by Nick Brown
Leonie, sullen faced and puffy eyed, didn’t answer, just pulled the heavy drawer open and reached inside, suddenly her face puckered up as if she was about to cry.
“You bastard, you fucking bastard, how could you? I hate you. I hope you die.”
Giles watched astonished as she ran out of the hut; he saw shock on Steve’s face and he moved over the other side of the desk and pulled the drawer right out. He thought he was going to vomit.
Inside the drawer, skewered to the wood by a heavy builder’s nail, was a huge black crow. It had been dead for days and was in an advanced state of putrefaction. The flesh and feather around its beak was loose and rotting away but it still wore an expression of ferocious malice.
“Giles, it wasn’t me, honest to God, I swear I’d never pull that type of stunt.”
Giles put a hand on his shoulder, the thing horrified him but he needed to calm Steve and find Leonie. Steve wasn’t easy to calm.
“It must have been that nutter in the pub, the one who tried to scare us. You were there, Jan.”
Giles had no time to listen. He rushed out and found Leonie doubled up by the tool hut being violently sick. He walked over and began to gently stroke her back. She gagged and then said between retches,
“I felt it: my hand went into its stomach; it was liquid, mushy, disgusting, why?”
She gagged again but by now had brought everything up. Giles started to say
“I don’t think…”
But she cut across him.
“I know. Now I’ve thought about it, he wouldn’t do something like that, it’s just I’m so angry with him, he hurt me so much. But if it wasn’t him who was it? What’s happening? Take me home. I’ll never get this hand clean. Please I want to go home, I need to go home.”
Giles handed her his car keys and told her to wait in it. He went back into the hut where Jan was soothing Steve.
“I’m taking her home, she knows it wasn’t you, but best to keep it quiet. Look, you may as well pack up early.”
He glanced toward the drawer which was still open and caught a glimpse of a sharp beak, decomposing mush and mouldering black feathers.
“Steve I don’t like to ask but will you get rid of that fucking bird?”
He walked off to his car.
Steve and Jan watched, but before he reached it a battered Mini drove up the track and braked. A tall, slim woman with long dark hair and an ankle length black coat approached one of the site workers who pointed at Giles. Jan was reminded of an attractive and benign version of a Disney cartoon witch. There was a brief conversation during which the woman became animated and then angry. Then she turned and stomped away to her car, black coat streaming behind and high heeled black boots uncertain over the rough ground. Steve shouted across to him,
“What the hell was all that about?”
Giles looked fazed but eventually shouted back,
“God knows, she’s called Vanarvi or something weird, claims she’s seen the mound in a dream or something. I couldn’t understand what she was on about, it’s like she thinks she’s some sort of witch, must be mad.”
With that he climbed into his car and drove off down the track.
Jan looked worried.
“This place is getting too heavy, Steve; I think I’ll be glad when we’re finished here. The warning, that crow and poor Rose.”
“Come on; don’t take all that stuff Rose said about feeling something shifting around inside the mound seriously, that was shock and the effect of the sedatives they gave her.”
“But what about what she said just before the accident?”
“Jan, you know that’s because everybody’s favourite older sister, Rose, puts too much extra in those cigs she smokes, that can’t help her state of mind.”
“Come on Steve, be serious.”
“What you mean? That stuff about being pushed and a warning to the curious; it was banging her head, when she fell that did that, concussion that’s all.”
“No, not that, remember when we did that talk on the site at the Windmill. Well, on the way back when you and I sat in the front, quite romantic that by the way, Rose sat in the back looking out of the window into the dark. She said that as we drove past the site she saw some lights floating above the mound.”
“Oh that’s interesting ’cos when I was working on Çatalhöyük they did a survey of local traditions and superstitions. Locals left the mound there well alone, they reckoned it was haunted. At night there were lights moving around on the mound that were lost souls from the past. They knew nothing about the archaeology there, but funnily enough later excavation showed the mound was covered in ancient burials. They buried the dead under the floors of houses, perhaps to keep the things they feared where they could keep an eye on them. Interesting though.”
Jan found herself wishing that Leonie was there to tell Steve to shut up about ‘bloody Çatalhöyük’.
Sensing her mood Steve stopped his lecture.
“What’s scaring you Jan, do you think we’ve got ghosts here too?”
He broke off for a moment as if looking at something.
“God, it gets dark quickly these days, and cold, come on it’s time to pack up.”
The light was fading rapidly, half the sun had dipped behind the Edge and in the distance an advancing front of wispy cloud, presaging a cold front, was picked out by the last rays of the sun in the violet twilight sky.
***
Around the same time, the Reverend Ed Joyce entered his study after a day of visiting sick parishioners. His last pastoral visit had left him feeling disturbed in a way he hadn’t since the events in the Birmingham precipitated his mental disintegration. He’d visited William LaSalle, captain of the first eleven of the local cricket team whose pitch was on the other side of the field from where the archaeologists were digging. LaSalle’s wife had asked Ed to visit, which surprised him as the man, a burly opening batsman, never attended church. But their house was near and he couldn’t think of a reason to refuse.
They lived in Oak Tree Cottage, flanked by two great oaks near the ground. As Ed was opening the gate he heard a guttural grating sound and looking up saw a group of crows squatting on the thatch watching him. LaSalle’s wife opened the door and gestured him in and into the front room. LaSalle sat in front of the TV drinking whisky; he looked pale and was clearly not pleased to see Ed.
“Listen Vicar, my wife insisted that I talk to you, but once I have then that’s it, I don’t want anything more to do with this even though I’d like to get me hands on the sick bastard of a practical joker.”
He motioned for Ed to sit down and Ed settled into an armchair: he could see that despite his belligerent manner the man was scared.
“Last night I got a call that all the lights were on in the club house; of course they shouldn’t have been, we haven’t got anything on ’til Saturday night, so as nearest key holder I went across. The club was locked up but the lights were on, so I opened up and went in. First thing I noticed was that the floor was wet and all the chairs had been piled up on the tables. Not tidily but in piles on top of each other, some of the arrangements seemed to defy gravity. The floor was wet because all the taps were on, not only the water but the beer taps too.”
He took a swig of the whisky.
“Then I noticed the smell, the place smelt rotten, cloying, made me feel sick. So I poked around a bit and I saw that the wall by the toilets was smeared with something brownish red so I went over and piled up inside the gents I saw…”
He paused to take another swig of whisky and Ed noticed a sheen of perspiration covering his waxen face.
“I saw, Jesus, I can still see them, dead vermin; stoats, moles, weasels and the like all with their guts ripped out, blood and entrails smeared on the walls. Then I heard a sound over by the bar and I saw there was a fox head on it, grinning at me. I swear it hadn’t been there when I went in. I’m not a man that scares easy see, I served two tours in Iraq but…”
He took
another swig, finishing the glass and reached for the bottle.
“I got out of there sharpish I can tell you Vicar. Came home and called the police, and I would have left it there but my wife said you should know because there’s too many strange things happening round here these days to be normal.”
Ed stayed for a few minutes but LaSalle had nothing to add and clearly wanted him to leave. The wife thanked him and showed him to the door, where she quietly asked him if he did exorcisms like they did on ‘Most Haunted’ or if the diocese could get hold of someone like Derek Acorah. Ed had no idea who Derek Acorah was. He was still trying to make sense of the conversation as he closed the cottage gate behind him. Above him he saw the number of corvids on the roof had doubled. Across the lane the lights in the cricket clubhouse came on.
Back in the Rectory he moved to his desk and saw the box Mary gave him with its waxed paper package inside. He’d forgotten it but now he needed something mundane to calm him down. He picked it up and undid the ribbon. The packet was soiled with age and smelt of dust and decay. It contained some old parish newsletters and ecclesiastical magazines from the nineteenth century, of no great interest. Below these were a series of accounts of parish expenses from the same period. He was about to wrap it back up and consign the whole lot to the tip when he noticed there were some other papers below the accounts. He removed them and was faced by a small bundle of something older; aging manuscripts, handwritten in fading black ink. He was all too familiar with that spidery handwriting; it was Heatly Smythe’s.
CHAPTER 5
FOG OVER THE CITY, DECEMBER 1st
Walking from the Journal’s offices through Albert Square Jim enjoyed the sentimental trappings of the festive season. The traditional European market was open, Christmas lights hung from street lamps and a giant inflatable Santa scaled the neo-gothic Town Hall. It was hardly past noon but the day was already gloomy with tentative wisps of fog. However, this, mixed with the aromas of spices, mulled wine and scented candles from the stalls, conspired to give a Dickensian Christmas atmosphere.
It was cold too, freezing cold, in sharp contrast to the Indian summer that had bathed the city up until Tuesday. Dodging through the crowded streets he turned down a narrow Victorian covered passage opening onto a small square: at the far end of which a group of young business types were studying a menu board outside the marble clad doorway of a restaurant.
The Trattoria inhabited one of the city’s many defunct trading exchanges, relics of nineteenth century prosperity. Walking through the portico into the cavernous lobby he saw Giles sitting ill at ease on one of the fashionable, but very uncomfortable, low backed leather sofas. He needed a shave, his curly hair was a tangled mess and he was arguing with a man who had his back turned. As Jim approached the man stood up and he saw it was Derek Richardson.
“All right Jim? Finishing early for the weekend I see.”
Jim ignored the jibe.
“Hi Derek, what brings you here?”
“Business: I’ve got a lunch meeting with Si Carver, was enjoying it too until we ran into your friend here. I was just explaining to him what a big mistake it would be to get too far the wrong side of Mr Carver. Worse luck for him, he’s already made a start.”
Giles, who by this time had got up and shaken Jim’s hand, said,
“Not deliberately, Jim, it just seems that Mr Carver and the councillor don’t have much time for archaeology.”
“We don’t have time for a lot of things and wasting taxpayers’ money is one of them, but I’m a reasonable man so let me give you a piece of good advice before I go and join Si in the dining room.”
Jim wondered what had been going on particularly as Richardson addressed his next remarks to him.
“Jim you’d better get it across to your friend here that this archaeology malarkey on Si’s land is attracting undesirables onto the estate, there’s disturbances and coming and goings late at night. This last week Si’s noticed acts of vandalism: someone’s leaving piles of dead vermin in the estate ground and it’s attracting huge gatherings of crows. What’s causing that then eh? And now there’s all this bollocks about something important they’ve found that’ll have to be saved. I don’t think so. Listen, all this is getting in the way of an important economic development with considerable social benefits.”
Giles broke in,
“So what are you trying to say?”
“I’m saying that patience is running thin and movers and shakers like Si have influence, which people like you don’t.”
Giles, angry himself now, said,
“Yes, but in a democratic society there are systems that protect our heritage.”
“Yeah, well you can believe that if it makes you feel better.”
“The historic landscape is an important part of our culture.”
“Bollocks, who’s interested in dead old things? No one, no one cares about that, what can the past or old stones change? Ask yourself this: when did you last see an archaeologist on ‘I’m a Celebrity’ or ‘Strictly?’”
He turned aside and took Jim by the arm.
“Listen, Jim, I don’t think you letting my Lisa take the pictures on that site is doing her any good, she’s going strange again. Just make sure you keep an eye on her.”
He turned and walked into the dining room to join Mr Carver and two minutes later they were ushered into the dining area in an efficient rather than welcoming manner and installed with drinks at Jim’s usual table by the far wall.
A great domed ceiling towered high above the tables, so high that the modern lighting had to be suspended on wires that ran the length and breadth of the room beneath the dome; perhaps it was this that made the place feel cold. After ordering the set menu of pasta followed by meat in sauce, accompanied by a bottle of ink dark Primativo, they relaxed into their chairs. The place was quite full and yet, despite this and the background music of Italian crooners belting out Italian pop songs, it seemed strangely flat. Perhaps it was this that prevented Jim from feeling relaxed; in fact he’d not felt settled since leaving the dig last week and when his mind was unoccupied and drifting he fell prey to a feeling of unease. He was shifted from this morbid reverie by Giles finishing his beer in one large swallow and beginning to talk.
“I’ll have another of those please. You know, Jim, this dig has gone from dull as Hell to a weird, possible page one feature, in less than a week. Five days ago we were dealing with the most boring village settlement in the universe, now we think we’ve found something unique from a much earlier period.”
He was interrupted as a fresh beer arrived on the table; he took a swig that half emptied the expensive bottle, belched silently and then continued in a more disjointed manner.
“There’s strange things happening; first the freak accident to Rose, which is going to keep her out of action for at least a few months, and then yesterday some crazy woman turned up at the site and warned us off, said we were meddling with things best left alone. She was mad as a badger shouting hysterical warnings; but the strange thing is she looked quite normal, in fact quite attractive and well, if oddly dressed; you know sort of soi-disant carnival.”
His flow was interrupted by the arrival the starters. Jim, who ate here at least once a week, didn’t recognise the surly waiter. This was unusual for as a regular, he expected a warm welcome and friendly service. This nuance was obviously lost on Giles who after a mouthful of pasta and an appreciative swallow of wine continued with mouth half full.
“Mind you, your mate Richardson was right about one thing: there are strange goings on. Rose thinks some maniac stalker attacked her and someone nailed a decomposing crow in one of the map drawers.”
This image put Jim off his food, he found it hard to shake off.
Giles continued with his complaints until a different waiter took away the plates and refilled his wine glass. Jim, who had to drive out of the city through rush hour to the village suburb where he lived in the golden triangle of the tinted window Ran
ge Rover belt, thought this had better be his last. Giles on the other hand quickly finished his second glass and reached for a refill. The wine at least seemed to improve his mood.
“It’s almost definitely a burial: probably Neolithic, where there shouldn’t be one. So what’s it doing there? The Iron Age inhabitants of Skendleby seemed to have moved away as soon as they found out what it was. They just covered it back over then went. After that no one seems to have touched the place. Strange don’t you think?”
Jim was about to ask why he was so sure it was this earlier feature that caused them to leave when he realised they’d been waiting over half an hour for the main course. Looking round he saw the waiter who’d served them with pasta and beckoned him over. The man looked back, as if at someone standing behind Jim, and made a peculiar gesture with the first and fourth fingers of his right hand then turned quickly towards the kitchens. Just as he was about to complain Giles said jokingly,
“Look, that waiter just made the sign against the evil eye; he must think the Devil’s here.”
Jim, far from placated by this interpretation, summoned the Head Waiter, who, to his surprise, was singularly unhelpful, claiming not to recognise the description of the waiter as one of his staff. He did however promise to investigate the reasons for the delay to the meal as well as to bring another half bottle of Primativo that Giles had ordered. This didn’t improve Jim’s mood, he always paid. He also usually had to return to work or drive home so that most of the wine would be drunk by Giles.
Since the very messy breakup of his marriage Giles drank heavily and had adopted the habit of ordering more whenever he felt like it. These meals usually ended with Jim picking up a hefty bill and Giles basking in the temporary warm glow of alcoholic stupor.
Then two things that struck him as peculiar. One was that the original clock of the Exchange trading floor that dominated the wall he faced had stopped at the time they sat down at the table. The second was that a fair haired child sitting with a family party in the centre of the room had been staring fixedly at him, or perhaps something behind him, since he first became aware of her presence. However, the arrival of the main course and half bottle diverted his attention and as they began to eat, Giles returned to the source of his perplexity.