by Neil Spring
Somewhere . . . We went somewhere . . .
‘Come closer,’ Randall said, peering carefully at Martin.
I studied our companion in the poor light and briefly registered a lean face and fair hair.
‘Closer.’
Randall’s leathery face was immobile as he kept the young man fixed in his gaze, and then he abruptly extended an open hand in my direction and said, ‘Torch.’
Reluctantly I fished it from my pocket and dropped it into his hand. I didn’t want to be here. The air was sticky and heavy with the scent of rot and wet branches and leaves. A fine spray was blowing in off the sea and I was damp and cold. My socks and trouser legs were wet and I was covered in mud.
‘Your face?’ said Randall in a concerned voice, and now, as the harsh torchlight flickered across Martin’s expression, I saw with some alarm that the boy’s eyes were inflamed and swollen almost shut. There were blisters on his face and head. And just above his right ear a small patch of hair was missing.
‘What the hell happened to you?’ I blurted out.
He looked at me. ‘Saw the same as you, that’s all.’
The teenager turned and produced a battered box of cigarettes from inside his leather jacket. There was the scratch of a match as he crouched down behind a bank of sand, knees close to his chin.
‘When you’re a child,’ he began when his cigarette had burned halfway to the filter, ‘you hear stories about monsters in the night, and you forget them. You’ve heard of the bogeyman? Well, I’ve met him.’ He hesitated and looked up at me. ‘Those children at the school are telling the truth. What they saw wasn’t from this planet. I know it.’
And so, in the shadow of a ruined castle, we heard Martin Marshall’s story. It began, as did so many stories of the area, with a strange light in the sky, and by the time he was done I could feel a worm of fear twisting in my gut.
– 25 –
In November – four months earlier – Martin was with his girlfriend in his car, parked in a lay-by that flanked the road leading to RAF Brawdy. The pair argued. Though Martin didn’t tell us what about, I had a strong sense from the way he averted his eyes guiltily that it had something to do with sex. Perhaps he’d gone further than she was willing, perhaps he’d raised his voice when she refused him, but whatever the reason for her getting out of the car and striding off into the night, Martin was left alone with only the radio for company.
‘I sat there for a while listening to Johnny Rotten,’ he told us. ‘Had a cigarette, you know, to calm myself down.’
But he didn’t stay calm for long. Something disturbed him. It showed its presence firstly though distorting the radio signal, grinding it into a grainy static, and then through pulsing vibrations that made the hairs on his arm prick up.
Martin told us that when he opened the car door and looked about him, he wasn’t afraid. Just interested. He certainly didn’t believe in ghosts. As the dark trees creaked around him, he began to wonder if his girlfriend was OK. Would she find her way home all right? These were the questions, he told us, that drew him back towards the car. He got in and drove off.
‘I stopped next to a gate overlooking the fields, near the spot where I found you tonight. I got out and leaned on the gate to see the lights of the base. That was when I realized there was something blocking my view.’
‘You mean,’ Randall said, ‘that something was on the ground in the field, obstructing your view?’
‘Exactly. Well, I lit a cigarette and watched for a few minutes.’
‘Can you describe it?’ Randall asked. ‘What shape was it?’
‘Well, it was like a dome,’ Martin said slowly. ‘I could just see the top of it on the horizon, and it had a faint light around the outside.’
‘Around the periphery – the edge?’
‘Yeah, that’s right.’
‘It must have been rather large.’
He nodded. ‘It took up a good bit of the field, like a small house.’
‘I see. So you were leaning against the gate and watching this thing. Then what?’
‘I heard a branch snap. That was when I realized I wasn’t alone.’ Those last three words came out in slow, measured lengths. ‘I didn’t see it at first. I heard it. Something in the bushes behind me, rustling. It was some sort of being . . . A silver figure.’
‘A soldier?’ I ventured.
Martin shook his head firmly. ‘It was standing behind the gate. So bloody tall. Not human, more . . . humanoid.’
Humanoid. That word made me think of old horror films and the aliens from Star Trek.
‘This figure, what was it wearing?’
He shrugged. ‘Hard to say. Something glittery, you know? And I could sort of see through it.’
Randall’s mouth had curled down into a grimace. ‘What then?’
‘My feet had turned to concrete boots,’ he answered. ‘I just stood there, staring at this thing, and it looked back at me. No, I can’t really say it was looking, because there weren’t any eyes, you know?’
‘I don’t,’ I said.
‘Well, it was like it had a helmet. Square. And there was this thing in the mouth, like divers have. Breathing apparatus.’
The boy’s face was taut, dead white, and his hand was trembling. That might have been from the cold but I didn’t think so.
There are giants, Robert. Giants in the ground.
When Selina and I had first discussed the Broad Haven Triangle I had laughed and had expected her to laugh with me. But I didn’t feel like laughing now. There were just so many stories, surely they couldn’t all be lies?
‘What happened then, Martin?’ I asked.
‘It came nearer, right up to me, and I swung a punch.’
‘That was rather brave,’ Randall said.
‘Would have hit it too, only it just sort of blinked out. Disappeared! And appeared next to the fence that surrounds the secret American base. And then . . .’ He shook his head. ‘I know how this is going to sound . . . but I swear it’s true . . . It drifted straight through the fence. Like a ghost.’
Drifted through the fence? Wasn’t that exactly what had happened at RAF Croughton in 1963, the night of the protests?
‘After that,’ Martin said in a listless voice, ‘all hell broke loose on the base. An explosion. The ground shook. Men bellowing at each other. And then a siren.’
‘Robert?’ Randall asked. ‘You all right?’
‘Yeah.’ I pulled in a ragged breath. ‘Go on, Martin.’
‘I found my girlfriend down the road. She had to drive me home. The state I was in.’
‘Did she believe you?’ I asked.
‘Only when I drew it for her. I sat down and smoked about twenty fags and I got a pen and paper and drew that figure.’ His eyes went distant again, and he shook his head from side to side. ‘Some sort of fucking monster.’ He rubbed at his swollen eyelids. ‘The next day three men came to my house. Hats, no eyebrows. Men dressed all in black.’
Men dressed all in black? I tried reaching for the memory, but it was blurry.
‘After that a woman came – called Selina – said she wanted to help. But she lied!’ he said, suddenly excited. ‘She took my drawing of the . . . the thing, away. All she wanted was information – about what I saw, and that couple who were murdered on the cliffs. Wanted me to go and see her at that hotel in Broad Haven.’ He began backing away from us.
I held up a hand. ‘Now calm down. All we want to do is h—’
‘There’s no time, don’t you see? What if they come back?’ Martin’s face was twisted, his eyes glittering furiously. ‘I think about doing things sometimes,’ he added in a whisper. ‘Hurting people. Hurting myself.’
Randall glanced at me and our eyes met.
‘I think it would be a good idea for you to stay away from the base from now on,’
Randall said gently, but Martin was shaking his head. Before we could say another word, he turned and ran away into the shadows of the ruin.
‘There goes a haunted man,’ Randall said huskily. From under his fierce eyebrows he gave me a worried stare. ‘Robert, do you believe in evil?’
‘Of course.’
‘What about the devil?’
‘No.’
‘I’m not talking about a little red man with a fork. I mean the force of evil that is ancient and for ever, the cosmic powers in this present darkness, the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places.’
In anger and confusion I turned away as a gust of freezing sea air struck my face. His mention of evil had affected me in a way I didn’t understand, pricking the back of my mind, and my legs had a strange, loose feeling.
‘I have to go back to the Haven Hotel,’ I said.
‘Fine, I’ll come with you.’
‘No.’
He watched me. There was no anger in his face, only deep concern. ‘We are but children in the wilderness. Robert, my boy, for the love of God, leave the village. Go now.’
I heard him and I didn’t. All his talk of the devil had opened a pit in my mind, and all sorts of troubled thoughts were pouring into it.
Martin’s words: All she wanted was information – about what I saw, and that couple who were murdered on the cliffs. Wanted me to go and see her at that hotel in Broad Haven.
I stopped, looked briefly across the bay to the Haven Hotel on the cliff edge. What had Selina found there? I voiced the thought, and Randall nodded as if this was no more than he expected. ‘You think there’s a connection between Selina, the hotel and the Jackson murders?’
‘That,’ I said, ‘is one of the things I intend to find out.’
From The Mind Possessed: A Personal Investigation into the Broad Haven Triangle
by Dr R. Caxton (Clementine Press, 1980) p.28
That winter silver-suited humanoids appeared all over the Havens. My first thought was that a prankster was at work. Was it coincidence that a local company manufactured firefighting clothing in the form of a three-piece silver suit? Even though the company was quick to reassure me that they weren’t missing any suits, it was still possible that someone local had access to one.
There was however another more intriguing theory to explain the origin of these extraordinary beings. Perhaps they were fantasies of the mind originating from folklore? I certainly couldn’t discount that idea. The ancient Celts believed in all sorts of manifestations – gods, light elves, dark elves, men, the dead, dwarves and giants. Indeed, the deity called Grimnismal was also known as Grimr, the Hooded or Masked One. Or Hjalmberi, the Helmet Bearer. We cannot overlook the fact that the giant silver figures witnessed in the Havens were also masked, or faceless; and of course, they appeared to be wearing helmets . . .
– 26 –
Haven Hotel, Skyview Hill, Little Haven
The hotel was in darkness; the power must have been out again. As I picked my way up the meandering driveway, my thoughts slipped from Martin Marshall’s description of the faceless humanoid to Selina’s covert investigation in the Havens. I didn’t know what I feared, only that I had to know how far Selina’s investigation had gone, what she had learned. A military experiment gone astray. A clever hoax. Or something . . . what? Supernatural?
As soon as I knew more, I would phone the admiral and update him. What I didn’t want to do was ask him for help, or show I needed it. He had trusted me enough to set me this task, and I had no intention of letting him down.
I mounted the steps to the arched Gothic doorway and knocked. Waited. When I looked up into the evening sky punched with stars I thought, No, there aren’t any spiritual forces of evil up there. Then an irrational but no less disconcerting thought pushed in: What if the sky is conscious? What if it’s watching you right now?
From behind the door came the rough sound of a bolt shooting back. Then Araceli appeared, standing there with a weary expression. ‘Robert, it’s late.’ She saw the state of me, her eyes running from the scratches on my face down to my mud-covered jeans. ‘God! What happened?’
‘You told me Selina asked you questions. You didn’t tell me she stayed here.’
Araceli blinked once. ‘I don’t generally give out the names of my guests.’
That felt like an evasive response. ‘Can you show me the room she had?’
‘I don’t remember.’
I studied Araceli’s face in the poor light. Her eyes were even puffier than before, and there was a red mark on the left side of her face.
I fished in my pocket for the pencil drawing I had brought from London. An enormous figure which broad shoulders, square head and a blacked-out face. ‘Look at this.’
Before taking the paper she produced a torch from her cardigan pocket and clicked it on. She shone the beam on the drawing and I watched a frown crease her brow, watched her hands begin to tremble slightly.
‘Selina gave me this drawing. It came to her from Martin Marshall, a young man living near Brawdy,’ I said. ‘A giant silver figure he saw drift right through the facility’s security fence. Selina interviewed him. She knew this had happened before, at RAF Croughton in 1963. I believe she was targeted, in London, for what she knew.’
‘Targeted by whom?’
I shook my head. ‘Please, I need to see her old room. In case she left something behind.’
‘No, I would have noticed.’
‘Well, let’s make sure, shall we?’
As she hesitated I remembered the missing key I had noticed earlier behind the reception desk. Remembered the hotel was closed for the season.
‘It’s Room 12, isn’t it?’
‘All right,’ Araceli said finally, ‘but you’ll have to be quiet. Tessa is sleeping.’
I stepped into the gloomy hallway and registered the same chalky unpleasant smell as before. From the corner the suit of armour watched me. As I followed her up the creaking stairs I wondered how on earth she managed up here alone.
We reached a wooden door marked with a splintered crack and Araceli stopped. She focused the beam of her torch on my chest. ‘Does Randall know you’re here?’
‘He knows,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure he approves. It’s like he doesn’t want me anywhere near here.’
She looked away for a moment, looked blank.
‘Araceli?’
‘Robert, I want you to promise me that whatever you find, whatever information you share with Randall, you’ll tell me, won’t you?’
I hesitated.
‘Promise me!’ There was no mistaking the warning in her tone. ‘Randall is hiding something from us. But he knows his stuff, and it’s important we’re all on the same page.’
The episode had left me flustered but keen to explore, so I agreed and looked on as she took a key from her pocket and opened the door. Araceli didn’t bother to try the light switch, but swung the torch around. Two beds with floral sheets, dusty pink lampshades, threadbare yellow curtains. I crossed to the window, pressed my fingertips against the cold glass, ran my fingers across the sill.
I lingered for a moment, looking out through the darkness, through my reflection, to a speck of light out to sea in the direction of Stack Rocks.
The room smelt of mildew and mothballs.
‘Can I take the torch, please?’
Araceli handed it to me and crossed her arms as I checked the drawers of the bedside cabinet.
Empty.
‘How long did she stay?’
‘Three nights.’
‘And was she the only guest?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why this room in particular?’
Araceli shrugged, unconcerned. ‘She asked for it.’
I considered this. ‘You’re telling me everything,’ I asked. ‘Right?’
>
‘I’m sorry,’ was all she said, and when I saw her slumped shoulders I wanted to take my question back, make it kinder. More, I wanted to . . . hold her.
‘I’m sorry for wasting your time,’ I said. ‘Let’s go.’ But then, ‘Wait.’
I had glimpsed in the bobbing torchlight a heavy-looking iron grille above the open fireplace. It was probably just an air vent. We would go, but first I had to look behind that grille. I couldn’t reach without standing on something. I picked up the bedside cabinet, took it across the room to the fireplace and stood on top of it. It was stable enough. My hand reached for the grille, pulled it out.
‘Pass me the torch, please.’
Araceli handed it up to me.
I felt nothing at first. Just cold, damp bricks. And cobwebs.
But wait. I sucked in a breath as my hand touched something firm at the back of the cavity.
‘What is it?’ Araceli asked.
A notebook . . . was that a notebook?
– 27 –
I turned to the first page. It was Selina’s handwriting. No doubt about that.
Why would she hide it here? Why not bring it back to London?
A simple heading confirmed all of my suspicions about Selina’s secret work: ‘The Broad Haven Triangle.’
‘Please, don’t read it in here,’ Araceli said suddenly. ‘I hate this room.’ She was at the door, rubbing her arms and eying the battered leather notebook, which was like a deadweight in my hands. ‘Bring it downstairs.’
I don’t know why I whispered my reply, but I did. ‘Wait, please, just a moment.’ I sat down on the bed nearest the window. Something was keeping me in this room, a terrible, black fear . . . I pressed my wrists against my eyes, wanting to blot out the image that was surfacing. An image of the future: Selina’s coffin sinking into a yawning grave.