The Caretakers (2011)

by Adrian Chamberlin

  Phil tore his eyes away from the thing behind him, saw that the punt was approaching the wooded banks of All Souls College. It was then that he saw what was happening to Nick. He tried to scream but nothing came out.

  Nick’s mouth opened and half-chewed pie meat fell out just as his neck opened. Starting at a point below his left earlobe, the cut moved quickly, a perfect curve joining up with a matching point below his right earlobe. A cut that came from nowhere, as if sliced by an invisible knife. Phil could see severed pieces of the windpipe and the base of Nick’s tongue through the clinical slash just before it was hidden by a descending curtain of blood.

  And then his wife. Her scream was muffled by something unseen as her stomach opened beneath her white vest top. More cuts slammed into her chest, stabs this time rather than the elegant slash that had killed his son. Miniature explosions that made her judder and shake violently in her seat. Her arms thrashed wildly at her unseen assailant, striking nothing but thin air. More punts passed serenely, their occupants completely unaware of the carnage happening in front of them.

  The waters around the pole gurgled as it was lifted and bent round to propel the punt towards the tree-lined banks of All Souls. It came alongside the earthen walls, the wood kissed the earth and the punt was still, the sunlight blotted out by the dense canopy of the ancient oaks.

  Nick’s lifeless body slumped backwards, his head thrown back so that the hole in his neck opened wider, an obscene smile. Kelly’s silent head dropped onto Phil’s shoulder.

  And then Phil felt something prodding him in the stomach. A sharp, pointed object, probing inquisitively at his slack belly before sliding in effortlessly, agonisingly.

  A figure emerged from the shelter of the oaks, advancing cautiously towards the punt. Horror and bewilderment on his features.

  Through his blood-streaked vision and the physical waves of agony crashing into him with each knife thrust, Phil Lotson slowly recognised the man climbing into the punt. A man he hadn’t seen in over fifteen years. In a voice that no longer sounded his own, he said “Andy?”

  Andy Hughes looked down at the blood on his clothes. Stared, uncomprehending, at the bloodstained knife in his hands.

  * * * * *

  Phil climbed shakily out of bed. The cold sweat on his body chilled him further as he left the warmth of the duvet and Kelly. He stood on trembling legs, looking down on her. In the dawn light peeking through the gap in the curtains she looked calm, serene, a small smile playing on her lips at whatever dream she was having.

  He took a deep breath that misted when he exhaled. He shivered and rubbed his clammy forehead. Why? He’d never had nightmares, not even as a child. So why now? That hot July day had ended with a ploughman’s lunch at the Anchor and then a film at the multiplex. So why had this…obscenity happened?

  He knew the answer. He dressed quickly, squinting at the digital clock on the bedside cabinet. Seven thirty. Three hours before his appointment. He’d shower later and change into some fresh clothes then.

  During that punt journey along the Backs they had not stopped at All Souls College, they’d just passed it as they had passed the banks of the other riverside colleges. For it to appear in a dream like this - and now - meant his research was getting to him. He was spending too much time looking into its enigmatic past.

  But that wouldn’t be enough to cause a nightmare of such intensity, surely? To see his loved ones die so horribly, so graphically. And to die himself….he rubbed his eyes and swallowed noisily.

  This wasn’t just a nightmare. This was a warning.

  But warning me against what? To stop work on the All Souls story? Or to stay away from Andy Hughes?

  Phil shivered at the memory. Andy Hughes was history, probably still in prison for all he knew. A shame, a real tragedy. Such a gifted student, but a troubled one as well. It was perhaps inevitable that it had ended the way it did. A relief for them all. Especially Kelly.

  He looked back to her sleeping form. He could see her smile grow wider as she rolled over, pulling Phil’s share of the duvet around her. Her head moved back and forth, snuggling into the pillows. She purred contentedly and pulled the duvet over her head. The dim glow of the clock’s display cast a red veil over her like blood on a shroud.

  He had an impulse to wake her, to hold her to him. He fought the temptation.

  No, let her sleep. Don’t bother her with this ridiculous nightmare, she’ll only tell you to abandon the book.

  Perhaps that wouldn’t be such a bad idea he thought, as he closed the door quietly and made his way to the small landing. Blood on a shroud? Jesus, it was definitely getting to him.

  He walked past Nick’s room. The door was ajar and a cold breeze was coming into the hallway. God, he’d slept with the bloody window open again. Amazing how that kid never felt the cold.

  He peered through the gap in the door anyway, just to check. He shivered in the cold and saw the window wide open, the curtains drawn right back. Nick was asleep at an odd angle, the duvet wrapped and twisted around his small body. He was snoring gently but his head was tilted backwards…

  …as if waiting for the knife. Phil shuddered at the thought. He crept over to the window, footing his way through the minefield of Xbox 360 game cases and CDs scattered on the floor.

  Through the windows he could see the snow capped steeple of St Andrews Church and its surrounding gravestones. He shivered and pulled the window closed.

  Nick didn’t stir. His face looked flushed; perhaps he was coming down with something. Not surprising when you go to sleep with the window wide open and the radiator switched off. He thought about waking him, but then dismissed the idea.

  Just because I’ve had my sleep disturbed, why should I disturb his? He closed the door and made his way downstairs. The central heating kicked into life and warmth began to filter through the house.

  Disturbed. He shook his head sadly as he entered the kitchen and filled the kettle. Ridiculous, really. It wasn’t even as though he’d uncovered anything overly disturbing in his research. But it was consuming him; there was no doubt about that.

  It was a far cry from his first book. Besieged - an in-depth retelling of the siege of Colchester during the second Civil War - had been received with rapturous reviews and pleasantly surprising sales. The Times Literary Supplement had praised his lucid style, the clear prose complimenting the solid background of scholarly research and factual reasoning. The book’s success had no doubt helped him to become Senior History Lecturer at Anglia Ruskin University. The youngest the university had ever seen, given the position a mere three years after taking his first post as lecturer. And this without a PhD or even an MA - just a postgraduate certificate in higher education.

  That had caused a few ruffled feathers. But he had been a success in the role: that could not be denied. In those three years he had raised the overall grade average by forty percent. The History department of the former polytechnic was now one of the most respected in the country, even making number nine in the Sunday Times’ University List. When interviewed about his success he’d been asked what the secret was and he had shaken his head, saying he wasn’t sure there was a special formula, it was merely a question of raising the right level of enthusiasm and commitment in his students. His lectures and seminars were almost legendary. His next book was eagerly awaited and he was financially better off, now able to afford the three-bedroom semi in Chesterton and to marry Kelly.

  That had ruffled a few more feathers, he thought as he took the milk out of the fridge. Relationships between tutors and students were not encouraged, but they happened. She was a mature student, twenty-five years old when she started her course in the early 1990s, only four years younger than him. The warning from his colleagues had fallen on deaf ears. But it hadn’t been Kelly’s fault that his work had faltered, that his reputation was crumbling. It was his fault alone.

  His next book had been eagerly anticipated. But he had gone off in a different direction. A small ind
ependent publisher had asked him to write a short book on the possibility that Matthew Hopkins had not died but had journeyed to the New World and had a hand in the Salem witch trials. This theory was held in such derision by leading academics that many eyebrows were raised when the rising star of Anglia’s history department actually took the time to write a reasoned argument that supported the hypothesis. If Witchfounder General had flopped then it wouldn’t have been a problem, but the sales were phenomenal and it spent six weeks on the bestseller lists. Poor reward for the knock his professional reputation took. The reviews were not as kind as the royalty cheques.

  The small independent publisher was not so small anymore. And they wanted to capitalise on the success of the book.

  He poured milk into the mug, squeezed the tea bag dry and placed it on the drainer. After a few sips he felt warmth restored and the effects of his nightmare subsiding. He even felt hungry. He eyed the opened pack of hot cross buns next to the breadbin and remembered the same supermarket brand had been toasted, buttered and placed in front of him when he signed the next contract.

  He could have told them to bugger off. The time spent researching Witchfounder General had been at the expense of his students. He was standing at a crossroads and he knew it. Another book like this would finish his academic career.

  But the commissioning editor had been very persuasive. The next book they wanted would not involve any controversial historical theories. It would not damage his reputation as a scholar. And the advance would be three times the amount they had paid for the Hopkins book.

  What we’re after, Phil, is a book on the dark side of Cambridge. Go on, have another bun. Extra cinnamon in these ones, you’ll love “em. Legends and folklore, yes books like these have been done to death. But this is the first time that this subject will have been written by a serious and respected historian.

  Phil had almost choked on his buttered bun. Respected? Did you hear what History Today said of Witchfounder General? I can’t afford another book like that.

  The editor had smiled expansively, waving a dismissive hand. This will be different. The first time a book with such a localized theme will be available in bookshops all over the country. A guaranteed bestseller. Interest - non-academic interest - in this city is growing. People want to know more, especially after the incident at All Souls last year.

  Phil smiled grimly to himself as he turned on the grill. That editor was no dummy. He was trying to capitalise on an incident that had put Cambridge in the headlines of every major tabloid and broadsheet almost one year ago. Amazing to think that some people still believed there was a supernatural element to the incident, and of course the events there had raised interest in the seemingly archaic practices of other university colleges.

  He knew what the publisher wanted. Sensationalist tales of madness and murder, ghosts and Satanism that could be flogged to a gullible public. The fact that the author of Cloisters, Courts and Corpses - the Dark Side of Cambridge was a respected historian would increase the plausibility of the contents.

  Phil placed the cut halves of three buns on the grill pan and slid them under the glowing red element. He sliced off thin wedges of butter, put them on a side plate and put them in the microwave.

  And what if I can’t give you what your book needs to succeed? he’d demanded. All I can write about is the usual legends. The ghosts of dead Masters haunting Corpus Christi. The connection of Selwyn College with the work of the Psychic Institute. The sightings of Oliver Cromwell haunting his old college of Sidney Sussex, a bit peeved because he’s lost his head. It’s tired old tosh that’s been done a thousand times before. What can I do to make this different, saleable - but more importantly, of serious literary and historic merit?

  The reply had been swift. Start with All Souls. That’s never been done before. Give the readership a sense that something is hidden, something dark and sinister. That’s what’ll sell the book.

  Literary and scholarly merit wasn’t important, he thought sadly as he turned the buns over and replaced the grill pan. Just an optional extra. And Cloisters, Courts and Corpses - the Dark Side of Cambridge would put the final nail in the coffin that held Philip Lotson’s academic reputation.

  “So why did I do it?” he thought out loud as he set the microwave timer for five seconds, just enough to soften the butter. “Is it money, does that matter more than my career at Anglia?”

  No, of course it wasn’t. He couldn’t put into words the reason he had accepted the commission, signed the contract with buttery fingers. Perhaps it would be a bit of light relief. Perhaps he could really succeed in making Cambridge folklore worthy of historical merit…

  No, that wasn’t it either.

  Stop kidding yourself, Lotson, he told himself as he spread the softened butter onto the buns. You’re writing it because of All Souls. Because you know that there’s a real mystery there. Not any crap about ghosts or dead Masters but the simple mystery of why no one has ever written about the college before.

  Yes, that was it. A college of that age and heritage had to have some interesting episodes in its history. It had been the first college built in Cambridge. Technically, Peterhouse was the oldest of the University’s establishments, founded in 1284. All Souls had its first statutes fifty years afterwards, but it had been established as a place of learning in the Fenland landscape long before a group of refugee scholars made the arduous journey up from Oxford in the thirteenth century to escape persecution.

  There were countless volumes of college histories available to the general public, either online from the colleges’ digital archives or from city bookshops and the Cambridge Collection in the Lion Yard library, each describing the individual college’s contribution towards the development of the University, the region and its association with many key periods in British history.

  And yet no such volume was available - or even in existence - for All Souls. The only known story was the connection with Elizabeth Woodcock and the 1799 meteor strike and, of course, the events of last year.

  Phil took the plate of buns and his mug of tea back upstairs to his study. He powered up the PC and sat back in the chair, chewing appreciatively. Hot Cross buns, an Easter treat, five days before Christmas.

  Well, why not? It was his only vice, and hardly a dangerous one. Still, his belly was getting quite rounded these days, in spite of the fact that in best Cambridge academic tradition he cycled everywhere rather than drove.

  Sorry, Kelly, can’t munch on rabbit food all the time. Certainly not as harmful as the pasties and meat pies that he had devoured in his younger days…

  Meat pies. He shuddered at the memory. He put the remnants of the bun down and logged onto his email account. He took a sip of tea.

  One email. One that almost had him choking on the hot, sweet liquid.

  Subject: All Souls Research.

  Sender: david.searles@allsouls.cam.ac

  It couldn’t be. He opened the email, read through the first few lines. He shook his head in wonder.

  An invitation to All Souls College to discuss his book. An offer to assist with any research materials, any interviews, a full, guided tour if he so desired. Helpful, friendly. A complete contrast to the defensive, suspicious and less-than-helpful attitude he had received from other members of All Souls when he had requested assistance.

  This was from David Searles - the Master of All Souls himself. But Philip Lotson was uneasy. Two things disturbed him.

  The first was that the email had been sent this morning, at exactly the same time he had woken from his dream. Coincidence, surely. Nothing to be worried about, he tried to tell himself.

  What was more worrying was the postscript on the email.

  Please come at midday. Do not announce your visit. This meeting has not been approved by the College Council, but I feel it imperative that we talk.

  Not approved by the College Council…only Searles wished to speak to him. Phil thought carefully before typing his response. He would mee
t him, of course. But he had a feeling that something else was wrong. There was a strange tone to this email. Phil could just imagine the haste with which it had been composed.

  Sent just after he had woken. Had Searles had a similar dream? And why summon him today? Why not after Christmas - or at least, after the Founders’ Feast tomorrow?

  Imperative that we talk…Phil frowned as he sent his reply. The Master of All Souls was not just a worried man.

  He was a frightened one.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Even by midday Andy could see Rob Benson’s hangover showed no signs of abating. Andy’s less-than-experienced driving around the narrow streets of central Cambridge didn’t help. As he mounted the kerb on Bridge Street he heard Rob’s resting head bang on the passenger window before emitting another self-pitying moan.

  “Sorry, Rob. Been a while since I’ve done this.” He pulled on the handbrake and grinned at the dog. Jasper grinned back. He had enjoyed the drive as much as Rob had suffered it.

  “So you keep saying…” Rob blinked at the bright sunshine gleaming off the Cam. A bus blared its horn as it swerved past the Transit and he winced at the sound. Andy turned and saw angry smears of human faces behind the condensation on the windows, mouthing silent curses.

  “Okay, one HP toner for Parsons, 3 Quayside. I’ll do this one.” Rob paused.

  “Andy?”

  “Yes?”

  “When you turn the van round, watch out for cyclists. You almost twatted two down East Road. Don’t make it third time lucky.”

  Andy smiled thinly. Being away from Cambridge for so long he’d forgotten the mobile minefields that were city cyclists. He could swear that the ones that had emerged from the Zion Baptist Church on East Road had dropped from the sky.

  “And…if Emma calls, keep her on the line.” Rob looked worried. “I mean it, man. That girl’s never off her phone. And after what you told me…well…” He folded the delivery note, put it in his fleece pocket and slammed the door shut.