven’t? Up until two hundred and fifty years ago Northwalk did not exist. At the time it was hilly woodland, with a few communities scattered roundabouts. The area was known as Baldock Hill. We discovered the fact when we examined parish records. An archivist based at a museum in Crawley knows of a manuscript that gives an account of a burial at Baldock Hill. I understand from Mr. Chrichton the manuscript itself is in safe keeping at a church near Evesham, though why I have no idea, suffice to say that whoever wrote it might have moved away from this area taking it with them. It is written largely in an unknown tongue. Consequently its authenticity has always been in doubt. From the information Mr. Chrichton has on the document, he is hopeful it is related to the burial pit.”
McGrath looked sceptical. “Don’t you think it’s a bit of a coincidence that a burial site is found one side of the country, and suddenly some old manuscript pops up on the other side that is directly connected?”
“Obscure manuscripts are discovered all the time in the most unlikely places, Mr. McGrath,” said the professor.
“But how can you ever be sure of its true origin?” McGrath asked.
“When a manuscript is handed to a museum or church to be archived,” Carrington explained, “the name of the author or person who found it is usually recorded for posterity, which at least gives the researcher a starting p
lace from which to work. Normal procedure dictates that a rough synopsis is made of the contents and the information is catalogued for future reference. Establishing that Baldock Hill is Northwalk’s former name means the unearthed burial site should, if our suspicions are correct, connect with the contents of the manuscript, which so far seems to be the case. Mr. Chrichton is to carry out a lengthy investigation to establish the manuscript’s authenticity once and for all. Usually copies can be loaned out to authorised individuals in the form of photocopies if the manuscript was written on paper and is in good enough condition; or photographs if it is written on parchment and is frail. The original stays where it is for safety reasons. We had hoped to get the loan of a full copy of the manuscript of which I speak. Unfortunately the Church has proved stubborn, allowing us only photocopied segments, giving the excuse the document is too bulky to copy in its entirety. I suppose we should be grateful for small mercies.”
McGrath was surprised to see he’d been in Carrington’s company for almost two hours. The fact he’d grown oblivious to the time was, he supposed, testament to the man’s oratory skills. He would have to leave immediately he realised, or risk being late for a meeting with the finance department at Transport House. He offered his thanks, to which Carrington replied, “We are in your hands, Mr McGrath.”
“The final decision lies with the Home Office,” he corrected.
At the doors to the lift McGrath said, “The mass grave uncovered in France allegedly contained similar artefacts to those found in the underground.”
“You’re referring of course to the dagger crucifixes,” Carrington said.
McGrath pressed the button to call the lift. “I understand that the occupants of the French grave also died violently, sustaining severe head injuries, and that those excavating the site heard voices, and committed violent acts.”
Carrington looked vaguely troubled. “What’s your point, Mr McGrath?”
“One could be forgiven for thinking history might be repeating itself, professor. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Carrington was silent.
“I’m not trying to be an alarmist,” McGrath said as the lift doors slid open, “but it seems to me that something very odd is happening in the underground, and that whatever it is, is beginning to leave its mark on the city itself.”
Without waiting for a reply he entered the lift.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
The rat was back, mutilated and maggot ridden. Only now, instead of being inside the garden shed, it was resident inside the house. The skinhead watched, horrified, as it scurried across the kitchen floor towards him.
“Why don’t you fucking well die!” he cried fearfully. From somewhere deep inside his head he heard the rat reply, “Body—all wrong!”
Of course your body is wrong, his mind screamed back. You’re dead, don’t you understand, you are fucking dead!
“Body—all wrong,” the voice repeated.
And that was when mind numbing realisation dawned. The skinhead blinked his eyes and swallowed hard. He calmly knelt, and gathered the rat up into his hands as if it were a pet mouse.
“Oh my God,” he murmured, as the maggots squirmed beneath his hands. He regretted ever listening to the voices, (doing so had led him to inadvertently create his own Frankenstein’s monster), but nevertheless accepted the creature was, and always would be, his responsibility. He had brought it back, but not in the way he should, and .it was down to him to rectify the situation. Whatever possessed the creature required something more than the lowly body of a rat in which to dwell. It required human form, and he was personally expected to correct the mistake.
He left the house under cover of darkness, creeping into next door’s garden where he ransacked his neighbour’s shed, removing from it a shovel and a torch. From inside his coat pocket the rat squealed impatiently. He warned it to be quiet. A moment later it was communicating inside his head, complaining the maggots were hurting. Time was running out.
The skinhead trod the deserted streets, contemplating what he was about to do, whilst trying to convince himself it must be a bad dream. He gazed up at a moon that was a crisp white crescent in a clear starry sky. He made his way reluctantly to the Church of St Anthony, where he had work to do.
2.
It was after midnight when he arrived. The graveyard gates were locked. He had to find another way in. He searched the perimeter wall until he came across a section he felt able to scale. He took a quick anxious look around to make sure he was unobserved before throwing the shovel over the wall, and then scrambling over himself. Inside his head the rat screamed for him to hurry. The skinhead landed awkwardly on the other side, twisting an ankle. He winced with pain and hobbled over to where the shovel was, and picked it up. The rat demanded to be let out of his coat pocket.
The skinhead cursed under his breath. He pulled the creature out by the rotten stump of its tail, placing it down on the ground, where it struggled to find its feet. He stared at it with loathing, and willed it to curl up and die.
An owl hooted from a nearby yew tree. He looked around nervously. In the darkness, the slab shaped gravestones rose from the cold ground like crooked teeth. Others sculpted into crosses reminded him of what he had done to originally reanimate the dead rat. It had been a big mistake to listen to the voices for they had nothing to do with his beloved Third Reich leaders. Yet what he was about to do might prove to be an even bigger mistake. On the other hand, it might return his friend, Neil, to him, who would surely deal with whatever malevolent spirit worked the rat. Either way he had little choice in the matter. Loath the rat as he did, he nevertheless felt compelled to do its bidding.
The creature was a little way ahead, eager to reach its destination. At one point, it wondered off in the wrong direction. The skinhead called it back. It turned squealing indignantly, and followed. The skinhead thought he heard a faint sound from behind. He scanned the landscape to make sure no one followed. He was afraid a night watchman might be employed to patrol the grounds. Well, if some old bastard with a torch came sniffing round, he would get a nasty shock, for the skinhead was playing for keeps. He gripped the shovel tightly, thinking what a good weapon it would make, while the rat hissed like a snake, urging him to get a move on. The skinhead had to control a sudden urge to flatten the thing with the sturdy tool. As if reading his thoughts, the rat snarled. He felt bound to trudge onwards through the graveyard, past a Swaffham angel that seemed to gaze down piously from its concrete pedestal. He continued onwards as if hypnotised.
Midway, he paused to get his bearings, having visited the grave of his best friend, Neil Henderson, only once since the youth was buried. It had been shortly after the funeral. He had poured a bottle of whisky over the grave in homage. Whisky had been Neil’s favourite tipple. His friend would have appreciated the gesture greatly, he was sure. He therefore knew the grave’s approximate location. The trouble was, everything looked so different in the dark. He wandered round for a while, the rat growing increasingly frustrated with the lack of success. He dare not think what awful fate might befall him should he fail to find the grave.
Just when he was about to give up hope he spotted it over in a corner, not far from the Garden of Remembrance. Jesus, how could he have forgotten that? The grave was unremarkable. Fresh flowers lay at the foot of a new slab of upright marble, inscribed with the words: Here lies Neil Henderson, only son of Alfred and Doris Henderson. May he rest in peace. Little chance of that, the skinhead thought resignedly. He studied the shovel he held, then the grave where his friend was buried. He took a long, deep breath. The cold night air froze his lungs. He prayed this was a dream from which he might awake sooner rather than later.
Beneath the silvery glow of the moon he took a final cautionary look around to make sure he was alone, and then began the onerous task of digging. And while he dug, the rat stood guard at the grave, a watchful sentinel, eager for its new host to be exhumed.
Occasionally it squealed and the skin heard
its impatient voice inside his head urging him to work faster. He repeatedly glanced over at the church, half expecting to see someone approaching. The ground was unforgiving. He persevered. The shovel repeatedly sliced into the earth, removing load upon load of fresh soil. The hole grew deeper. The earth became moister, easier to cut through.
The skinhead laboured hard, breaking into a sweat despite the cold. Soon his muscles ached painfully from physical exertion. His heart hammered in his chest. The deeper he dug, the more afraid he grew. What had happened with the rat was bad enough. The thought of seeing Neil again, dead yet not dead, was a nightmare. And would it really be Neil he brought back, or a corpse controlled by whatever gave the dead rat movement? It was all too terrible to contemplate. His mind screamed to be free of the living nightmare. The rat, having heard his agonised thoughts, countermanded them, demanding he continue digging.
“I need to rest,” he said hopelessly.
“Dig!” the voice insisted.
So he did. He worked the shovel until he thought he’d collapse with fatigue. He reached a depth of four feet and got his second wind. Two more to go, he thought despairingly, before ramming the shovel blade into the rich dark earth yet again. The cloying smell of soil filled his nostrils. His head spun with the thought of what he was trying to accomplish. He emptied the grave of more earth, while the rat observed from the edge of the grave.