CHAPTER XVII
More shades of grey. Buildings and people. Tints and hues of absence of colour. Smirring rain glossing the pavements with an oily sheen.
A name, suddenly, on the wall of a street flashing past. Golden Road. I close my eyes to shut it out. She had made me say it, over and over. Traced the letters with my fingers. ‘That’s where I’ll be.’
She had written it down. I threw the piece of paper in the bin as soon as she left. Crushing it up in my hand first. Maybe she knew I would, and that’s why she had made me repeat it to her, again and again.
‘Golden Road. Get the 44 bus and ask to be put off at the traffic lights. The close is just opposite, top flat. Come any time.’
Standing in the hall with her suitcase, by the open front door. I turned my head away so that I did not see her go.
But I heard. ‘Solomon, I’m sorry.’
I heard. The door closing.
And she was gone. I was left.
But I didn’t care so much. She would never help me do up my tie or my shoelaces, whereas Dad would. She was the boring one who made me try to write my homework over and over. The one who forced me to sound out the spelling words, while he only glanced at my reading book and then told me the story the way it ought to be.
What a dope I am.
She loved me.
‘Feeling sick?’ Ms Talmur asks.
I shake my head and open my eyes. We have stopped at the traffic lights. There is the close mouth. Just there. My eyes travel upwards. A lamp shines in the window at the top of the building. I look at it. My swollen heart, a bruised plum in my chest.
The blurred red of the traffic light throbs ready to burst. Ms Talmur stares at it, then glances at me. She frowns. Gently, softly, she stretches her fingers out towards me.
NO!
Then suddenly, her hand moves down, and she switches on the car radio. Loudly.
The music fills the empty space.
The light changes and she accelerates off on the amber. She turns the wheel and we cross the intersection. Carefully I exhale my breath. I touch my face. It is wet.
‘Watch out for a brick building on the left,’ she says. ‘Two storeys high, with pillars at the front.’
She is driving more slowly. Peoples’ faces are closer, expressions more detailed. Experience the master mason who has carved on these blank stones. Lines of anxiety, grooves of grief and pain, channels of laughter and love.
I see it first. ‘There.’ I point.
She gives me a quick smile. ‘Well done.’
I shrug and look away.
Look away. Look away. Beulah. I wish I was in Dixie, oh yeah.
She draws in and parks by the roadside.
My legs are weighted heavy as I get out of the car. Like walking through water in the swimming pool, trying to hurry, pushing forward, wading in syrup.
Useless.
Like me.
No point in trying.
What for?
My skin is hot and my hands shake. I stick them in my pocket and hunch up my shoulders. Then she has locked the car and is round to my side. She tucks her arm through mine, and walks smartly beside me.
‘Cheer up, Solomon. Please,’ she says. ‘I know your head must be aching. You’ve done a tremendous amount of work today, and you probably feel that you’ve not got very far.’ She laughs. ‘And to be quite truthful, you haven’t. But the beginning is going to be the worst. You haven’t tried to learn anything for such a long time that it is going to be tough for you to start with.’
I stop in the courtyard and face her. ‘It’s going to be tough most of the time. Isn’t it?’
She stares straight back. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Want to give up right now?’
I shuffle my feet. ‘Maybe.’
‘OK,’ she says lightly. ‘Back to Warrior Watkins tomorrow then.’ She draws her arm away and walks on without me.
‘I just said, “Maybe”,’ I call after her.
She swings round and wags her finger in my face. ‘Well don’t,’ she snaps. ‘I don’t deal with “maybes” or “perhaps” or “nearly” people. I’m not going to waste my time with the “almosts”. She grabs my arm again. ‘Solomon, you couldn’t be a “maybe” even if you tried. Come on, let’s see what Professor Miller has found out.’
We go into the building and ask for him. They buzz his office and direct us up. It’s on the top floor. As the lift doors open he comes to meet us from his room. He is very excited.
‘I think I may have found something that might interest you,’ he says. ‘In fact, several things. Some to do with the smallpox victims. They died in an epidemic during the 1850s. They were all children, many of them brothers and sisters. Tragic really. But there is also some material relating back to the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. There was a witch hunt in this area. The last person to be burnt as a witch in Scotland was in Dornoch, in the Highlands, in 1722. However, there was a trial here the previous year. I’ve put the relevant documents aside for us to look at.’
I see beyond him into the office. There is a figure standing there. The bars of an electric fire glow bright red behind it, giving it a hard black outline. It reaches out its finger and points at me.
‘No!’ I step back.
Ms Talmur turns to me. ‘What is it, Solomon? What’s wrong?’
The professor looks round. ‘It’s only Amy,’ he says. ‘She begged to be allowed to come, especially when she heard that Solomon was going to be here. I promised her mother that I wouldn’t keep her too late.’
The child moves forward into the light, and now I know her. All senses are stripped, my eyes see all there is to see, my ears hear every whisper.
I recognise her as she comes towards me.
Professor Miller’s daughter.
CHAPTER XVIII
‘Solomon.’ Amy pulls on my hands. ‘You’re cold. Come to the fire.’
She has been sitting on the rug in the office colouring in picture outlines. ‘Do you like these?’ She shows me her drawings.
I nod my head. I crouch down beside her. My eyes are suddenly full of tears and I don’t know why. She chatters on and I take a few gulps of air.
‘Look at this, Solomon,’ Ms Talmur calls to me. ‘It is the Burial Record Book.’ She reads from the cover, ‘“Register of Burials of Stone Mill Graveyard”. It even has a proper name, your graveyard. There must have been a mill around there at some time. I suppose being close to the river it was a natural place to build one.’
I get up and walk to the table. The professor shows us the old history books of the area, copies of letters and the Sheriff ’s deposition to have the graveyard closed.
‘The Environmental Health Department have consulted with the Health and Safety Executive,’ says Professor Miller. ‘We’re going to have to work on the assumption that there could be a risk from infection. The soil is very wet, in fact there is probably an underground stream running there, but that is actually to our benefit. The smallpox scabs would have to have been kept very dry for any infection to survive.’
‘So, what will happen now?’ asks Ms Talmur.
‘The officials will agree a code of practice for general conditions, and also for safe operations, such as digging and removal of suspect remains. They have to make sure that protective clothing, safety boots, respirators, etc. are being used. They will make filter canisters and a special type of disinfectant available. First of all, though, they are going to make the site secure. In fact they’re doing that just now. We can have a look at it later on our way home.’
The professor picks up one of the books and a file from the table. ‘I thought this might be of more interest to you. It’s a much older historical reference, and concerns an incident which took place in this town hundreds of years ago. It’s a collection of letters and trial notes edited and printed by the local minister of the day.’
Ms Talmur opens the file and picks out a yellowed sheet of paper. She squints at it. ‘A trial?’ she queries. ‘What for?�
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‘Witchcraft. Sixteenth and seventeenth-century Scotland were famous for witch-hunting. It became common in every part of this country. It started off with minor punishments for those unfortunate enough to be convicted but quite soon almost everyone found guilty was burnt to death.’
Ms Talmur peers closely at the script in front of her. ‘Gosh, Solomon. You think you’ve got problems. Seventeenth-century Scots spelling is almost impossible to read. Take a look at this.’ She holds it out.
MALEFICE.
The word uncurls out from the page and spits at me.
‘What . . . what is that word?’
Professor Miller leans over my shoulder. ‘It is a Scottish word for witchcraft, or the practice of evil.’
There is a deep dark shadow in the room.
Stretching out over the earth.
A lengthening darkness unfolding, slowly chilling the air.
An evil purpose spreading its deadly intent.
Now . . . I can see from the window, down into the street. On to the stupid and puny humans scuttling about below me.
My breath hisses through my teeth. Through narrowed eyes I watch them. They have tried to grind me down, now I will crush them.
‘Solomon,’ she speaks my name.
‘Miss?’
She looks at me keenly. ‘Are you quite well?’
Oh, yes, very well and getting better. Growing stronger all the time.
She is standing close by the window. In her smart suit, small feet in high heels. Her pretty face is right against the glass pane.
Now.
One hard push and it would shatter. Splintering crystal pieces out and down like a cascading waterfall. Great shards of glass slicing through flesh . . .
‘Solomon!’ she says sharply.
‘Miss?’
‘Sit down.’ She pushes me gently into a chair. ‘Have you eaten anything today?’
I shake my head.
‘We’ll go to McDonald’s on the way home,’ she says.
Home. I want to go home. My hands are trembling. Amy comes over and puts her hands in mine. They are warm. She smiles at me.
‘You’re all right, aren’t you?’ she says. ‘It wasn’t good, what happened long ago.’
‘No,’ says Ms Talmur, ‘it wasn’t good.’
‘Ignorance and fear can poison people’s minds,’ said Professor Miller. ‘That’s why these poor women were condemned to die. People like to blame their ill luck on someone else. They were used as scapegoats for a bad harvest, cattle disease or inclement weather.’
‘Or trying to cure a sickly child, and be blamed when she dies.’ The thought is in my mind, and I say the words.
‘Yes, indeed,’ says the professor, ‘that was often the case. Sometimes they were healers or “spey-wifes”, and as they didn’t have modern medicine to aid them, their patients frequently did not recover.’
‘It’s a fascinating subject,’ says Ms Talmur. ‘Would you mind if I borrowed these books and letters for a few days?’
‘No,’ says the professor.
‘NO!’ I cry out.
They look up in surprise.
‘It’s horrible. What they did . . . at the trial and after . . .’
She takes the books, letters, papers and places them carefully in a document case. ‘I’ll take these home and read them through.’ She snaps the lock closed. She notices me still watching her. ‘Don’t worry, Solomon. I’m not very squeamish.’
I shake my head. ‘It’s not that. It’s just . . . when you’re reading it . . . be careful.’
She puts her head on one side and looks at me. ‘Why?’
I cannot answer. I do not know why.
‘You think it might disturb me? I’m not of a nervous disposition. But if it will make you feel better I won’t do it tonight. I’ll wait until tomorrow morning.’ She smiles at me. ‘Now come on, let’s go and have something to eat.’
I follow them downstairs and across the courtyard. Professor Miller, Amy, and my teacher. They walk ahead of me chatting casually. They do not know. They cannot feel it. But it’s there. Thicker than air, unseen and deadly, seeping like nuclear fallout or a vague drifting gas, around and into every orifice. Licking at the dark corners of your mind, searching out the flaws, the imperfections. Spreading doubt and mistrust. Feeding on fear, becoming ever more powerful.
Awakening evil.
I watch them.
And I’m afraid.
CHAPTER XIX
They’re erecting a huge fence around the graveyard when we stop on our way home. About two metres high and with murderous barbed wire coiled along the top. All the way around the perimeter. Well clear of the dyke.
I walk quickly through to the back wall as the professor and Ms Talmur speak to each other.
The tree is unrecognisable. A heap of decay and withered death surround it. Nothing appears to have been moved. I lift the end of the tarpaulin with the toe of my boot. The stink is unbearable.
‘There must be a lot of stagnant water lying down there.’ One of the workmen who are hammering the sheetboard together has dropped the nail gun on the damp earth.
‘Never smelt the likes of that before,’ says the other.
‘Bet there’s rats,’ says the first. ‘Glad it’s not me doing that job.’
He picks up his tools and they move on rapidly.
I cast around me. What am I seeking here? I don’t know. I return to the main gate. Amy has not got out of her dad’s car. White face pressed against the window.
There is someone talking to Professor Miller.
‘Most of the extra equipment has been delivered now. Heavy-duty polythene bags, safety boots and helmets, and the respirators.’
I recognise Mr Frame.
‘I’ll have to draft in more men though. That’s the second worker that’s just up and left without giving notice. Gerry Nisbet and Joe Service, both within days of each other. One of their wives, Alison Service, has been at my office every morning. More interested in his pay than his whereabouts right enough. Seems he goes on drinking sprees from time to time.’
They continue their discussion. I touch Ms Talmur’s sleeve. ‘Will you look at Amy’s wrist? She has a cut like the one I had. Says she caught it on the rowan tree that was taken down. Says it’s sore.’
Amy pulls back her sleeve. There is only a faint red line marking her skin. Ms Talmur examines it.
‘I think it’s OK. It hasn’t broken the surface.’ She shows it to Professor Miller.
‘I don’t think it’s gone septic. Just a scratch, really.’ He buttons her blouse cuff. He smiles at me. ‘It’s this place, Solomon, isn’t it? Making you restless. Everything has remained quiet for so long that all this disturbance is worrying.’ He puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘We’ll have it all moved and cleared in a few weeks and then they’ll build the bridge and divert the river and it will be finished.’
Not finished. No. Beginning.
‘Actually, graveyards weren’t always dull places,’ he went on. ‘In the Middle Ages it was quite common practice to hold the town market in the kirkyard. Lots of places still have their medieval market cross in the parish graveyard. It dates back to before the Reformation, when folk would come to monasteries and churches from all over Scotland to celebrate the major religious festivals. Naturally they needed to buy food and drink, and that soon expanded into general trading, cattle dealing and a place for farm labourers to arrange which farm they would work on for the next year. They were known as the “Hiring Fairs”.’
‘You mean thay had cattle and sheep wandering among the graves?’ Ms Talmur asks, looking about her. ‘I can hardly believe it.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Professor Miller laughs. ‘They used the table stones as counters and the walls of mausoleums like a blackboard to mark the prices of their goods. It’s hard for us to imagine it. Nowadays our graveyards are such quiet and reverent places. But in earlier times the markets became quite jolly occasions.
‘In fact p
eople were having so much fun, and often on a Sunday too, that the authorities decided to put a stop to it. The fairs were so well established however, especially in small rural places, that mostly the new laws were ignored. It took a long time before they moved off to a different place in the town.’
‘I’m sure it didn’t happen here,’ I say.
‘No, I think you’re right, Solomon. This is a different type of place altogether. The surveyors think that the river must have originally flowed in this direction a long time ago. They have done test drillings. There is a water table right beneath us, which is probably why the ground is so wet underneath. They can also tell by the vegetation and the soil make-up. So when we redirect the water it will be a case of putting things back as they were.’
He puts Amy in the car and takes me and Ms Talmur to the edge of the road where the river runs down from behind the wood past the graveyard, and shows us where it is being dammed. There is a piece of plant machinery at work dredging at the river edge.
‘So far they have come up with six supermarket trolleys, a couple of old mattresses and about twenty dozen empty beer cans.’
The long arm is spooning out big chunks of mud. Cold, dark-brown liquid pours from the metal shovel as it lifts high into the air. The scoop up-ends and, with a great sucking squelch, deposits its load. Then it swings back to clutch greedily down again into the depths of the river.
We turn away.
There is a sudden shout from the dredger operator. Ms Talmur’s gaze is directed at something beyond my shoulder. She puts her hand to her mouth, her face turning pale with shock.
‘Dear God!’ Professor Miller grips her firmly and steers her towards the car.
I swivel round. I cannot move.
There is a body straddled across the prongs of the metal dredging scoop. Fronds of algae cling to the face and arms as the river water pours from this man’s clothing. He is spread crossways with one arm caught in the metal teeth and dangling down. Limp and crushed, he is definitely dead. He is wearing workman’s brown overalls.
Again a dream.
Fire burning. Crackling. Vicious and hungry. And smoke. Billowing, thick and foggy. I cannot breathe.
Whispers in the Graveyard Page 7