by Andy Jarvis
“So who is he, and how does he know about it?” I said.
“Well let me just say that his theory, and his understanding of the characteristics of the mist, ties in very nicely with your description.”
“So why don’t you follow him up?” asked Baz.
“Well, first of all I could do with trying to establish if there is a natural explanation for the phenomena, before I go down that path.”
“What path would that be, then?” I said.
“The supernatural,” Arden whispered out a long line of cigarette smoke that hung in the air ghost-like, almost like he was trying to emphasise the word supernatural.
Baz let out a long, low silent whistle. “Suddenly our job gets interesting again. When do we get to meet this guy?”
“Hang on a minute,” I protested. “Surely you’re not going to go along with this bullshit, and a total stranger as well?”
“I’m not going along with anything just yet,” said Arden, “even though I’ve told you my stance on the paranormal. At the moment I’m open to any suggestions. But first I need to do more research. I would, of course, eliminate all natural possibility before considering the alternative. But I need as much information from both of you as I can get.”
“Maybe you should go and ask Reverend John,” I said. “He must know more about the church and its history.”
“He doesn’t want to know. He was very stand-offish I thought, even though he allowed us to conduct our research and soil tests. When it came to any questions about the mist or history of the church he didn’t want to know. Very peculiar.”
Baz was getting edgy, and began tapping his foot rapidly.
“There was something else we asked him about,” Arden continued. “Something Silas mentioned.”
“What?” I said.
“The Parish Council Records,” said Arden, elegantly exhaling another ghostly cloud.
Baz let out a squeak and thumped my ankle with his wayward foot. Then he held his breath as if he were trying to stop himself saying something.
“Are you alright?” said Harvey.
“Pfff..hine!” Baz gasped, letting out a whoosh of air.
“You see,” Arden began, then suddenly stopped. “Are you sure you’re okay? It’s not the smoke is it? I do apologise, I am rather thoughtless.”
“Yeah, yeah that’s it.” Baz coughed unconvincingly. “I guess I am a bit gagged with it.”
“I am sorry,” Arden said, stubbing out and emptying the ashtray onto the fire. “You see, I’m not really bothered about whether a few magazines get sold. That’s Harvey’s pigeon. I have genuine scientific interest in the source of this mist. I have a strong suspicion that it has a lot to do with the preservation of the corpse. I suggested to the Reverend that the Records may cast some light on the subject, but he was very adamant that the Records remain shut. It’s his right of course, but I think he’s acting strangely candid about the whole thing.”
“He’s acting strange alright,” said Baz. “The other day, when we were asking him about the stained glass – you know, the one with no Adam – he got really uptight and almost starting shouting. Then when I mentioned Isabel…”
“Isabel? Who is Isabel?” asked Arden.
“Me and Ed think she’s the lady that’s supposed to walk the church at night.”
“But where did you get that notion from?”
Baz stopped dead. Deader than if he’d sunk knee deep in cow shit. He looked suddenly panicked. Then came the brainstorm – one that took him, or rather us, right in it up to the neck. “Reverend John told us…yeah that’s right, she was called Isabel he told us.” He smiled and winked at me like he’d just answered a question on University Challenge.
“He told you all that?” said Arden. “That’s very strange; he pretty well blanked me when I asked anything about past history.”
“Yeah…well he told us…but then he got all upset and told us Silas was an idiot for telling us about Isabel.” Baz smiled even broader, like he’d just found a shovel and length of rope tied to a tree in the middle of the shit pool. “Then he told us he’d seen hell.”
Harvey, who had stopped writing for at least a couple of minutes, drummed his fingers lightly on the table and eyed Baz with a half smile, half frown, almost like he’d read his thoughts. He picked up his pen and tapped it thoughtfully on the notepad.
Baz fidgeted his feet annoyingly.
Harvey leaned back with a thoughtful “Hmm,” and said, “What’s this about the stained glass? Do you mean one of the church windows?”
“There’s this one picture of Adam and Eve,” said Baz, “only it’s got no Adam, just Eve with the biggest ass, nearest the altar, south side it is. We just thought it was weird.”
“You see how a good story starts to build?” said Harvey, picking up the pen and scribbling again.
“You mentioned scientific interest,” I said to Arden. “In what way?”
“Take another look at those photos. The body doesn’t look anything like that now. We had to put it into cold storage very shortly after exhumation before it decomposed entirely. Whatever was in that ground was preserving the body way beyond its normal span.”
“What about your soil tests?” I said.
“Drawn a blank, I’m afraid,” said Arden. “It doesn’t mean there isn’t anything further down, but I’m afraid your Reverend won’t let us do any extensive digging. If it’s some sort of natural mineral by product or gas source that we don’t know about, it could be of enormous benefit to the scientific community, not to mention the Trust. Whether these Parish Records that Silas spoke of would show anything of relative value is another matter. We should try and look at all possibilities, especially if the Records go back a long way.”
“Oh, they’d show something alright…ouch!” squealed Baz, as I kicked him hard in the ankle.
“You know something?” said Harvey. His writing stopped dead.
“No,” muttered Baz.
“You know the name of this ghost, Isabel,” said Arden. “Silas mentioned to us about the spirit that haunts the church, but never mentioned the name Isabel. It seems very strange that the Reverend should do so. Perhaps the Reverend’s let you see the Records?”
“Not quite,” said Baz, rubbing his ankle.
“Wait a minute,” said Harvey. “I can’t see Reverend John allowing these two gents, as fine and honest as they are, any access to private information. But on the other hand, you gentlemen must have access to the vestry to do your work, right?”
“No,” said Baz, “just a key to the church, so we can make early starts.”
“Then you must have had a sneaky look at them, eh? When the Reverend’s not about?”
“That never happens,” I said. “Reverend John’s always about when the vestry’s open. If we’re doing any boiler work he’s not far away. Any other time it’s locked, and the Records are locked away in a cabinet.”
“But you must have had a look one day?” added Harvey.
“No, no we didn’t. No way.”
“Well, not one day,” said Baz.
“You went in at night?” said Harvey, his eyebrows rising expectantly. “Is that what you mean?”
“Sort of,” said Baz looking at me sheepishly, as if to say: I can’t help being a loud-mouthed twat.
“Great! So you must have a key?” said Harvey excitedly.
Have you ever found yourself saying exactly what you don’t want to say? Everyone does it at some time or other. And everyone knows there’ll be consequences as a result. The saying goes something like: being up a stream full of effluent with no means of navigation, only it never seems it at the time, until it’s too late. And when you’ve got someone like Baz aboard, who’d happily dive into the shit head first, well then, you kind of get swept along with the current.
“No,” I said. “Baz managed to lift it from Reverend John after he’d locked up one day, then he return it unnoticed. He never missed it.”
“Did you f
ind anything?” said Harvey, scribbling again.
“Oh it was great!” said Baz. “Ed jimmied the cabinet door and we found these huge leather books, really heavy they were, and there was stuff about the lass called Isabel who was excongregated, or something, for practising witchcraft.”
“Excommunicated,” I explained.
Harvey was delighted with the revelations, and insisted on buying the next few rounds. The cat was truly out of the bag, and although we needn’t have said any more, or could have played it down a little, Baz just couldn’t be contained. Although I still held an instinctive mistrust for Harvey, Baz was beginning to warm to him, along with the idea of being in a magazine. The evening passed, and Baz revelled in the telling of our night with the Records. “And then,” Baz said finally, “we found that the head of the Parish Council was called John Cannon!”
“Bloody hell!” said Harvey. “No wonder the old goat’s so candid. Must have been his grandfather, or father even. What a tremendous story!”
“I’m worried,” I said. “If you go printing all this stuff, Reverend John’s going to suss that we’ve seen something.”
“There are two things I can do here, gents. Number one, I don’t publish until you’ve finished your contract. Number two, a good reporter never reveals his sources. If asked I’ll merely say a local source, or villager’s hearsay. I reckon he’ll blame Silas.”
“There was no more mention of the child then?” asked Arden.
“None,” I said, “other than that Reverend John’s dad, or whoever he was, forbid the child to be buried as a Christian.”
“It’s very tempting to think that this child’s corpse is the very same one as the Records refer to,” said Arden.
Harvey tapped his pen lightly on the note pad. He looked at us both. His brow furled as he nibbled the bottom corner of his lip. The incisor glinted. “How about another round?” he said, collecting the empties.
Arden left to pay a visit to the gents.
“I don’t like where this is going,” I said.
“I know, I think we’ve blabbed too much,” said Baz.
“We! We!” I hissed. “You started all this with your fidgeting and silly kid noises. I wouldn’t mind helping this guy Arden, but Harvey? Don’t forget you said he was a spiv!”
“Bloody generous one,” said Baz, finishing off his pint.
“All spivs are like that on the surface. You can see what’s coming, can’t you? He’ll want something other than a few photos.”
“I’ve just had a thought,” said Harvey, placing the glasses down and seating himself. “Call it a proposition, if you like. Forget journalism. Strictly in the name of science now, what if…”
“No, no way!” I said.
“I haven’t finished yet.”
“We won’t do it.”
“Do what?” said Arden, returning.
“I was merely trying to convince these two fine gents here, of the benefits that may be gained if proper research can be done,” said Harvey. “Scientific benefits that is.”
“And journalistic,” I said sarcastically, raising my hand and rubbing thumb and forefingers together. “It's all about cash for you people, isn’t it? You’ve no chance. Even if we were to access the Records again, what could we do? Baz and me spent half a night in there just looking at a ten year section, and only found the little bit we’ve already told you. You’d need a week to just cover that bit. And the last thing I’d do would be to take a reporter in with us. I think I’ve a bit more respect for Reverend John than that.”
“It’s a lot to ask, Jim,” said Arden. “I think the lads have been very generous in their honesty.”
“You wouldn’t have to take me with you,” said Harvey. “I have a small temporary office set up not far from here. You get me the relevant volume; I can digitally photograph the sections you spoke about. State of the art hardware, right? I’ll have it back to you well before daylight.”
There was a long pause.
“You know gents,” said Harvey, “when Lord Carnarvon first opened the tomb of Tutankhamen he wasn’t merely looking for a good story or a sack of gold.”
“Sound scientific benefits,” added Arden.
“Gold sounds good as well,” said Baz, copying my previous hand gesture.
Arden touched the side of his nose and winked at us.
Harvey reached inside his lapel drawing out a brown envelope, which he slid across the table.
Baz lifted one end of it. “More photos?” he asked.
“No,” said Harvey. “It’s just a little something to make it worth your while, should you decide to help.”
Baz picked up the envelope. Opening up one end, he carefully thumbed the notes inside. “How much is here?”
“Five hundred,” said Harvey.
“Five hundred quid!” cried Baz, before covering his mouth.
Several of the bar customers turned to look, then carried on chatting among themselves.
“Ed, look at this wad!” Baz whispered. “All this and double time wages this weekend. We can clean up. Think what a bender we’ll have!”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“I’ll give you a day to think about it,” said Harvey, reaching for the envelope.
“We’ll hang on to it for safe keeping!” said Baz, slapping his hand on top of Harvey’s.
“Deal!” said Harvey.
All eyes were on me.
There’s something about gold. That hypnotic, flashing glint of yellow metal. Tantalising. Even the fake sort, whatever forms it takes: rings, bracelets – or brass keys dangling from a string. With teeth it doesn’t work. Especially on a spiv.
But Arden was respectable, with good intentions. Baz, grinning from ear to ear, was naïve and greedy – and my best mate.
Maybe I’m just thick.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this again,” I whispered, inserting the key. “You’re a right blabbermouth, you. Ooh, ooh, we’ve seen the Records, Mr. Harvey! It was really great how Ed bust open the door, Mr. Harvey! A couple of pints and you’re anybody’s. What a dickhead.”
“Forget it, Ed. Just think about the dough,” said Baz, easing the door. “Wait,” he suddenly hissed, stopping dead. “You hear that?”
“No, what?”
“There’s something moving out there…in the graveyard.”
I strained my eyes hard, peering outside into the dark. “I don’t see anything.”
“Me neither, but I hear something. Let’s take a look, maybe it’s your big cat, or whatever it was you think you saw the other night.”
We sneaked out across the lawns in the direction of a far wall, where Baz said the noise had come from, until part way across I heard it; a steady scratching sound, like someone digging into the earth on the other side.
“If it’s a big cat, I’m not sure I want to get any closer,” I whispered.
Baz stopped a few metres from the wall, and picking up a handful of gravel from a grave, signalled with his finger to mouth to keep hushed. Crawling on all fours, he stopped at the wall base and with a wide swing slung the gravel over in the direction of the sound. There was a loud hiss followed by a scurrying sound and the sound of feet moving off in a hurry. We leapt up to the wall looking over, only to catch a glimpse of a black shadow, leaping and moving off into the distance at some speed.
“What do you think?” said Baz.
“I couldn’t tell, I mean it sounded like a cat, but then the shape…if I didn’t know better I’d say it got up on two legs to run off.”
“Maybe it was some guy burying his murdered wife or something. Let’s take a look.”
We clambered over the wall but found nothing, only some patches where the grass had been scraped up revealing bare soil, but no hole as such, no evidence of anything being buried.
“Maybe we scared him off too soon,” said Baz. “It looks like he was just starting out.”
“Doing what though? If this was some bloke burying someone he’d hav
e left a body. He’d hardly be able to pick it up and run off at that speed. I must be mistaken; it must be a cat of some sort, maybe trying to bury some remains of a small animal.”
“I suppose,” said Baz. “Come on, let’s get this thing over with, this Harvey guy will be worrying about his dough if we don’t show up with the goods soon.”
“Notice anything?” said Baz pushing the church door open.
“No…such as what?”
“No creaks. I oiled the hinges this morning. Don’t want anything giving us away.”
“Try some on yourself then.”
We were in. Baz flicked the torch into life, and once again we inched our way up the aisle, wary of the unevenness of the floor stones.
Harvey and Arden waited in a car on the village outskirts. A single word text message I’d prepared awaited sending, once we were outside with the Records. Then all we had to do is get them back before dawn, and spend another day of hard graft without sleep. Piece of cake.
We reached the altar, and Baz stopped so abruptly I bumped into him.
“Did you see that?” he whispered.
“What?”
“Some sort of black thing…right in front of me.”
“Your eyes are playing tricks.”
“No wait; listen.”
We stood silent for several moments. Nothing. We were about to continue up the altar when a whoosh of cool air brushed my ear.
“Damn! Now it’s my turn!” I hissed. “Only I’m hearing things instead of seeing them!”
“Listen,” said Baz. “Do you hear it this time?”
A sigh came from the rafters above, followed by a brief whirring sound, a bit like one of those personal mini fans.
“What is that?” I said.
“I don’t know. It sounds like…bats!” shrieked Baz, as a black shape swept between us. “I hate bats!”
“Shut the effin’ hell up, will you! Someone will hear!”
“Ed, it’s my nightmare; the winged creatures! I’ve been dreaming about these sons of bitches all week! Let’s go!”
“Oh no you don’t; in for a penny in for a pound, right? We’ll be out of here in no time, so let’s finish the job. This is your idea, remember?”