Time of the Demon

by Ian Taylor

  TIME OF THE DEMON

  or

  Incident at the Half Moon Inn

  by

  Ian Taylor and Rosi Taylor

  A Story Based on Actual Events

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Dear Reader

  You Might Also Like

  Copyright (C) 2019

  Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

  Published 2019 by Gumshoe – A Next Chapter Imprint

  Edited by Tyler Colins

  Cover art by Cover Mint

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors imaginations or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the authors’ permissions.

  1

  It was 5.30 p.m. on a weekday evening in early November. The weather was dry with a low cloud ceiling of sombre and oppressive cumulus. The rush hour traffic was heavy on the main road that lay between two major English cities. Although it was not yet completely dark, the road was a ribbon of headlights.

  A double-decker bus pulled in at a bus stop on the main road. Two twenty-something barmaids, Jessica Bryce and Georgina Lovell (not their real names), got off the bus and headed towards the nearby Half Moon Inn, that stood back from the road behind a fenced-off forecourt of low-maintenance shrubs.

  The inn and its original ranges of stables and outbuildings had undergone a series of transformations during its two-hundred-year history. For the first half of its life it had been a wayside hostelry, which had closed with the advent of motor transport. Its buildings had become a seed corn and potato merchant's premises, and then a stud. The whole complex had lain derelict during the war years, then been bulldozed away in the 1950s to make room for a purpose-built pub, which bore the same name as the original hostelry. The current building was leased from a local landowner by a national pub chain.

  On this particular evening the place lay in darkness, as the inn did not officially open till 6:00 p.m. Jess and Gina walked around to what was now the main entrance off the customers' car park at the rear of the building. They had to use their torches, as there were no lights in the vicinity, the car park backing on to open pastureland that was divided into small fields by eighteenth-century enclosure hedges.

  "No Graham–again," Jess commented peevishly, stepping around the puddles from the afternoon's rain showers.

  "He gets paid for doing nothing," Gina added sourly. "Some people just chance their luck and get away with it! We're not paid to be acting managers."

  "It's not fair," Jess agreed. "It shouldn't be our responsibility to open up."

  "Complain," Gina suggested. "You've been here longer than me, so it should come from you."

  "I might."

  "You won't. You never do."

  "I might. It's just that Graham knows the area boss really well. I could end up losing my job. I'd need a reference from him if I left and he knows it."

  It was almost dark at the back of the inn. In what little daylight remained the girls could see that the car park was empty of vehicles. Beyond the boundary fence nothing could be discerned of the open countryside. As Jess fumbled in her handbag for the keys to the main door, Gina became aware of a bright white light that suddenly appeared beneath the low cloud above the fields behind the car park. She nudged her companion's arm.

  "What's that?"

  The girls watched the light for a few seconds. It seemed to be moving slowly and it made no sound.

  "It's just a plane," Jess said. Then, less certainly, "isn't it?"

  Gina was puzzled. "I can't hear engines. It can't be a plane!"

  "Maybe it's one of those gliders from the club on the airfield."

  Gina was doubtful. "Who'd be out gliding in the dark? And it's getting lower."

  "It's not going to clear those trees!" Jess stared in sudden horror at the approaching light.

  "Oh my God," Gina shrieked. "Did you see that? It went straight through them–straight through those trees!"

  The light seemed to pass through a stand of mature pines and then land in the field beyond the car park. But it didn’t go out. It remained constant, at groundlevel, very bright and silent.

  There was no explosion. No flames. No cries for help.

  "It's crashed!" Gina shrieked.

  "Better see if we can do something," Jess proposed anxiously.

  The girls ran across the car park and climbed the perimeter post-and-rail fence, observing that the light remained constant in the field. On the other side of the fence, they found themselves struggling to make headway against an impenetrable tangle of thorn bushes and briars.

  "Ouch! I can't get through," Gina cried out.

  The twosome were forced to give up their attempt to reach the field from the car park.

  "Let's phone emergency from the office," Jess suggested.

  They retreated to the fence, then hurried across the car park towards the inn. Their entire experience, they estimated later, had taken only five or six minutes. As they entered the inn they looked back, noting that the light remained very bright, stationary, and strangely silent.

  When questioned the next day by a reporter from the Evening Courier, Jess mentioned she’d thought she’d seen something else as she’d looked back from the doorway: the vague impression of a tall figure covered in feathers like some kind of birdman, standing by the fence at the edge of the car park. But then Gina had switched on the outside lights and by the time Jess's eyes had adjusted to the sudden glare, the figure—if it had indeed been there—had vanished.

  The bar stood in semi-darkness, illuminated by passing traffic on the main road. Jess and Gina flicked on ground-floor lights from the main switchboard. Then, they rushed into the office and Gina grabbed the telephone. By now, both were beginning to panic.

  "Shall I dial 999?" Gina asked.

  "What else? And be quick!"

  Gina hesitated. "Never done this before." She thrust the receiver at Jess. "Here–you do it."

  Jess took the phone. "Go out and watch."

  Gina ran out as Jess nervously dialled the emergency number.

  Standing on the bottom rail of the car park fence, Gina watched the light in the field, shielding her eyes from its brightness. A couple minutes later, Jess was at her side.

  "I've rung them," Jess said breathlessly. "I said it was a plane crash and we needed everyone."

  "But is it a plane?" Gina asked, confused. "I've been watching, and it's stayed very quiet. No sign of flames. No one's tried to get out and run away. Nothing's happened. There's just the light."

  Jess climbed onto the fence next to Gina. They stared at the intense light, protecting their eyes.

  "It's very weird." Jess' voice was tinged with awe. "It's not doing anything."

  "It's just a light." Gina sounded scared. "There's no shape to it. No bodywork. No wings or anything."

  "Hello?" Jess called anxiously. "Is anyone there?"

  Silence.

  "Is anyone hurt?" Gina shouted uncertainly. "Do you need help?"

  Silence.

&nb
sp; The girls looked at each other with escalating confusion and fear. Their mounting anxiety was interrupted by the sound of rapidly approaching sirens from the main road.

  I don't believe it–they're here already," Jess exclaimed. "I'd only just rung them!"

  Three vehicles appeared, blue lights flashing. All were police cars; there was no sign of fire engines or ambulances. They swooped past the car park, heading down the rough track that led to the field beyond the fence.

  "We'd better tell them what we saw," Jess said decisively.

  Gina looked doubtful. "You do the talking. I don't like officials."

  "We should go back into the bar. We are supposed to be at work," Jess reasoned. "They'll find us if they want us."

  A helicopter appeared and hovered above the flashing police cars, the power of its searchlight muting the white glow of the light in the field.

  Although a number of personnel were in attendance at the scene, none of them had yet entered the field. The officers seemed content merely toobserve from the comfort of their vehicles. This would, incidentally, prove an important point researchers recalled later.

  Janet (Jan) Barnes, a thirty-year-old reporter from the Evening Courier, drove into the car park in a 4x4 BMW. She pulled up, opened her window and peered out, then made a call on her mobile.

  "Hi Russell. I'm out at the Half Moon Inn and it looks like some kind of incident. ...No, I don't know yet. Blue lights flashing and there's a chopper with its searchlight on. I can't see any other press, so I must be the first here. Could be our lucky night–a scoop for the Courier!"

  She rang off and got out of her car. As she walked on to the rough track, she noted a dark-coloured Mercedes pull into the car park behind her. Two men dressed in well-cut suits got out and entered the inn. Her reporter's instinct told her they weren’t paying customers, more like officials of some kind. Her brain all at once began yelling, “Story, story, story!”

  Should she approach the officers in the cars, or find out what the suits were up to? She decided on the latter.

  Halfway back across the car park, she was intercepted by a uniformed officer. Where the hell had he sprung from? The man was very tall and lean, and had a clipped affected voice that could have come from a broadcast of British Pathé News. Weren't such affectations obsolete now, she wondered later.

  "Superintendent Hemingway," he announced. "I'm the officer in charge here. Can I help you?"

  She knew everyone on the local force and they didn't have a Hemingway, which struck her as odd. She showed him her press ID. "Jan Barnes, Evening Courier. I'm enquiring about the incident in the field back there." She watched the man's body language closely. Sometimes, even among professionals, it gave away more than their words. But, annoyingly, Hemingway's didn't.

  "I'm afraid I can't comment," the officer clipped. "I must ask you to leave immediately while we make sure the area is secure. Your personal safety could be at risk."

  "Is it a crime scene?" she asked, undaunted. "A terrorist incident?"

  "I'm afraid I can't go into details."

  "Well, something's happened–or you wouldn't be here!"

  She sensed the superintendent's manner soften. Ah, she thought, he's going to give me the official line.

  "All I can tell you is that two young people thought they saw an aircraft crash in the field back there," Hemingway began. "However, it seems they were mistaken. They're not trained observers, after all."

  "So what did they see?" she persisted.

  Hemingway stiffened. "I must consult with my colleagues before I can give you the definitive answer to that. But, as of this moment, we’ve found nothing."

  "So these witnesses didn't see anything?" she continued. "But my personal safety might still be at risk? I'd call that a contradiction, wouldn't you?" She had him–and Hemingway knew it.

  He cleared his throat, gaining time to collect himself. "It appears the witnesses may, errr ... may have overreacted to what were most likely the reflections of aeroplane lights on a low cloud ceiling. That's our thinking at the moment. But when there's a chance that life could be in danger, every emergency call has to be taken with the utmost seriousness."

  Blah, blah, blah, she thought. "It's just a false alarm then?" She watched the superintendent closely.

  "It seems so, yes," Hemingway replied. Then, with the hint of a reassuring smile, added, "But it was a call of good intent."

  "So if nothing's happened, what's with the light back there?" she asked. "I can see a light in the field. You don't have to be a trained observer to see that!"

  He suppressed his rising anger. He's lying, she thought. What was he trying to hide?

  "It's the helicopter's searchlight reflecting off the ground surface," the superintendent stated. "I assure you, it's nothing more. Please leave now–and have a safe and pleasant evening, Ms Barnes."

  He walked away. She was about to chase after him when she spotted a handsome dark-haired stranger in his mid-thirties talking with another officer near the car park entrance. Slow to shift her curious gaze, they made eye contact. She was taken aback by the intensity of his stare.

  "My, you've got a look," she said to herself and

  hurried to the inn entrance, where she found a large uniformed officer blocking her way. She flashed her press ID and attempted to breeze past. "Jan Barnes, Evening Courier. I'd just like a quick word with the staff."

  The officer, stolid and unyielding, continued to block the entrance. "No one's allowed in. No questions. No cameras. Just leave."

  She stood her ground. "It must be a serious incident then." She looked him straight in the eye. "Has anyone been injured?"

  He returned her penetrating gaze without blinking. The irrational notion came to her that he could be a robot.

  "I'm not able to comment," the robot replied. "Please leave."

  She noticed that the officer's uniform bore no identifying insignia, no rank or number. Come to think of it, she realised with a shock, neither had Hemingway's. Her suspicions deepened. "Which force are you with?" she asked. "Are you from outside the county?"

  "I'm sorry," the officer replied, staring impassively, "I'm not able to answer any of your questions."

  Thwarted, she went back to her 4x4 and drove away. She noted, with an unexpected twinge of disappointment, that the dark-haired stranger had gone.

  But there was a story behind the rebuttals, no doubt of it–and it was damn well going to be hers!

  She pulled into a lay-by on a quiet country lane, got out and scanned the crash site with her night glasses. She was on slightly higher ground and could clearly see the helicopter hovering above the field, its searchlight illuminating the area. But the bright white light she’d noticed earlier had disappeared.

  The blue lights of the police vehicles still flashed, but there were no officers anywhere in the field.

  Had they found something? If so, it must have been small enough to fit into the back of a car. Was it debris from some secret weapon? She suddenly felt very cold when she realised how little she knew of her country's covert military activities.

  As she turned to get back in her car, she had the fleeting impression of huge feathery wings passing overhead. An owl? No, owls weren't that big. A heron? But herons weren't nocturnal, were they? She dismissed the mystery, got in the car and rang the local air-traffic control.

  "It's Jan Barnes at the Evening Courier. I just wondered if you'd had anything unusual on your screens tonight? ... Nothing on SSR? No missing aircraft or anything weird? ...Nothing? ...Is that official? ...Okay. Many thanks."

  Annoyed and mystified, she rang off and drove away.

  She went straight back to her flat in the city, to the west of the Half Moon Inn, and flopped onto the sofa, skimming TV news channels. Fragments of news stories filled her room: the proxy war rumbled on in Yemen, the Taliban claimed responsibility for a car bomb attack on a Kabul police station, the bodies of more African refugees had been washed up in the Med....

  What a
mess we've made of the planet, she thought for the thousandth time. But there was no mention of a plane crash in the north of England.

  She glared at the screen in vexation, leaped up and paced the room, talking on her mobile to a contact at the local hospital.

  "And no one's been brought in? No accident victims at all? ...We’re talking about the same thing here, out at the Half Moon Inn? ...Okay. Sorry to bother you. Thanks."

  Was it a military drone that had come down in the field? It seemed the most likely answer. If it was, what might it have been carrying to produce such a light?

  She went to her desk, switched on her laptop and made a Skype call. The weary face of her editor, fifty-five-year-old Russell Furlong, appeared on the screen. She knew he was working at home; she could see study bookshelves behind him. Poor old Russell, she thought. The paper's owners never let him rest.

  "Hi Russell. What's with the plane crash?" she asked, hoping he had an answer.

  Russell pulled a face. "No idea. You tell me."

  "I got a tip-off from a fire guy I know. One of my best contacts. It sounded bona fide. I spoke to a Superintendent Hemingway at the scene. He made out it was a false alarm. Do you know this guy?"

  Russell shook his head. "Nope, sorry. Never heard of a Hemingway."

  "I thought he was very high rank for a non-event." She didn't mention the absence of insignia.

  Russell nodded. "I agree with you."

  "And there were only police cars there. No fire service or paramedics. But, oddly, they had a chopper with a huge searchlight. Why scramble that if they thought it was a non-event?"

  "Nothing on national or local news?" Russell asked with a furrowed brow.