by WR Armstrong
The police investigated, thinking it reasonable to assume that having killed for reasons known only to himself, and been badly injured in the process, he was now in self-denial, failure to take responsibility for the atrocity sending him into a crazed, self-deluded state. The questioning detectives, having established the youth had no history of drug or alcohol abuse, or mental illness, attributed his unstable behaviour to a psychotic episode, brought on by his earlier experience in the underground when he had fallen, having imagined apparitions in the damaged tunnel roof.
They were however; forced to acknowledge worrying similarities existed between his story regarding the nurse’s demise, which, if he were to be believed, involved ritualistic crucifixion, and the recent grisly death of the tube driver, whose killer, possibly a dog, was still at large. Then there were the alleged comments the murder victim had made the night prior to his death, in which he claimed to have the ability to reanimate the dead, which echoed Powell’s story about the nurse having risen up from the dead.
By the end of the day, the police had established that a violent struggle had indeed taken place at Powel’s London home, although a murder victim was conspicuous by its absence. A large blood splattered cross was found in the room in which the struggle took place, comprising of two planks of wood crudely nailed together, along with bindings, and a blood stained hammer thought to have been used in the attack.
At the first given opportunity Marcos Powell took his own life, a ballpoint pen through the eye and into the brain, while down in the underground, where his murderous antics and subsequent death was received with shock and unease, absenteeism reached worrying levels. The work force was nervous; some believing in the rumours that the recently exposed burial-pit, was cursed.
At St Anthony’s church Father Patrick Donnelly grew concerned when his housekeeper failed to show for work for the third consecutive day, and did not answer his calls. He visited her neighbourhood where she had not seen her for some time. Her home appeared deserted. Donnelly was annoyed that she had not consulted him about taking time off. A typical woman, he thought, selfish and inconsiderate to the last. But never mind, housekeepers were two a penny. If she failed to put in an appearance by the end of the week he would advertise for a new person to fill the role, a male this time perhaps, young and inexperienced, someone whom he might enlighten in the ways of the world.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
McGrath slipped the coins into the vending machine slot, made his choice and groaned as a can of Diet Coke clattered into the tray instead of the selected Bitter Lemon. Seemed like it was going to be one of those days, he thought heading back to his office. As he walked through the door, sipping from the can, the phone rang. It was Kate.
“What are you doing for lunch?” she enquired.
“What I normally do,” he replied, “Grabbing a sandwich.”
“Why not come over to the site,” she suggested, “I can give you a guided tour, followed by a bite to eat.”
McGrath checked his schedule. Nothing of any major importance was on the agenda for that afternoon. They arranged a time. Prior to leaving, he received an update from Wilkinson on reconstruction work in the underground. The infrastructure required to begin the rebuild proper on the tunnel roof was now in place, which meant the process should commence in the next couple of days, assuming there were no unforeseen delays.
“All being well,” Wilkinson concluded, “the line should reopen within the month.”
McGrath was heartened by the news. Having to tolerate the intrusive presence of the archaeologists had put a severe strain on his team, and hampered progress. The decision by the Home Office, and the Catholic Church granting permission for excavation to proceed in the grounds of St Anthony’s had come in the nick of time, he thought, as he negotiated the maze of musty corridors of the council municipal building to keep his luncheon appointment.
From what Kate had told him, the dig, which had started in earnest late the previous week, was an archaeologist’s dream. The finds kept coming, and the press got steadily hungrier for information, especially in light of the disturbing incidents that had coincided with the discovery of the old burial pit. Now that Carrington’s team was out of the tunnel, the pressure was off him to satisfy their curiosity, leaving Kate in the hot seat.
He caught the lift down to the ground floor, and left the building to collect his car from the staff car park. Traffic was light. He had little difficulty driving the three miles across town to Northwalk. The roads were wet and slick from an earlier rainfall. Before leaving he had checked the trunk of his car to ensure he had his Wellington boots, suspecting the site would be a quagmire.
He left the West End, heading through St John’s Wood and took a B road north. As he joined a duel carriageway the September sun poked through the grey clouds with the promise of better weather. He recalled a quaint little pub stood in the vicinity of the church, which would serve as an ideal venue for the luncheon date, unless Kate had a better idea.
Driving into the suburb of Northwalk, he slowed his speed to the regulation 30mph. Speed cameras were commonplace here. Across a field the conical steeple of St Anthony’s Church came into view, quickly followed by the church itself. McGrath thought the place looked austere, somehow lacking the necessary charm to transform it into a picture-postcard English country church.
He parked his car behind a burger van that had made its home outside the churchyard, the proprietor having seized on the chance of brisk trade while the archaeologists were in the area. The drone of machinery reached his ears from the other side of the high wrought iron gates.
Running early, he decided to take a few minutes to look around the site by himself. Despite the hint of sunshine it remained cold and drizzly. He changed out of his shoes into the Wellington boots, donned his poncho, and made his way into the hallowed church grounds, taking the gravel path, following the sounds of activity.
As he suspected, the site had been saturated by rain leaving it muddy and treacherous under foot. Maybe a dozen people worked down in the pit, dug out day’s earlier using manpower aided by mechanical diggers. Steel supports braced the sides of the huge hole, which was about twenty feet deep, and spanned some fifty feet across. A tower scaffold incorporating internal ladders provided suitable access and egress. Workers presently occupying the area used a range of tools to carry out their work including picks and shovels, trowels and brushes. They laboured industriously. “Danger, keep out” signs and security cameras were strategically positioned around the site, which was patrolled by security guards, reflecting the intensity of Public and Media interest in the dig. McGrath observed from a discreet distance, wondering what the dig would ultimately reveal about the people buried there.
After a few moments he set about exploring the rear of the church grounds, where he happened upon a secluded path that led to the back of the rectory. All of a sudden the sound of children’s voices reached his ears, appearing to come from beyond a clump of bushes off to his right.
He crept through the dense undergrowth, came to a rise, peered through a break in the bushes, and saw three boys. They seemed to be waiting for something to happen. To reach them he followed a narrow trail that cut through the undergrowth, which led to a clearing. From here he could still see the rectory, which stood three to four hundred yards to the west. He returned his attention to the matter at hand, making his way quietly through a tangle of brambles, which grew thickly in places. He was maybe twenty feet from the children when one of them, a fair-haired lad of about twelve, spotted him.
Billy Snipes, who had returned to the crypt hoping to discover who or what had screamed from within its thick stone walls on his previous visit, ran for it when he saw McGrath, taking his mates with him.
The ex-soldier saw little point in giving chase. Instead, he turned his attention to the spot where they’d been looking and noticed a small clearing. Curious, he scrambled down the bank to a spread of trees and bushes separated by a narrow opening. Insi
de the opening, standing at the bottom of a short flight of steps, was a grey stone door with a large cast iron ring for a handle. The door stood slightly ajar. McGrath forced his shoulder against the solid slab, which at first refused to give as if determined to protect a secret. He pushed harder, hearing it grind against the stone floor until finally it gave, albeit grudgingly. Before long his efforts produced a gap wide enough through which to squeeze. Light seeped in, illuminating more steps, leading down.
Inside it was dark though shapes were discernible. McGrath paused, allowing his eyes to focus. The ceiling was vaulted, reminding him of that belonging to a church, with supportive columns descending to a hard stone floor comprising of uneven flagstones. McGrath frowned uneasily, having realised a bed stood in one corner, a small figure occupying it. He walked over, accidentally brushing against the unseen crow bar leaning against the wall, which fell to the ground with a loud reverberating clatter. The sudden noise failed to disturb the figure, which, McGrath realised with immense relief, was merely an oversized teddy bear. Books and toys surrounded it.
He studied the teddy bear more closely. It was old and worn, with an ear missing. There was a rip in one shoulder that resembled a wound. It seemed incongruous in such a morbid setting. Why, McGrath wondered had such objects been hidden away in an abandoned church crypt. He checked beneath the bed and saw an untidy pile of magazines lying there. He dragged a few out into the open, and realised with horror that he was looking at paedophile literature.
“What on earth...”
With a mounting sense of unease, he placed them back where he had found them. It didn’t take a genius to deduce that the crypt served as a paedophile haunt, but who was the paedophile? He noticed a narrow opening in one wall that formed a passageway. A kerosene lamp and a box of Swan Vesta matches were nearby. The lamp, when lit, emitted a pale candescent glow that cast swooning shadows. On further investigation, McGrath discovered a heavy stone door at the end of what was indeed a passageway, possibly leading to some kind of inner sanctum, and began to wonder what exactly he had uncovered. He tried to dislodge it, but the door proved immovable.
Turning off the lamp, he left the crypt forcing the entry door closed to the same degree he had found it. Outside he glanced at his watch, acknowledging he would have to hurry if he were to keep his date with Kate. As he left the crypt a sound distracted him. When he looked, he thought he glimpsed a figure standing between the trees, and then it was gone.
Back at the site, he saw Kate emerge from one of the prefabricated huts; two men accompanying her, one weighted down with camera equipment, the other poised to jot something down into a notepad. He made his way over while around him individuals employed by the archaeological society continued to work with painstaking care in the search for further historical finds. There was no sign of Carrington. McGrath remembered Kate saying that he was involved in a documentary being made by the BBC about famous modern day archaeological discoveries, which took him away from the site periodically.
McGrath heard his name shouted harshly from behind and turned to see Abe Chrichton approaching. The anthropologist was dressed in muddy jeans and an old woollen jumper, and carried a pick. He was stern faced.
“Only authorised persons are allowed in this area,” he announced as if McGrath were a complete stranger.
“I’m here to see Kate,” McGrath returned.
“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to leave,” Chrichton told him firmly.
“But you know who I am, so what’s the problem?”
“Please do as I say and leave, Mr McGrath. You’re not welcome here.”
“Says who Mr Chrichton?”
“I’m asking you for the last time. Then I call security.”
McGrath debated what to do, unwilling to invite trouble, yet determined to stand his ground. In the end, the problem was settled by Kate’s intervention.
“It’s all right Abe,” she said, “Paul’s my guest.”
“But he doesn’t even want us here,” Chrichton retorted. “He would have us stop work if it was up to him.”
“Please Abe, Mr McGrath is here at my invitation. I will take full responsibility if there’s a problem.”
Chrichton frowned, appearing to consider his position. Finally he relented, “Just make sure he signs the visitor register,” he said, staring coldly at McGrath. Kate nodded that she would, and he grudgingly withdrew.
“Sorry about that,” Kate said when he was out of earshot. “Abe’s a little bit...”
“Jealous,” McGrath suggested.
“I was going to say overzealous,” said Kate, “but I guess you could be right.”
“No guessing about it,” McGrath said. “He’s positively green with envy. Watch him Kate. He strikes me as being the spiteful type.”
“Don’t worry Paul; I can take care of Abe.”
“Let’s hope.”
With the anthropologist out of the picture, Kate gave McGrath the promised guided tour of the excavation site. Twenty minutes later they were in the lounge bar of The Travellers Rest. While Kate ordered, McGrath excused himself to make a private phone call.
Outside in the car park, he called the local police to inform them of what he had discovered inside the crypt at St Anthony’s, leaving his own personal details with the duty officer, who promised someone would be enlisted to investigate. The officer sounded less than enthusiastic.
“Please call me when you have something to report,” McGrath said.
“Will do, sir,” the man replied and hung up.
Back in the lounge bar, over the meal, Kate surprised McGrath by announcing that she and Chrichton would be leaving for the West Country the following day.
“Rather you than me,” McGrath said meaning it.
“Abe might be lacking in the personality stakes,” Kate observed, “but he’s one of the best anthropologists around. I hope to learn a lot from him.”
“I’m sure you will,” McGrath agreed, not wanting to dampen her spirits. Nevertheless the idea of her being alone with a man like Chrichton sat uneasily with him.
“It could be the opportunity of a life time,” she said with genuine enthusiasm. “If Abe says he is on to something, he has to be taken seriously. The manuscript he has come across might hold the key to the mystery of the burial pit. That is, if we can decipher it correctly.”
McGrath frowned in ignorance.
“It appears it is written in an obscure ancient language,” Kate explained. “A form of hieroglyphics consisting of symbolism and esoteric metaphor that Chrichton’s contact thinks was used by the ancient Celts, which if true would be quite amazing. The Celts were around during the Iron Age, which is an eternity before the burial pit at St Anthony’s came to exist. However, there are definite similarities to it, and rare examples of written documentation credited to Celtic society.”
“Mind telling me exactly who the Celts were?” McGrath asked with genuine interest.
“Now there’s a question,” Kate said, placing down her knife and fork and settling back in her seat. “Most people mistakenly believe they were harmless naturalists who worshipped the land, danced around maypoles, and built shrines to celebrate the summer solstice, but that’s not altogether correct. The Celts were in fact, a violent race that believed in human sacrifice. They used to enjoy decapitating enemies, and preserving the heads as sacred objects. They also sacrificed children and babies to their gods.”
“Nice,” McGrath said.
Kate acknowledged McGrath’s comment with a wry smile, and then continued. “A site at Avebury, similar to Stonehenge, but larger, witnessed burials of woman and children we believe was supposed to give sanctity to the enclosure. A female dwarf was buried at Avebury’s southern entrance, and dozens of human jaw’s were found nearby, which we are pretty sure were offered up as sacrifices. The bones of children were also found on a Celtic site in North Wales. Weaponry was buried in these graves, similar to what has been found in the grave at St Anthony’s, although the dagg
er/crucifixes are a very definite first—or second if you include their previous appearance in France. The Celts, along with their priests, the Druids, worshipped various gods and deities, and believed the soul did not die when the body died, but had the ability to enter a new body.”
“Which means,” McGrath said, trying to comprehend the concept, “that one body might be possessed by two souls.”
“Correct,” Kate said, “although one would come to dominate the other.”
“It’s a creepy notion.”
“No more so than the idea of reincarnation, coming back in another form in a different life, or Christianity, which states that depending on how good or bad you have been in this life, will determine whether you ascend to Heaven or burn in Hell for eternity.”
McGrath thought about all that had happened since the mass grave was discovered. There was little doubt the pit exerted a strange and unexplainable influence. He recalled Bill Wilkinson expressing fears that the atmosphere in the damaged section of underground was affecting the work force. Wilkinson had appeared deeply troubled that day, like a man afraid of what the future might hold. As for the official from the coroner’s office, the little throwaway remark he’d made had been nothing of the sort. McGrath now saw it for what it was—an invitation for him to admit to having suffered a preternatural experience as he’d stood beneath the aperture. The man had acted as if he were privy to a secret, which he was happy to let McGrath glimpse, whilst determined to leave him mystified, unable to work the puzzle out for himself. Was it because he hadn’t been chosen: was that it? The incident had bothered McGrath to the extent he had contacted the coroner’s office in the hope of discussing it further with the man. Unfortunately, the man was absent from work, leaving McGrath unable to speak to him. The question formed in McGrath’s mind as to whether he was yet another victim of the burial pit.
He looked at Kate, and saw she was smiling at him.