The Drowners

by Jennie Finch

  Tom turned away to hide a smile, setting a steady pace across the Levels.

  It was almost full dark by the time they reached the first of the bridges and Tom was grateful for the pale silver of the moonlight. To an uneducated eye the land looked no different from the slightly boggy ground they had been covering, but even at night Tom could tell they were approaching the centre of the marshes. The air was cooler and there was a sense of dankness as the excess moisture filled the air. It was quiet too, a deeper, heavier quiet that came from a lack of wildlife, for few animals lived in the deep marsh. The land turned to liquid mud at the lightest rainfall and even amphibians struggled to survive the treacherous conditions.

  Impatient at the delay, Max elbowed Tom aside and made to step out onto what looked like a path. Grabbing his shoulder, Tom pulled him back on solid ground and held up a hand as Max turned to remonstrate.

  ‘Watch,’ Tom said and broke a piece off a nearby, pathetic apology for a bush. He leaned forwards, making sure his feet were firmly on solid ground and pushed the branch into the path ahead. It slid below the surface smoothly and Tom let go when it was almost half submerged. Max watched as the rest of the stick continued to slip forwards until only an inch or so was visible. Then, with the tiniest of popping sounds it vanished.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said the man from Bristol stepping back and looking around anxiously.

  Tom laid a reassuring hand on his arm. ‘Is quite safe if you knows what you’m doing,’ he said softly. ‘And think, who’s goin’ to follow you into that? Is the perfect safe place for carting and hiding.’

  Max swallowed hard as he continued to stare at the place where the branch had disappeared.

  ‘So … so how far down is it then?’ he said.

  ‘Oh, well now, no-one knows, rightly,’ said Tom, who was beginning to enjoy himself. ‘Leastways, no-one ain’t ever come back to tell us.’

  Max was holding himself very still, as if a step, any step, might lead him into the nightmare of mud around him.

  ‘So how’s that any use,’ he said angrily. ‘Middle of the Levels is impossible to pass – well, I knows that. Everyone knows that.’

  Tom knelt by the side of the path and felt around in the stubby reeds. For one panicky moment he thought it was gone, that Milosh had decided to abandon him after all. Then he found it and could barely keep the relief out of his voice as he stood and faced the reluctant young man.

  ‘Not for those as have access to the secret paths it ’ent,’ he said and pulled on the rope.

  For a moment nothing happened, then Tom felt something give and the rope moved up and back in response to his efforts. There was a ripple in the mud before them, then a gurgling noise as thick bubbles of dark mud rose to the surface, leaving dips in the liquid when they burst. Before Max’s eyes, a slatted pathway made of timber pushed its way out of the marsh, rising above the surface before Tom lowered it carefully on to the top of the mud. Carefully tying the rope off on to a peg set at a sharp angle to the bridge and hidden in the undergrowth, Tom stepped forwards and set foot on the track. Max took another step back, watching with wide eyes to see if Tom was going to go the way of the branch but the slender pathway held, dipping a little but still supporting his weight.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Max again.

  It took a few minutes to coax him on to the pathway, and then only by trotting along it to the end and back again.

  ‘You sure will take us both?’ Max asked, his eyes darting from side to side as he lowered his weight out on the fragile-looking track.

  ‘Long as we keep a couple of feet b’tween us will be fine,’ Tom reassured him.

  Foot by foot, they stepped across the great marsh, the pathway bending and swaying occasionally but never dipping more then an inch or so below the surface. The bridge led them to a low mound, tufts of thick grass crowning the top and a halo of reeds around the base. There was just room for the two of them standing shoulder to shoulder on this tiny piece of firm ground. Max cast around for a peg or rope but Tom changed direction and stepped confidently out on the mud to the left. Again Max waited to see if he was going to sink but Tom laughed softly and held out his hand.

  ‘Only the entrances is sunk,’ he said. ‘Others is well-hidden see, and ’ent no-one can reach ’um without knowing where the first bridge is so ’ent no need to be pullin’ ’um up and down all the time. Come on – them’s fixed right good – look.’

  He pointed to the reeds next to Max’s left foot where the cross braces were hidden. With some reluctance, Max stepped out onto the trackway. His foot sank a couple of inches into the ooze but just as he was about to jerk himself free he felt a solid path beneath him once more. Leaning forwards and shifting his weight, he stepped gingerly along the path, following in Tom’s footsteps whilst keeping a few feet between them. Moving from one inconspicuous mound to another the two men crossed the wasteland of the great marsh, looking from a distance as if they could walk on the water.

  Casting a surreptitious glance at his watch, Tom was pleased to see they were keeping to his schedule. He slowed his pace a little, using his experience to time his arrival at the final set of bridges. As they approached the area leading to the closed peat works Max froze behind him. On the breeze came a series of sounds, the same eerie flute music mingled with a strange, rhythmic moaning. Even Tom, who had experienced the music before, felt the hairs on his neck rise and his breathing shortened to a gasp.

  ‘What’s that?’ demanded Max. ‘Hey, you – who’s there?’

  ‘Shut up you girt fool!’ Tom snapped. ‘You want to just tell the whole world we’s here then?’

  Max was staring out into the surrounding wasteland and for an instant Tom was reminded of something his grandmother had said. ‘Eyes like chapel hat-pegs, mouth flopping open catching flies’, she had snapped at him on more than one occasion. That was exactly what Max looked like, standing up to his ankles in mud in the cool, blue moonlight. Mind you, Tom wasn’t sure he looked any better himself. The secret of any plan was to anticipate the unexpected, but no-one could plan for the supernatural.

  Bugger the supernatural, he thought angrily. The only ghosties on the Levels were the Drowners and they were just a story, a staged accident set up by his men. Other folk might believe all that crap but he had spent his childhood watching his elders manipulate the Gadjo, playing on their superstitions and fears, sometimes for profit but often for survival. Appearance, he’d learned, the impression of confidence or innocence, was as important as the reality. That and saving face – and he was certainly not going to show any fear in front of this arrogant, vulgar lad from the city. Ignoring the squirm of apprehension inside, he grinned at Max and pulled on another hidden rope, making sure to secure it properly before he stepped across on to the next section of the track. Feigning a confidence he did not fully possess, he headed towards the moaning sounds. Max hesitated, eyes searching around for a way off this nightmare of a path and Tom was certain that if he knew a safe way back he’d be off like a frightened rabbit. The walk was having the desired effect – Max was truly, deeply scared, frightened out of his wits in this hostile and lethal environment. Not long, Tom thought. Soon he’ll be keeping to the roads, off my patch and the coppers’ll have him.

  He almost trod on Simon as he reached the last point on the track. The boy was lying on his side, curled up into a tight ball with his hands over his ears and his eyes closed. He was shivering on the cold, damp ground and he gave an involuntary moan as Tom tripped and kicked him whilst trying to stay upright. Recovering his balance he turned back towards Max, trying to shield Simon from the Bristol man, who was now edging across the bridge. Pretending to check his boot laces, Tom risked a quick warning.

  ‘Shut up now, don’t make no sound, you hear? Don’t mean you no harm so you just lie quiet.’ He risked a glance in the direction of Max, who was still hovering, and added, ‘Wait till we’s gone and then scarper. And don’t be coming this way again, neither.’

  He
had no idea whether Simon had understood but at least the moaning stopped. Tom stood up and stepped forwards, waving Max across, straight up the bank and off to his left. Max was decidedly wobbly when he reached firm ground and scrambled along the bank with alacrity.

  ‘Where’s we now then,’ he demanded, peering around and squinting into the darkness. The moon was up but it cast a pale, blue-tinted light, giving the landscape a strange glow as if it were shimmering, a mirage that might vanish in an instant. It was almost impossible to distinguish safe ground from deadly marsh, for the undergrowth and occasional trees threw shadows across the landscape, blurring the outlines of the canals and hiding tell-tale reeds and mosses. At night the Levels became a monochrome world, cast from a horror film and twice as frightening. Tom hurriedly dropped the bridge out of sight into the marsh and straightened up, resisting the temptation to glance down at Simon, who was still rolled up, trembling on the wet earth.

  ‘Now we got an easy bit,’ said Tom, stepping ahead and striding towards a narrow footpath that snaked away out of sight behind a stand of trees. Simon waited, his breath coming in short gasps as he struggled to keep absolutely silent. He didn’t know who the man was who had spoken to him but he had a good idea who Max was and he had no desire become more closely acquainted. Simon might not understand a lot about the world outside his own head but he had experienced more than a fair share of malice in his life and he could almost feel the anger and malevolence oozing from the Bristol man. The last time someone had scared him that much had been his close encounter with Derek Johns, a meeting that left him kicked unconscious and left by the side of the main road outside Highpoint.

  He waited until the footsteps faded away and then longer still, counting to one hundred in his head before finally risking a glimpse over the reeds that kept him hidden. Slowly and painfully he began to unfold his stiff limbs, biting his bottom lip as pins and needles ran through his feet and one leg threatened to spasm with cramp. Taking his weight on one arm, he levered himself up onto his knees, all the time watching the area in front of him. Suddenly a shadow flitted between two trees and Simon froze in place before slowly, silently lowering himself back behind the safety of the covering reeds. Peering through the plants he watched as a figure emerged from the edge of the wood and took a step towards the footpath before stopping and then turning in his direction. After a long, long moment the figure looked down the footpath once more and began to follow the two men. Simon realized he had been holding his breath and let it out in a ragged gasp. He was shaking, really shaking not just shivering from the cold. Scrambling to his feet he scuttled over to the path, checked the coast was clear and set off as fast as his stiff legs would go. He didn’t know how it had happened, he didn’t care to ask any questions – in a brief flash of bright moonlight Simon had seen enough of the figure’s ragged face to recognize Derek Johns.

  Alex bumped her way across the Levels, cursing every rut in the road, every hidden ditch and blind corner as she marvelled at how such a flat landscape could be so impenetrable once you were actually on it. In the short time between nightfall and the rising of the moon she was forced to slow to a crawl as the twisting road seemed to throw unexpected obstacles in her path, the numerous canals and rhynes threatening disaster to the unwary motorist at every junction. Finally, the moon rose above the surrounding land and she was able to navigate her way towards Lower Godney, home of Simon – or at least of his remaining family. Several times she was forced to pull over, a manoeuvre that consisted mainly of running the car a foot or so to the left, up against the hedge and putting on the handbrake, so narrow was the road she was following. In the dimness of the interior light she peered hopefully at the map of the Levels thoughtfully provided by the office staff back at Highpoint. Referred to as the ‘Edgar’ by everyone who had tried to actually navigate by it, it was indeed composed of ‘mystery and imagination’ and bore less resemblance to the surrounding reality than any map she had ever used. Finally, she threw it back in the glove compartment with a snarl, put the car into gear and lurched off in what she thought might possibly be the right direction.

  After some fairly futile zigging and zagging through a series of apparently endless and identical country lanes, she emerged at a junction with the main road. At least she thought it was probably the main road. It had a white line down the middle rather than a strip of grass and that, she thought, could only be a good thing. After peering out of the side windows at the moon whilst trying to remember which direction it rose and therefore which direction Lower Godney might lie relative to that, Alex resorted to the time-honoured method of guessing. Turning right out of the junction she headed off between the flat, watery plains of the Levels and hoped some lights might appear soon to give her a village or hamlet by which to navigate. Now she was off the rough, barely metalled road she was more aware of her car and she realized with some alarm it seemed to be making a strange grinding sound. Alex’s car was something of a joke amongst friends and clients. An aging Citroën DS with the hallmark hydraulic suspension, which made the car look like a hen settling on her eggs when being parked, and numerous dents now adorning the bodywork, it was instantly recognizable over an area of some fifty square miles. Alex hoped every month she might be able to replace it with something a bit more modern, or practical, or just a bit more reliable, but by the end of the month she was merely grateful it was still running. Despite being in her second year as a ‘salaried professional’, money was incredibly tight and a new car was still the stuff of dreams. The mortgage rate on her treasured little house had risen by about five times the rate at which her salary was increasing. Now, as she eased the car round a long, slow bend and the grinding got louder, she suspected her dreams were about to be reduced to something like a new exhaust.

  There was a lay-by up ahead on the right by some trees and she decided it would be sensible to pull over and have a look. If the exhaust was loose, she thought, she could always tie it up with something until she got home. As she indicated and began to turn in, she realized the lay-by was occupied – a shiny silver car with three occupants was parked at the far end. For a moment she hesitated but then common sense overcame the moment of concern. This was rural Somerset, a long way from her previous patch in the slums of South London. Life was very different here and people were more likely to help each other out than prey on a stranger. She pulled up about ten feet behind the silver car and turned off the engine, relieved to have got it this far in one piece. The Citroën seemed to sigh to itself and the car body sank slowly and gracefully down as the suspension relaxed, a sight that never failed to fascinate her clients, who had often gathered in the car park to watch her leave of an evening. Alex grinned at the memory and opened the door, stepping out into the night. Despite the moonlight it was very, very dark and as her eyes tried to adjust she wondered if she still had a torch in the boot. A quick rummage around in the debris revealed that although she had a torch, it didn’t have batteries. She threw it back into the car and slammed the lid, cursing her own idiocy. Checking the underside of the deflated vehicle was difficult enough without trying to do it in pitch darkness, she thought.

  The sound of the boot attracted the attention of the silver car’s occupants and the interior light came on as the driver opened the door and stepped out on to the damp grass verge, followed a moment later by the front seat passenger. A pale face pressed against the slightly steamed-up back window and Alex felt a faint qualm, wondering if she had interrupted something private – and possibly unsavoury. She stood to face the newcomers and realized as they walked up to her that at least one of them was only too familiar.

  ‘Well now, looks like you is in a bit of bother,’ said the driver, but Alex ignored him, staring instead at the figure hovering just behind his right shoulder. The silence stretched out between them until the driver realized something was wrong and glanced over at his companion.

  ‘What?’ he demanded.

  The passenger shoved his hands into his pockets, hunch
ed his shoulders and glared down at the ground.

  ‘Nothing,’ he muttered.

  The driver was not to be deterred.

  ‘What?’ he repeated, this time in Alex’s direction.

  It would have been wise, perhaps, to follow the lead offered her. It was possible these lads might have been persuaded she was no more than a woman in a broken-down car, who needed a bit of a hand. It was even possible they might have helped her on her way – but before this sage advice could filter through her tired brain Alex opened her mouth and heard herself say, ‘Nick – Nick Stevens. What are you doing out here? Your curfew doesn’t end until the last day of July.’

  A look of confusion washed over the driver’s face as he turned from one to another.

  ‘What?’ he said again, rather plaintively this time.

  ‘Oh, shut up Jason,’ said Nick.

  The damage done, Alex decided to go for a frontal assault in the hope she could scare Jason away – ideally taking Nick with him.

  ‘Didn’t he tell you?’ she asked, her voice sounding convincingly casual. ‘He’s not long out of Pucklechurch and he’s supposed to be living at the Probation Hostel up in Highpoint. Only he’s obviously not because all residents have to be in by nine, don’t they Nick.’

  ‘How would you know that then?’ asked Jason. ‘How would she know?’ he repeated as he turned to look at his companion.

  ‘’Cos she’s my bloody probation officer, is why,’ said Nick. He removed his hands from his pockets and was leaning forwards towards Alex. There was no doubting the menace in his voice and now she recognized the jerky movements and rapid breathing she’d first seen in Brian, back in the Highpoint day centre. Alex realized she had miscalculated badly.

  ‘I hate bloody probation officers,’ said Jason conversationally. ‘Bunch of interfering do-gooders as don’t know nothin’ about what ’tis like tryin’ to make a living in the real world. Reckon they’s as bad a coppers.’