The Caretakers (2011)

by Adrian Chamberlin

  Davies recognised him as the delivery driver who had entered his office earlier. He stared at the blood seeping from the man’s black sweatshirt, saw the torn patches and knew that this man had entered the college via the woods. He had confronted the children of Andraste and had survived.

  For a brief moment, hope fluttered in Davies’ heart. Perhaps this was a sign. Perhaps this man was the one who would -

  The silence was broken by the roar of female fury that emanated from the lips of Christ.

  Charles Harvey has returned…kill him. KILL HIM!

  Davies was pushed roughly aside by Nasen, who reached for the fallen knife and advanced towards the intruder.

  Andy limped out of the chapel and into Old Court. He turned to see the black clad figure of one of the porters running to him from the lodge, his hand raised with something that gleamed metallically in the glow of the lamp lights. A gun, aimed at Andy.

  Nasen was almost on him. A knife behind him, an automatic pistol in front of him…and the screaming, unholy voice coming from an image of one who promised to deliver Mankind from death and evil. For the love of humanity.

  KILL HIM…he will destroy you all…KILL HIM!

  Andy Hughes ran.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Phil Lotson was still shaking as he drained the third vodka. Kerry took back the empty tumbler and was about to pour another.

  “No. No more.” He hiccupped and ran his fingers along his jawline, his nails rasping against the greying beard. “I need to keep a clear head if I’m going to meet Freeland.”

  She almost threw the bottle on the floor. Instead she slammed it down on the dining room table hard enough to knock over the Christmas table centre decoration. Small, red-painted plastic berries fell from the fake holly sprigs and rolled across the white cloth. Phil’s eyes widened as he took in Kelly’s furious expression.

  “You’re having a laugh, surely?”

  Phil raised a weary hand. “Kelly, listen - ‘

  “No, you bloody listen! Two hours I was sat in that car, wondering if you were going to come out in one piece. Wondering what that nutter was telling you, what shit he was filling your head with!”

  Phil sat back in the dining room chair. His shaking subsided as the alcohol took effect, but seeing the enraged look on his wife’s face almost made him reach for the bottle and pour another measure. A really bloody big one.

  “Shit? You have the bloody nerve to tell me that what I’m uncovering is shit?”

  “You’re being taken in, Lotson! First this Searles bloke: now the nut-job arsonist - for Christ’s sake, get a grip. There’s nothing sinister about all this. Freeland left under a cloud, didn’t he? Because he’s just as loopy as that porter’s son!”

  He sighed and looked past her, into the open doorway that led through to the lounge. The Christmas tree lights were off; Nick had been as good as his word and remained in his room after they drove to Fulbourn.

  “Nothing sinister? Then you explain to me how Franklin’s kid managed to describe my dream in every detail. You explain why Searles lied to me about the smallholding that supplies the boar for their feast.”

  “What?”

  Phil sighed, reaching in his jacket pocket for a piece of folded paper. “These are the contact details Searles supplied. Address, phone number, website. Guess what? None of it exists. Searles knew I’d find out, but he lied anyway. Question is - why?”

  Her features softened as she pulled out the opposing chair and sat down. Her shoulders slumped and he could see genuine weariness in her eyes now.

  Shit, I should have realised how much this is taking out of me - and my family’s suffering as a result. But then, she hadn’t been as wound up as this when he wrote Witchfounder General. This was more than a snappy - albeit justified - reaction to his selfish neglect of them.

  This was fear. She could scoff at Jason Franklin’s testimony, laugh in disbelief at the information he shared with her on the drive back to Chesterton - but deep down she knew there was more to it.

  This is why she doesn’t want me contacting Freeland - she’s terrified of where it’s going to lead. He didn’t know where it was heading - Freeland might be just as insane as Franklin, in which case no problem.

  But insanity had its causes.

  “Kelly, I promise you.” He leant over the table and took her hands. “Nothing I’m researching is going to put you or Nick in danger.”

  Her voice was subdued. “I wish I could believe you, Phil. But you won’t tell me about that dream you had this morning, so I know it involved me and Nick.”

  He looked at the plastic holly berries in the space between them. He released her hand, reset the table centrepiece and scooped up the red globes. He held them in the palm of his hand, staring at them intently, too guilty to meet her eyes as she continued.

  “You know why Searles lied about the smallholding - he wants you to dig deeper. He wants you to get to the bottom of this - but he’s too scared to do it himself. What’s that, if not a warning?”

  She’s right, he admitted to himself glumly. Even Jason Franklin implied as much.

  He looked up and smiled weakly. She took the berries from his open hand and flicked them onto the carpet, smiling back.

  “Take that as a hint, Lotson. The carpet needed a Hoovering, anyway. Get to work!” She playfully punched him on the shoulder, choked back a sob, and took the bottle back to the drinks cabinet.

  Phil Lotson stared at the paper in his hands. The details of the smallholding, lies, make believe…and on the other side, in Jason Franklin’s unusually elegant handwriting, the phone number of James Freeland.

  A warning. And yet…he had to know. One phone call wouldn’t hurt, surely? Besides, Jason was convinced Freeland would be in, even recommended the time to call him. Eight-thirty, phone him then. You’ll be pleasantly surprised…

  He heard rustling from the kitchen, the sound of the pizza they were about to have earlier being unwrapped and placed in the microwave. The smell of pepperoni and cheese filled the air and he realised he hadn’t eaten anything since the hot cross buns at breakfast - apart from that doughnut Rob had offered him in the van.

  Strange, even in the most foreboding of circumstances his appetite was never affected. But not this time. For the first time in his married life, the thought of food did not appeal.

  Now I know something’s wrong, he told himself. He had to know. He stood up from the dining room table, the paper clutched in his hands. He went through to the front room and picked up the telephone.

  * * * * *

  Kelly threw the kitchen foil in the swing bin and rubbed her eyes wearily. God, four days till Christmas and she was worn out already. At least she’d saved enough annual leave to take off over the Christmas period. The building society could get by fine without her.

  She took the salad bowl out of the fridge and began mixing it. Bloody stupid really, neither of them felt like eating now but she hated the thought of waste. She began layering the salad onto three plates - she assumed Nick would still want something, if he hadn’t helped himself to any of the Christmas goodies in the fridge.

  This had all been prepared and ready for the sit-down at six pm - and then that bloody call from Phil’s former student had changed all that.

  Had to drop everything again, didn’t you Lotson? She stabbed the cherry tomatoes angrily. Everything on hold for your bloody book.

  “Books,” she muttered. Not that this was the first time. The amount of times Phil had forgotten appointments and arranged days out, because he had his head filled with ideas and research materials for his books.

  Phil had always had a slightly distracted air about him, one of the things she had found so appealing when they first met. He was a breath of fresh air amongst all the pretentious and self-important tossers she’d met in Freshers’ Week.

  But I thought the same about Andy Hughes, didn’t I?

  Passionate and dedicated to the study of history, but never taking things too
seriously. Always ready to have a laugh and a pint - one of the things that endeared Phil to his students, and one of the reasons she and Phil had developed such a close relationship. Meeting in the Bakers Arms every Friday had become a tradition: initially a chance to chat about her work, bands they enjoyed, books they read. It was only a matter of time before it developed into something more.

  No regrets, she loved him as much today as she ever had. And he had helped her get over Andy Hughes, there was no doubt about that.

  He still had that boyish enthusiasm and charm, a blase attitude to everything that complimented her desire to get things done quickly, rather than clashed with it.

  But when he was seriously involved in a side project - be it a book or his thesis - it was like watching someone slipping into dementia. He forgot the most important things, times - even dates - for his seminars, dental appointments, and family matters. Focussed intently on the project at hand.

  But it was worse this time. She had an uneasy feeling when he announced that he’d signed the contract for the follow up to Witchfounder General. She knew the subject matter of the book would focus on All Souls eventually.

  And that’ll be the death of us, she’d almost told him. She had kept quiet, knowing how melodramatic that sounded, but his dream this morning was proof. She opened the microwave door and pressed a knuckle onto the pizza. Still cold. She slammed the door shut and pressed the two-minute button.

  She’d been woken by his cries. She had turned, saw the sweat pouring from his face, but shrank back in terror rather than waking him. Because the words he were uttering confirmed her fears.

  The pleading, the cries…

  …please don’t cut them. No…oh, my darling, what have they done to you…Kelly, what have they done to you…And he was reaching to the ceiling, his hands clutching, grasping something he believed was close to him.

  Holding it to his chest, burying his face in it.

  …Nicky! Oh, my poor, poor boy…

  When his eyes flickered, she had shut hers, feigning sleep. It was something she was good at. She had no choice. Hearing him mutter the name Andy…

  Andy Hughes. She took the pizza out of the microwave with trembling hands. That was worse than All Souls. His name hadn’t been mentioned for over ten years. Until now.

  And he turned up today, for Christ’s sake! She dropped the steaming pizza on to the chopping board and reached for the knife block. Her fingers tightened a little more than necessary around the bread knife.

  Ten years. What a difference a decade makes…I’m not the same person anymore, I wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  “Lotson! I don’t hear a Dyson in there! You want some dinner or what?”

  A muffled sound of assent came from the front room.

  “Okay. Give Nick a call, will you?” She began cutting the pizza, the serrated edge effortlessly parting the stuffed crust. Melted mozzarella flecked with green herbs oozed onto the chopping board and she thought back to Andy Hughes, to the night ten years ago when she had watched him kill.

  In the name of love, eh? She remembered spitting at him as the police dragged him from the college bar. The confusion, the mixture of emotions…if Andy hadn’t stepped in, she’d be dead by now, she knew it. Phil had stood by and done nothing. Andy had had the balls to do what Phil should have been man enough to do…but he’d gone too far.

  She’d hated them both that night. Almost as much as she hated the two students who had tried to rape her.

  They were dead. They’d paid for their crimes - or their attempted crimes - with the ultimate cost. But Phil and Andy…

  What sealed it for her was the blazing look of hatred Andy had thrown at Phil as he was dragged into the police van. Words spat out with hatred.

  Bastard! I’ll fucking kill you for this, Lotson! That wasn’t Phil’s fault. How could Andy blame him for it? He was the one who’d lost control, not Phil.

  She lowered the knife. All have to take a side at some stage, don’t we? She took Phil’s side…and then his hand. Married, while Andy Hughes burned in fury and hatred in a prison cell.

  It should never have happened. None of them should have been there. That was the first time she had been in the grounds of All Souls and she had vowed never to go back.

  The sound of the gate in the back garden opening brought her back to the present. She raised the kitchen blind and looked out.

  The trip light was triggered, illuminating the snowbound garden - and the man entering.

  She dropped the blind but kept hold of the knife. And for the first time since she gave birth to Nick she screamed.

  * * * * *

  Rob Benson popped the handbrake of the Transit and swung out without indicating. Jasper barked, tipping over in the seat. Rob ignored him.

  He didn’t feel befuddled with skunk now. Seeing the things Andy Hughes had brought with him had had a very sobering effect.

  The van lurched off the kerb, hitting the icy road and threatening to go into a spin. The lever arch file containing Geoff Michaels’ work fell to the floor, on top of the wrapped gift.

  “Unbelievable, isn’t it, shitbag?” Rob was angry. Angry at Andy Hughes, for bringing this shit to his doorstep: angry with Geoff Michaels, who’d walked needlessly and unwittingly into the lion’s den: angry at Jason Franklin, who seemed to know everything but was feeding information selectively; but most of all, angry with himself.

  All this time, the reason why Geoff disappeared - staring me in the fucking face!

  He drove quickly, anxious to get to Phil Lotson’s house as quickly as possible, to show him what Geoff had written.

  Jasper was subdued, not his usual manic self. For once, Rob Benson would not need to clean the inside of the passenger window.

  More than subdued, Jasper was frightened. His lips had drawn back and his ears were flat on his head. Snarling at the thing in the footwell.

  “Relax, shitbag. It’s just a Crimbo pressie.” He glanced at the thing on the floor. Some of the gift-wrapping had come away and he could see bubble wrap coating something that looked like stone.

  The streetlights of Mill Road reflected off the pregnant bellies of low cloud giving birth to yet more snow. He flicked the wipers on. At the end of Newmarket Road, he waited impatiently for the lights to change. Only the pedestrians had the green light.

  Rob looked back to the lights. Still red. Behind him, the driver of a silver Mini Cooper blared his horn. Jasper sat bolt upright.

  Rob forced himself to be calm. There was no hurry: he’d called Phil, told him to expect them both.

  Phil had sounded oddly distant, though. He’d wanted Rob off the phone as quickly as possible, said - or rather whispered - that he was about to make a call. Something he wanted to keep quiet from Kelly, obviously. And Rob had the nagging feeling it was something to do with All Souls - or Andy Hughes.

  Perhaps both.

  Jasper’s growling was low and muted. He lay on the seat, nose on paws, eyes fixed on Andy’s gift.

  Still the red light. Traffic building behind, more horns blaring.

  “Calm down, for Christ’s sake.” He pressed the stereo button, turned the radio to one of the local Advert FMs. He was in time to hear a traffic report.

  The A14 was at a complete standstill, due to a Ford Focus crossing both lanes and slamming into the cab of an articulated truck. Rob closed his eyes: hearing these sorts of reports on a daily basis never desensitised him to the tragedy of someone dying on the road. He offered up a silent prayer to whoever was listening that the driver had survived.

  At least this explained the traffic hold up. All points north of Cambridge were well fucked.

  Jasper’s growl turned to a piteous whine.

  “For God’s sake,” Rob sighed. He reached over, grunting at the restrictive webbing of the seatbelt, and picked the present up.

  It felt warm to the touch, which was strange. Perhaps it was just the insulation from the packaging.

  “‘Merry XXXmas!’ God,
how cheesy is that?”

  Brown parcel tape sealed the bubble wrap. He tore it open and made a closer examination of the strange carving.

  It was about nine inches in diameter, roughly circular, and hewn from black stone. It was smooth and polished, with a fine tracery of red and green running through. It smelled old; similar to the scent of musty churches on damp days, but far older. He flicked it over, and met the gaze of the face carved in the stone.

  It was an old man’s face that stared at him through a frame of twisted oak and holly leaves and mistletoe branches. Painted berries in red and white glistened wetly, as though snow had recently melted from them.

  But it was the face itself that held his attention. The forehead was heavily lined, the cheeks wrinkled and creased with an age that no human being could survive. And the eyes…

  They could not have been the work of a master craftsman or production line mould. It might have been a particularly vivid pigment in the emerald paintwork used for the orbs…but they seemed too vivid, too alive. Filled with the pain of carrying the burden of some terrible, ancient knowledge.

  Jasper growled nervously, but Rob paid no attention. Those eyes held him, refusing to let him go, and drawing him in.

  Emma.

  He sat bolt upright, wondering where the word had come from. The radio? He stared at the factory-fitted unit.

  It is too late for her. She sings for Andraste.

  He looked back to the carved face. Now he knew where the words came from.

  The green eyes bored into him, the pain and ancient knowledge all too real, a tangible presence that the face in the leaves seemed to be trying to impart to him. The mouth opened, the encircling vegetation that formed its halo twisting and writhing. He could feel it moving in his hand, the ivy and acanthus leaves fluttering like moths trapped in his hand.

  He cried out, tried to drop the stone, but his fingers were firmly fixed around the stone halo, as though coated in Superglue or Araldite. Jasper barked furiously, his hackles raised and his claws digging into the upholstery of the seat. Spittle flew onto the topmost part of the carving’s face with a sizzling sound as it evaporated.