Neighbourhood Watch

by Lex Sinclair

  Sherri smiled at that thought. She was nothing more than an addict.

  She began reading...

  .... In 1901, the town of Neath was a lot different to the one at the end of the century. (See photographs) Much of the land was populated by herds of sheep, cows and other livestock. However, for its time, the town was rather busy, just like today. But at night, the joviality expressed by the townsfolk during the day, happily working hard, running errands and feeding their families, was disrupted by a group of ostracised monks from the Monastery in Neath Abbey, situated alongside the canal. (The dilapidated monastery is now used as a tourist attraction). The four men were forbidden to have anything to do with the male religious group or any work related to religion. They were cast out for the horrific murder of one of their fellow brothers .According to the limited records, the four evictees had cut the man’s face off, tied a rope the size of a man’s arm around the neck of the unfortunate victim and hurled him out of a three-storey window. Then, once the brother had stopped thrashing about and became limp, they pulled him back inside. They took the ragged flesh of his face with them and hung it up on a nearby tree on the grounds outside.

  The cadaver without a face was discovered hanging upside down on a seven foot cross on the monastery grounds, splattering droplets of blood which ran down the victims’ naked body in long, snaking crimson streams.

  The four murders had packed their belongings and were hurrying across the field, when the other monks shouted and chastised them, informing the four hooded figures that if they were ever seen or apprehended, they would face an unthinkable punishment for their terrible, unforgivable sin.

  The group of four men fled their sanctuary on foot and headed for the town, disappearing into the countryside where they went into hiding.

  Only when the livestock was found gutted, with their innards spilled out on the land did farmers’ and other townsfolk become suspicious of someone cutting up the animals for food.

  The cows were milked; the lambs slaughtered, and before long the owners had congregated on one cold night in the middle of November, brandishing long pieces of timber with cloths wrapped at the top drenched in oil and set alight, seething, wanting the four murderous, hooded figures to pay for their increasing number of sins. They spread out across the land in three groups in search for the evil wrongdoers.

  When the four devil-worshippers saw one of the groups heading up the steep rise towards their hideout, they formed a circle around their dominant leader.

  The angry mob found them at the top of the rise, stopping when they saw that the hooded figures were making no attempt to break their circle, assuming it was a sign of them surrendering, finally, and facing up to the consequences that would certainly follow. Yet, as they moved forwards, the circle broke. The leader rose to his feet, fast as lighting, and seized one of the farmer’s by his throat, who - in great shock - dropped his torch to the ground and felt the force of something far more powerful than anything of this earth, because his whole body became flaccid, as though every bone in his anatomy had suddenly broken in thousands of pieces and could no longer support him.

  The other members of the mob gasped. Then they began trembling violently, staggering on their spaghetti legs, wanting, needing to get as far away from the foursome, who were evidently not human. They only appeared to be to disguise their true, grotesque, identities.

  A purple mist drifted up from the flickering flames on the ground and coiled around the Acolytes of Doom.

  A young boy, approximately the age of twelve, getting shoved by the other frightened members of the mob stared right at the leader, who had just crushed every bone in his father’s body like it was merely clay. The boy stood, unmoving as the foursome moved forward as one, standing steadfast until he caught the undivided attention of the leader, who was now regarding him in the gloom beneath the hood covering his features.

  In his left hand the boy held his burning torch, feeling the heat from the tongue of orange flames warm the skin on his face. In his right hand, concealed in the sleeve, the young lad clutched a dagger in sweaty palms.

  What happened next was reported by the other members of the mob as pure good fortune for the boy, who’d just lost his father.

  Apparently, the boy charged the leader with his burning torch. The torch was swatted away with the back of the leader’s hand, effortlessly; however, what the leader hadn’t anticipated was the sharp object in the boy’s other hand when he lifted him off his feet by the scruff of his neck. The boy kicked out, connecting with the evil creature’s abdomen to no avail, waiting patiently, prudently, until the hooded figure brought the boy close enough so he could smell his acrid breath and see his curved sneer, before stabbing the dagger into the creature’s unprotected throat, piercing the jugular vein, spraying a warm deep red over the boy’s astonished, but delighted face.

  The creature, in disguise of a man, dropped the boy, slapping both hands over the deep, jagged knife wound, desperately trying to stop the flow of blood leaking his body, causing a wave of dizziness to assail him.

  The mob saw their opportunity to attack - now that the leader of the quartet was down and soon to be dead - and battered the other three hooded figures with their timber boards, jabbing them with the ends, kicking and stomping on them with great fury. Their high-pitched shrieks in the crisp night air sounded like soft music in their ears. And when the foursome were no longer holding their arms up to futilely protect themselves and screaming in protest, the mob set their robes alight, watching the lashing flames engulf the soft material and sear the flesh. Their faces rippled, boiled and were eventually scalded into charcoal, flaying from the bone beneath. A gust of wind peeled the ash-skin from the skeleton frame, disintegrating overhead in the sparkling night sky.

  When it was certain that the four monks were in fact dead - one by one, members of the angry mob hauled their lifeless bodies over their shoulders and carried them down the incline to the bottom of the hilltops where the others waited their return.

  By dawn the following day, it had been decided that the foursome would be buried on unused land on the outskirts of the town centre. The ground was excavated a good ten feet into the earth by eager townsfolk, who couldn’t wait to get rid of the cadavers already attracting swarms of flies and already beginning to decompose now that there was no life in their shells.

  Once the graves had been dug, witnesses all around the nearby area watched as the cadavers were dropped - not lowered gently - into the holes, without any care or respect. Then, observing the bodies in a bundle at the bottom, sheltered from the sunshine, the townsfolk volunteers refilled the holes; not bothering to mark the graves (they wanted to forget even the memory of such evil-doers) so future generations would see that a part of the land was a burial ground for four murderous individuals...

  Today the burial ground where the four monks were supposedly buried is now a peaceful neighbourhood, consisting of three streets; Parr Avenue; Thorburn Close, and Willet Close.

  Sherri sat motionless, reading the last sentence again, incredulous. Everything she’d just read had been absorbed with alacrity. But the more she read the more she felt the hairs on the nape of her neck stand to attention, realising what the account was actually saying, without pointing it out directly, word for word. Her mouth had drained of spit.

  Very slowly, very deliberately, she removed her spectacles, closed the tome over and closed her eyes.

  I live on a burial ground! her mind screamed at her.

  She stood up, gripping the back of the chair for support and crossed the living room into the kitchen area to make herself a cup of tea to quench her thirst, but mostly to, hopefully, calm her nerves.

  Am I standing on top of their graves right now? she thought. God, that was dreadful to even consider, yet it could very well be that she actually was standing atop their graves. How would she know?

  Th
en, out of blue, a thought came to Sherri that calmed her, slightly. Surely, when the foundations were dug on the land this side of the canal, the builders would have spotted the skeletons from the beginning of the nineteenth century and had them removed at once. Unfortunately that thought was countered by another one. If they discovered the bodies while digging the foundations, perhaps they would have stopped what they were doing until an investigation was done, to find out whom the four skeletons belonged to.

  If so, then they’d probably decide not to build on the burial ground, after all.

  But what if no one spotted the four skeletons and knew nothing of this legend and built on their burial ground, anyway? And for some peculiar reason, that seemed to be the most credible to Sherri’s way of thinking; and, if so, she and her cordial neighbours were living on top of four evil men’s graves, and had been from the moment they moved into their current homes.

  She felt the cold deliberating dread in her marrow.

  5.

  Jake was up early on Saturday morning, smearing strawberry jam on his and Emma’s slices of toast. After their discussion last night, and Emma explaining that Michael only talked to her about the events occurring on Thorburn Close relating to the disappearances and murders, Jake was his old-self again. He knew he sometimes became paranoid, thinking of the worst case scenarios when it involved his wife talking to another man, but for the life of him he just couldn’t help it. Automatically he became insecure and envious when Emma was enjoying the company of someone of the opposite sex, even on a non-sexual, cordial manner.

  He put the two slices of toast on one plate and then did the same with two other pieces. Then, studiously, departed the kitchen and made his way up the staircase towards their bedroom, where Emma was propped up in bed watching a rerun of Eastenders.

  Jake nudged the bedroom door open, giving himself enough room to enter, then handed Emma her breakfast before getting under the duvet himself. According to the alarm clock it was 8:09a.m., and in spite of the curtains being closed, Jake could see a sliver of sunshine peeking through the gap onto the carpet.

  Today is gonna be a beautiful day. With that thought fresh in his mind, Jake devoured his slices of toast, got dressed, and then wasted no time taking the plates downstairs and washed the dishes. By the time nine o’clock came around, he was standing on the doorstep, his face tilted towards the radiant glow, inhaling the cool morning air.

  ***

  Michael Gibson was in his garage by nine o’clock that morning wearing only loose gym bottoms. The upper half of his body was naked. He laid back on the bench press, placed his hands shoulder-width apart, gripping the Olympic twenty-two kilogram barbell, counted silently to three, then lifted the sixty-two kilograms off the rack and pumped out twenty explosive repetitions, placing the bar back in its original position, then got up and added another twenty kilo plate on either side. He pressed fifteen reps. He continued to do this until the weight was up to one hundred and eighty kilograms. By the time he finished bench pressing, his pectoral muscles were swollen with blood, massive and looking even more fantastic coated in a sheet of sweat.

  His workout lasted a whole hour and by the time Michael had finished training his chest, triceps and biceps, he could have auditioned for the Incredible Hulk role; all that was missing was the green skin.

  He dried himself with a clean white towel, went back inside his house and put a short-sleeve shirt on, then decided to go outside for some fresh air while he gulped down his protein shake.

  As his eyes adjusted to the brilliant sun, Michael noticed his neighbour, Jake, across the road, doing the same thing. He raised his hand in greeting. Jake reciprocated the friendly gesture. Then, to Michael’s surprise, Jake crossed the street and walked down his path.

  ‘Hey! What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing special,’ Michael replied.

  ‘Heard any more about what’s going on down the road?’

  ‘Apart from those two bodies they found in the barn at that farmhouse, I haven’t heard anything. To be honest, now that it’s all kind of gruesome, I don’t think I wanna know. Love to get my hands on the bastard that did it, though. Know what I mean?’

  Jake nodded, nervous. The eye-popping muscles and intertwining veins on the surface of his neighbour’s glistening flesh gave him detailed images of Michael getting the culprit in his grasp and making them wish they’d never been born.

  ‘Hey!’ a voice called out. Both Jake and Michael pivoted.

  The door to number two stood ajar as Hugh Green, struggled to get his slippers on. He hurried across the street, limping, not bothering to look if there was a car coming or not and jogged over to them, out of breath already.

  Michael swallowed the mouthful of chocolate protein; then asked, ‘Are you all right?’

  Hugh nodded; then shook his head, as though he wasn’t sure whether or not he was all right or not. He didn’t look like he couldn’t decide for a moment. He spoke hurriedly. ‘A friend of mine - an ex-postman - called me just now and told me that there are police and all sorts of authorities in Seven Sisters outside the house of one of the investigating officers to the residents of Thorburn Close. He said he’s not sure, but according to word-of-mouth, the investigator is dead.’ Hugh bent at the waist, breathing hard.

  Michael downed the rest of his drink. ‘Take your time, Hugh.’

  Eventually Hugh’s respiration returned to normal again. ‘I’m... all right. Jus’ got a little overexcited, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, take your time then,’ Jake said, repeating what Michael had said, resting a hand on top of the retired postman’s skinny shoulder.

  Michael got up from where he was sitting. ‘If what you’re saying is true, then the authorities are dealing with it. There’s nothing we can do about it, is there? I mean, it doesn’t even concern us. We don’t know what the circumstances are.’

  Hugh nodded in total agreement.

  Jake glanced at Michael, as Hugh readjusted his spectacles, which were hanging askew, expressing his worry. If what Hugh’s friend told him was true, and the police officer had been murdered, then perhaps it did concern them.

  Joe watched his three neighbours, obviously discussing something of great importance across the street from his attic window. He got up from his director’s chair, exited the attic and descended the stairs to the ground floor, hoping he could still catch the men outside, so he too could find out what they were talking about.

  The three men raised their heads at the sound of another door opening.

  Hugh beamed at his neighbour and friend, beckoning him to come over. Joe calmly jogged to where they were all standing. Hugh introduced Joe to Michael and Jake, who immediately recognised him. They talked benignly for a short while about Joe’s accomplishments inside the ring. Then Joe asked, ‘Do you guys get together every once in a while, or is this a special occasion?’

  Hugh explained to Joe what they’d been discussing; although Michael added that at the moment it wasn’t known for definite.

  ‘Jesus!’ Joe exclaimed. ‘Only the other day did Inspector Sark offer to give me a ride home. From the brief chat we had, he seemed like an okay-type-of-guy.’

  Hugh stopped him. ‘No. According to my friend, this guy isn’t Inspector Sark, this was his partner.’

  ‘This whole thing seems fuckin’ weird, if you ask me,’ Jake said.

  ‘You mean the disappearances and dead bodies?’ Michael asked.

  Jake nodded. ‘There seems no logic to any of it.’

  Joe regarded Hugh and said, ‘Lets just hope your friend’s information is wrong, and that police officer is still alive. Because, if whoever’s doing this can get to cop without being seen, then the rest of us are in great danger, if they do choose to try our street next.’

  None of them spoke for a short while. What Joe had said silenced them. He saw the vacant
stares of his three neighbours, feeling a little bit guilty for having stated something he thought was pretty obvious.

  ‘Hey, who’s up to coming over my house to watch the rugby later on?’ Joe asked. ‘The place is still a bit of a mess, but there’s a sofa and widescreen TV to watch the game on.’

  Hugh said, ‘Come over my place instead. I got some Carlsburg in the fridge. If you want anything else you’ll have to bring it yourselves.’

  ‘On one condition, though,’ Michael said. The men looked at him. ‘No more talk about this - at least for the time being, anyway. Or any other morbid topics, all right?’

  ‘Deal,’ the others said in unison.

  ***

  Inspector Sark had woken early Saturday morning. He’d sat by the bedroom window watching the sun creep over the horizon, breaking the darkness with its pale light, until the higher it rose the brighter it became. It was actually quite astounding. Lots of people talked about how the sunrise was a beautiful moment, but no one Sark knew actually got up to sit there quietly and see it for themselves.

  Four and half hours later the sun was so bright, he couldn’t look at it without shielding his eyes or squinting. It wasn’t the slightest bit important any more. The sun, as dazzling as it was, was just something in his peripheral vision, while he stood with his back leaning on the garden wall watching the forensics scrutinising the property inside and out for any clues that would help them solve Reeves’ grisly death.

  He knew he had to be strong for himself and for his deceased partner, now more than ever. He may have been the pessimistic out of the two, but for the time being he’d have to put this tragedy behind him. He was going to spend every minute of every day hunting these perpetrators.