The Lychgate

by Devon De'Ath

  Joe clutched at his shoulder. “I think it’s too late.”

  Michaela Claridge crested the rise with her daughter. Sarah registered the tragedy in a heartbeat. She stood frozen to the spot, mouth agape.

  Robert Mason puffed up the bank and approached Abigail. “Is it Tim?”

  The psychic nodded. “I’m afraid so. Looks like he fell in the river and couldn’t get out. Bob, I don’t think I can stay here much longer. But I’ve nowhere else to go and these people have become my friends. I don’t want to abandon them.”

  “Okay. I’ll offer to fetch help. Pete and Maggie can’t drive with the state they’re in. My Landy should cope with the mud okay. Do you want to come along? It’ll get you off site for an hour or two, if nothing else.”

  Connie drew closer. “I heard that, Bob. Thanks. You pair sure you’ll be okay? It’ll be dark soon and the water keeps rising.”

  “Should be all right. Worst case they might bring the air ambulance in to take Tim’s body away. If it can fly in this awful weather. The wind’s getting stronger. We’d best not attempt to transport him ourselves.”

  “What if you pair get cut off on the other side?” Connie asked.

  “Then we’ll be back as soon as we can.” He hesitated with narrowing eyes. “Connie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t worry. We will be back. Abigail’s been suffering a rough time with her sensitivity, that’s all.”

  “I know. We’ve all caught the jitters in the last few days. I’m only concerned for your safety. Be careful. Don’t take any risks.”

  Stephen Colefax clasped both hands together before reddening eyes in the church. Martin Bradbury and Daniel Charter laid the body of Tim Leonard on the tarpaulin they’d used for the skeleton. A stern community talk the day before about its mysterious disappearance, yielded no confessions or contrite jokers. Nor did it produce the unearthed corpse, which remained missing. Repeated offers of exemption from penalty or chastisement also hadn’t worked. The vanished remains of that ancient holy man had become an unsettling mystery among the residents. Worse, Reverend Colefax caught two distinct strains of whispering during the short day leading up to this latest tragic event. The first was a suspicion of others within the group. The second, resurrected rumours of ghouls and ghosts at Deeping Drove. Colefax didn’t know which might prove most destructive, nor which to believe more. He drew Peter and Margaret Leonard close. Dean Claridge lit candles on stands at the head and foot of the table. His wife and daughter looked on from a respectful distance. Sarah couldn’t take her eyes off her schoolmate and friend. She half expected his lashes to flutter open and life to resume as normal. But all her longing for that to happen produced no evidence of a result.

  Robert Mason’s maroon Land Rover bumped and splashed along what had once been a dirt track out to the modern world. Now it resembled a muddy causeway at the turning tide. Vast swathes of the community land disappeared beneath rising water. Roadside ditches filled their deceptive depths like open snares, ready to bust the vehicle’s suspension should its driver misjudge his route of egress. The car stereo picked up a scratchy local radio transmission. According to the news, things were worse than expected in the wider landscape. Electric pumping stations that kept the fens from flooding had failed. Their back-up generators were offline and engineers didn’t expect to restore power and functionality anytime soon. The region had declared a high flood alert and there were widespread power outages in the world of electric light and timesaving appliances.

  “This will make things tougher,” Bob said, casting one sidelong glance at his nervous passenger.

  Abigail hunched over the dashboard as if it would enable her to see beyond the limited range of their headlights.

  Bob tapped the top of his instrument console. “Thank God for the Disco. Wouldn’t want to try this in your average saloon car.”

  “Bob." She bit her lip. "Would you think I’d finally lost it if I said this storm was unnatural?”

  The historian gritted his teeth. “Was it summoned by the vanishing skeleton?”

  Abigail shot him a withering look.

  He fingered his collar and coughed. “Sorry. Cheap shot. Let’s try to deal with what we do know for now, shall we? No point speculating about what we don’t. Our first priority is to report Tim’s accident to the authorities.”

  “If it was an accident,” the woman mumbled under her breath. She lurched against her seatbelt, which clicked to restrain her. “Bob, look out.”

  The man stomped on the brake, causing their vehicle to sway like a metronome in the slippery, ankle deep mud. Through grinding wipers on double-speed, he picked up the edge of what Abigail saw first. The single-track, old stone bridge stood submerged somewhere beneath water of indeterminate depth ahead of them. “Shit.” He thumped the dash. “I can’t work out where the bridge should be, if it’s even still standing underneath that lot. The landscape has altered so much with the floods. Darkness doesn’t help. Crap, we’ll have to turn back. Even if I had a snorkel on this thing, we could end up swept away or sunk.”

  Abigail’s fingers trembled. She scrunched and flexed them to lessen the effect.

  Bob reversed in a steady semicircle, then set off back the way they'd come.

  As the taillights of the Land Rover disappeared from view, something dislodged from the bottom of a v-shaped drainage channel beside the track. The rising water caused some rusty remains of an overturned Ford Sierra to surface. Rain tinkled against its corroded underside and bubbles emerged from the cabin. Two pairs of skeletal hands, dappled with fragments of half-preserved rotting flesh, broke the water’s surface and clamped onto the unusual raft.

  “Bob, how on earth? You can’t be back already. That was quick. Are the emergency services coming?” Connie whirled on the spot. The historian and psychic stumbled into the church.

  “No. The bridge is either out or under too much water to cross. We heard on the radio that the fenland pumping stations have failed. It’s a full-blown, blue light disaster out there. Floods, high winds, power cuts, no communications. Like four alternate horseman of the fucking apocalypse. Sorry, Reverend.”

  The vicar left Pete and Maggie Leonard to join them. “No matter, Robert. You tried. Thank the Lord you’re both safe.”

  “Amen to that,” Connie added.

  Martin Bradbury got up from where he’d been sitting in a rear pew with Daniel Charter. “Okay, Con. Come first light, I’ll see if I can get to civilisation by boat. It’s our only alternative.” He lowered his voice. “We need to do something. The poor lad won't keep.”

  The vicar grunted. “This church is the best place for now. Friends and family can attend him and it will remain cool. We can air the building later. Are you sure your tiny vessel won’t capsize on the river, Martin? That torrent looks angry.”

  “Tricky but not impossible. I’ll ride the current rather than fight it. As long as it brings me closer to a village, town or somewhere with a phone, that’ll do for now. Though from what Bob’s been saying, the lines might be down.”

  “You’d better get some rest then. May God go with you. I’ll stay with Peter and Margaret.”

  Constance scratched her cheek. “We’d best cancel the Halloween celebration. The idea of holding a party seems inappropriate. Not that anyone will feel much like bobbing for apples tomorrow.”

  Colefax placed one finger across his lips in a thoughtful gesture. “That’s true. Perhaps we'll gather together with the food. A little light during great darkness. The community can use it as a time of solidarity and support to gather round Peter and Margaret." He allowed his gaze to drift across to Michaela and Sarah Claridge. “And each other.”

  Constance nodded. “Good idea. I’ll see word gets around.”

  * * *

  Stephen Colefax was unsurprised to find Margaret Leonard ahead of him on the church path, early next morning. The sound of the lychgate closing behind the vicar, caused the woman to glance across her shoulder. Those tired, r
ed eyes suggested a restless night with little or no sleep. Colefax considered a greeting, but inspiration for suitable words remained fleeting. Instead, he delivered the most caring expression he could produce, drawn from the well of his own sorrow at the loss of young Timothy Leonard. Maggie waited at the porch door and the pair entered together in silence. The vicar removed a black, broad-brimmed hat he wore to ward off the negative effects of both sun and rain. A trickle of water drained from it onto the church flagstones. It had rained all night and showed no signs of letting up for the duration of All Hallows Eve. Inside the church, the only sound to slice through the heavy atmosphere was a gasp from both new arrivals. Once again the tarpaulin lay empty. Tim Leonard’s body was gone. A cursory rummage around the structure yielded no sign of the drowned corpse.

  Constance met Stephen and Maggie as they yanked open the church door to leave. “Oh no, what now?”

  Maggie’s chin wobbled. “Someone’s taken Tim.”

  Connie backed out into the rain. “What? You can’t be serious.” It was a pointless question. If the Oxford English Dictionary produced another new illustrated version, the faces staring back at her would form a perfect pictorial representation of the word ‘serious.’

  Reverend Colefax pulled his jacket collar up beneath his chin. “I’m afraid so.”

  Martin Bradbury hurried through the lychgate and up the church path. The expressions he met at the porch stopped the thatcher dead in his tracks. “What’s happened?”

  Connie pushed matted damp hair out of her eyes. “Tim’s body is missing.”

  Martin’s hands fell limp at his sides. “Surely not? It can’t be one of us. No-one here would be that sick or heartless. Were there any traces? Could it be the puma got inside, or whatever took the skeleton and killed our pigs?”

  Stephen Colefax placed one palm in the small of Maggie’s back. “If a big cat dragged Timothy’s body away, there would be a mess. Also, the church door was shut like before. I hardly think a puma opened and then closed the door behind itself.”

  Martin rubbed his chin. “It must be someone from outside the community, sneaking in at night.”

  The vicar became stern. “Ordinarily I’d agree. But we’re cut off from the outside world in this storm. You know that. So, unless we find whoever is responsible hiding under a bush nearby, that can’t be the answer. Speaking of which: what are you doing here, Martin? I thought you were going to leave at first light? Is the water too dangerous?”

  “It'll be a challenge, but I’ll attempt it. When I woke up, I remembered promising to accompany you and Connie for a quiet word with Darren and Marie. That chat about the girl’s behaviour. Moral support and a pair of strong arms, in case her boyfriend has one of his temper fits. Plus, I was there during the laundry incident and saw the whole thing. Shouldn’t take more than half an hour, I guess. I’ll set off in the boat right after, whether or not we’ve found Tim.”

  Maggie Leonard choked on some saliva sticking in her throat. “You don’t think Marie could have anything to do with this, do you?”

  Connie frowned. “Not likely. Washing her clothes in stale urine gives that creature the fantods. Can you imagine her interfering with a… err corpse?” She clasped Maggie’s arm. “I’m sorry, Mags. Didn’t mean that to come out so heartless. We all loved Tim.”

  “I know.” The farmer’s wife stared at the ground.

  Stephen Colefax jostled between them. “Okay then. The sooner we get that meeting over with, the sooner Martin can go for help. Margaret, will you go home to your husband? Tell him what’s happened, but please wait for us to assemble and conduct a search for Timothy’s body. There are only so many places he could have been put. We’ll find him.”

  Maggie didn’t look up. “Like you found the skeleton?”

  The vicar’s shoulders slumped. He set off down the path without a further word.

  Joe Hargreaves strapped on his tool belt and gave Naomi a lingering kiss. Ever since he’d confronted that inner turmoil and bared his soul to his wife, the builder discovered a simple joy about their relationship he hadn’t known since the couple were young.

  “Try not to get too wet.” Naomi escorted him to the door of their hut.

  “Can’t promise anything. But with the boys to help, we should fix up any storm damage in short order. Jason said he’d meet me at Darren and Marie’s. Connie, Martin and the vicar are attempting to smooth things over with them this morning.”

  “I hope Darren won’t be in a mood after.”

  Joe leaned outside with an upturned palm to the sky. Heavy raindrops bounced off his skin. “If he is, this endless deluge should cool him off.” A gust seized the door from Naomi’s hand and slammed it back against the living room wall. Joe shielded his eyes from blowing swirls of leaf debris. “That wind is bitter, too. You stay in the warm, love. I’ll be back before you know it.”

  Naomi held the door almost shut; enough to watch her husband trudge off through the morning storm, yet still protect herself from the worst of nature’s onslaught. When Joe was out of sight, she shut it fast and returned to the house chores.

  “Don’t be a fool, man. That thing could go off.” Reverend Colefax attempted to quell a shrill tremor in his voice. He had arrived at Darren and Marie’s hut with Connie and Martin earlier than expected. They were keen for the thatcher to set off on his waterborne mission. A howling gale threw open the front door before Connie knocked. Inside, they caught Darren Clements, Marie Craven and Jason Saint stuffing bundles of money into three separate leather holdalls. Jason’s signature calm and easy-going face screwed into one of cold, heartless intent. Now the attending visitors found themselves clustered against one of the living room walls. Darren covered the entire group with a sawn-off shotgun, one agitated finger lingering close to the trigger guard.

  Marie’s pretty face leered at Constance. “So you want an apology, do you? Here’s your fucking apology, bitch.” She stepped forward and slapped the community founder across her face. The impact caused Connie to stumble into the wall. Martin noticed Marie now stood in the line of fire from the wide, spreading arc of her boyfriend’s weapon. He jumped forward to grab hold of the girl.

  Jason Saint pulled a semi-automatic handgun from his holdall, cocked the slide and aimed it straight at the thatcher’s face. “Do you want to be a hero, big fella? You reckon we won’t use these?” His light-grey eyes shone with psychotic detachment.

  Outside, Joe Hargreaves was about to rap his knuckles on the door, when he overheard Jason’s comment. He’d always had a strange sensation that the cheery labourer’s voice sounded familiar. Now he knew where he’d heard it before and the memory wasn’t a pleasant one. His new calm demeanour vanished with the boiling of blood raised in fury. The need to exact some measure of vengeance surpassed any semblance of rationality. He burst through the front door and launched himself at Darren Clements. These thugs were the ones who took their money during the Crowland raid. While he and Naomi were at their lowest ebb having sold all her special treasures, this heartless gang robbed them blind. The two burly men struggled on the floor. Marie Craven skipped from side to side, attempting to kick the builder in his gut. Jason waved his handgun with frantic indecision over the combatants as they rolled like a bottle in the hull of a storm-tossed ship. He didn’t dare discharge that weapon, lest he kill Darren by mistake. Martin Bradbury shifted left. The handgun muzzle trained on him.

  “I won’t tell you again, thatcher.” Jason clamped his teeth together with a snap.

  Marie got a boot in, winding the crimson-faced builder in his rabid, curse-heavy assault. Darren grabbed his sawn-off shotgun from where it had clattered to the floor by the fireplace. Joe reached for him and the men rolled away again, shotgun barrels pointing straight up between their horizontal, tumbling torsos. Darren arched back, brought his knee into his assailant’s groin and gripped the weapon’s handle. An explosive release of both barrels flashed in the windows of the hut. Its sound in such an enclosed space caused ears to
ring. The front of Joe Hargreaves’ face vanished in a puff of pellets that embedded themselves into the far wall. White skull fragments and pink shredded brains emptied onto the floor; a silent stream of rich, crimson blood close behind. Connie clapped both palms against her cheeks and turned away. Tears stung Stephen Colefax’s eyes. Martin Bradbury wrung his hands in helpless frustration and anger.

  Outside, other hut doors opened and figures loomed across thresholds into the rain, disturbed by the firearm’s report.

  Darren pulled his gun free from the lifeless hands of the disfigured torso staining the floor. He flipped open the breach and replaced the spent cartridges with two new ones from a bandolier coiled beside his bag. Marie threw her arms around him. The pair engaged in an open-mouthed, tongue-wrestling kiss.

  Stephen Colefax almost spat. “How could you? And after killing a good man you worked with for so long?”

  Darren’s eye’s narrowed. “I didn’t tell him to burst in here and attack me. It was self-defence. Anyway, this place is a means to an end for us. So are its residents.”

  Connie’s nose wrinkled. “You’re the gang the cops were after last Christmas. How many robberies was it again?”

  Marie patted their bags. “Enough. This shithole was the best place to lie low.”

  Connie’s eyes glittered. “I see. Hide out of the way, but in plain sight. An anonymous, off-grid community with no links to the outside world. Clever. Wait until the heat is off, then slip away wherever you please.”

  Marie hocked back a gob of saliva and spat in the woman’s face. “Guess you’re gonna stop eyeing up my brother now.”

  Connie wiped the spit away with two slow fingers. “Brother? So you’re not a Craven?”

  Marie snorted. “Fucking stupid name. Decaf came up with it. I’m Marie Saint.”

  “Marie Saint? ‘Angel.’ I see.” Connie shifted her gaze to the handsome blond robber, head angling with sarcastic inquiry. “Decaf? On account of how calm you are? Or is that how cold and heartless?”

  Jason ignored her and cocked one eyebrow at Martin Bradbury. “Care to try it?”