by Nick Brown
“Hey, from the look of you, you must be the vicar, we’ve not met before but I’m your neighbour, Si Carver. We live in the Hall. I was going to have someone ring you but this seems as good a moment as any.”
The voice was harsh and graceless, Ed begun to return the greeting but Carver cut him off.
“Now listen, I’m pissed off with the goings on in your churchyard. I bought this place for peace and quiet, put up electric gates and security. Your bloody bells waking us up on Sunday are bad enough but I didn’t expect to have these types of problem from the church, know what I mean?”
“I’m sorry Mr Carver you have me at a disadvantage, I’m not sure what you’re talking about. I’m the Reverend Ed Joyce by the way, call me Ed. Perhaps we’ll see you in church one of these days.”
“No chance, what sort of loser do you take me for? Now listen, I paid good money for this place. We moved out of town to avoid low-lifes and all that stuff going on round your church. I want it stopped understand.”
“I’m sorry, I still don’t…”
Si Carver interrupted,
“These last few days there’s been lights in the churchyard, people coming and going, bloody great birds, tramps, dossers, all types of scumbags. We’ve had people climbing over the wall into the estate grounds. My people found animals, dead, ripped up where I’m having a golf course put in. How would you like that in your church, eh?”
Surprised, Ed stammered,
“But we have no plans for golf in church.”
Carver ignored him, his voice louder now.
“And I’ve seen someone at night in them trees. There’s nothing at the back of us, just those archaeologists wankers, but at least they’re gone at night. So it must be some of your church youth groups yeah? Or that tramp who hangs around the graveyard by our boundary wall who I suppose you give money to; typical that is, encouraging scroungers not to work. Local police are no bloody use so I’m telling you. Get it sorted, understand?”
“Forgive me, Mr Carver, but I believe we are at cross purposes…”
But he got no further, Carver was shouting now, his face red. Ed, and doubtless his passenger, felt the spray of spittle from his mouth with each expostulation.
“Cross purposes: fuck off. It’s your fucking churchyard, your fucking problem, so you sort it yeah? You deal with it and do it quick; ’cos you wouldn’t enjoy getting the wrong side of me. Do you get me?”
Ed was correct in his assumption that the last question was rhetorical as without any further courtesies the window ascended and the Ranger Rover moved off carrying the blonde passenger who had neither moved nor acknowledged Ed, just sat chewing gum and texting with an expression of vacant boredom. He noticed that its number plate bore the legend SI 2. He watched the rear lights recede into darkness, slightly shaken by the aggressive rudeness of his new neighbour. Worse, however, were the thoughts that followed. What was it in the churchyard by the wall, and what were the lights? No one else had ever reported anything and he hadn’t been disturbed. His mind was drawn back to the very things he was trying to forget: the Heatly Smythe manuscript, the lights and the thing that watches. Carver may well have been describing what Heatly Smythe claimed to have seen.
He saw to his alarm the reversing lights of the Range Rover approaching him. Again the window descended to reveal the blonde still texting and Carver’s angry shiny face.
“And now you’ve really got me going, Next time you try to bless that fucking field I’ll stick that fucking cross right up your arse yeah? I told Richardson to tell you to support the development, we want those tossers off the site and you’re encouraging them. Do you know what this is costing me? What this is fucking costing? Do what Richardson tells you or next time I won’t be so reasonable. Comprendo?”
Ed was still staring into Carver’s eyes in astonishment as the window ascended and the car moved off at speed. He reached the front door of the Rectory, went inside and called to Mary but she wasn’t back from a trip to one of the theatres in the city; the closest she came these days to her old acting career.
The house was cold and empty and he felt the familiar flashes of panic and anxiety that heralded the return of his illness. This country parish had been intended as rehabilitation from the problems in Birmingham. But fear and anxiety were again beginning to direct his thoughts again towards madness and the false refuge of suicide. He stood in the stone flagged hall and started his deep breathing exercises. After some minutes he’d calmed down sufficiently to think more clearly. He went to the medicine cupboard to find the tablets that slowed him down and soothed his mind. However, the evening had another surprise for him. The phone began to ring.
It was Richardson.
“Vicar, have you seen Lisa? She seems to have disappeared. I don’t know what you talked to her about but, since then, she’s changed for the worse. She came back from photographing that bloody site spouting all types of strange rubbish about flying and sacrifice – turned up at the party out of her head, dressed like a tart – I had to get Jim Gibson to take her home. Anyway, she’s disappeared, I thought she might have come to see you, she kept mentioning the graveyard and a tomb, not that it made much sense. At first I thought well, at least she’s talking; but it wasn’t a change for the better, it was…”
His voice faltered and what Ed heard next he wasn’t even sure was directed at him. It sounded like Richardson was talking to himself.
“Shouldn’t have let her on that land, it must be me it’s after.”
His voice trailed off leaving Ed thinking it was the first time he had heard Richardson sounding anything less than assured, then he said more audibly,
“Anyway if she turns up, ring me and keep her with you for God’s sake.”
The phone went dead and silence regained its dominion over the Rectory. Ed, lost in the silence, resumed his deep breathing then moved back into the kitchen to find his tablets. He took two with water, switched off the light and turned to leave the room. Through the window he could see the churchyard stretching away towards the estate wall. He stood for a moment, looking out towards the shadows, trying to slow the beating of his heart, telling himself that soon the tablets would kick in and Mary would be back.
He began to recite the order of Sunday service to regain control of his mind and was just beginning the prayers when he saw something dark and ragged disengage itself from the shadows. It paused for a moment and seemed to stare at the Rectory, or more precisely, at him; then it was gone, merged with the dark. Somehow he was sure it meant him to see it and that its movements were quite deliberate; it was the understanding of this that caused what was left of his nerve to snap. He ran from the room wrenched open the front door and rushed panicked into the night. After a few desperate paces he hit something solid, two arms grasped him.
“Steady, man,” said Nigel Davenport.
CHAPTER 17
UNE NUIT EN ENFER
Davenport tried to calm him like he would a child, then shepherded him back through his front door and sat him down in the ancient kitchen armchair. He moved to the sink, filled the kettle and made a pot of strong tea.
“Here, drink this, Vicar; you seem to have got yourself in a bit of state. I thought when you left earlier that you weren’t yourself so I thought I’d just look in on you.”
He placed a hand on Ed’s shoulder and continued in a far more sympathetic tone than Ed had heard before.
“I suppose that perhaps I was rather brusque. It would have been better if you’d not got yourself involved in any of this but as I put you up to offering the blessing I suppose I owe you some sort of explanation. A pity you found those papers; that was just dammed bad luck. But the good news for you, Vicar, is that none of this is your affair, you’ve just blundered into the wrong place at the wrong time. Just like Heatly Smythe. We failed to help him; perhaps we’ll do a little better for you.”
Ed sat in the chair feeling the hot tea warm him whilst Davenport’s steadily delivered monologue along with
the tranquilisers gradually settled his nerves. It was not so much the explanation that did it, he’d rather just try and blank the last few hours from his mind, it was more the reassurance of Davenport’s calm and authoritatively timbred voice.
“You may be surprised to learn we were quite relieved to be out of the Hall, despite the fact that my ancestors have held it in fief to the Crown since the fourteenth century. The present Hall is relatively modern, early sixteenth century, built on the site of its moated predecessor. But of course, as a local scholar you know all this. Glad to see a bit of colour coming back to your cheeks, you looked white as death out there in the graveyard.”
It was true that the Ed was now breathing steadily and looking less cadaverous, but Davenport must have noticed how he kept turning in his chair to look at the window as if anxious something was outside.
“You must keep something a bit stronger in the Rectory, Vicar; point me in the right direction and I’ll fetch us a real drink.”
Ed indicated the dining room and Davenport left the room to return with two large tumblers of whisky. He handed one to Ed and continued.
“You’ve lived your life as a Christian; you’re a minister of the church. Yet you seemed to be surprised you have to deal with the supernatural; I’d have thought that went with the job. Now, for the first time, you’ve encountered real evil.”
Davenport paused and took a large swallow of whisky; the silence of the kitchen was broken by the ticking of the clock.
“Make no mistake, Vicar, evil exists; my family have lived with it for centuries. The Bible warns us of its presence. It’s real, Vicar, not an analogy or metaphor as you like to preach, now you’ve experienced it and it’s knocked you for six hasn’t it?”
Ed, confused and shaken, nodded an acknowledgement but made no attempt to speak. The ticking of the kitchen clock sounding unnaturally loud as he sat listening clutching his whisky tumbler until Davenport said,
“I’ve never seen anything myself. Felt its presence though in the Hall; scared me when I was a boy. We’ve never really understood what it is but the family tradition is that we’re meant to watch it. Problem is the family fortune sank so low we had to leave the Hall; all this listed and graded building stuff makes them impossible to maintain. I never thought I would be able to let someone else move in without warning them. But you must have met that creature Carver.
“The Hall wasn’t even for sale when he turned up trying to buy it, and after about half an hour of his talk about money and being a winner and all the ‘punters’ he’d fleeced, I thought, why not? Not a very Christian thought, Vicar, but if anyone deserves what the Hall conceals, it’s him. But now that the archaeologists have started meddling I feel that something’s been disturbed, something that maybe even he doesn’t deserve.”
Davenport settled into one of the aged Rectory kitchen chairs, stretched out his legs, and having balanced the whisky tumbler on his stomach, continued.
“Because of a freak event during the Wars of the Roses my family inherited a legacy that we never wanted. Ironic isn’t it that during the last of the medieval wars at the threshold of modern times we acquired an ancient curse. Because that’s what it is, Vicar, and I can see from your lack of disbelief this comes as no surprise to you, perhaps it’s even a relief. About three hundred and fifty years ago my family tried to get this curse lifted, with disastrous results, since when our fortunes have declined. So, since then we’ve left it well alone and tried to steer unwelcome busybodies away from here.”
He took another drink, smiled then said,
“Sadly the most persistent meddlers have been the local clergy: men with enquiring minds but too much time on their hands, like your friend Heatly Smythe. We feel rather badly about him, perhaps we should have warned him off more strongly before the damage was done. Now here you go following the same dangerous path and in a way I’ve encouraged you.
“I, like my father and grandfather, never wanted to know much about it or the role we are supposed to play. Leave well alone was our policy, but no matter how much we try to ignore it, every fifty years or so something happens to remind us it’s there. Now that damned pipeline has stirred everything up, brought in the archaeologists. I used all my influence to oppose the route of the pipe and prevent the archaeologists getting permission to dig. All to no avail.
“So, when Carver turned up offering to buy the place, we cut and ran. I tried to persuade myself that we left because we couldn’t afford the upkeep but that wasn’t the real reason. The real reason was centuries of dread. I have no heir to leave it to so it would have left the family anyway. So better Carver than someone half decent.”
He took a sip of whisky, leaving Ed to reflect he’d never heard Davenport speak at such length before or with such directness. He found himself breaking the silence that hung over the kitchen permeated by the ticking of the clock,
“So the motto, then, it has some relevance?”
“Not a motto Vicar, a punishment, and as I said earlier tonight it’s best to leave it well alone while you still can.”
He seemed to have finished but then said,
“I’ll tell you one last thing. After that, Vicar, you need to shut your mind to it or move away to another parish, perhaps an urban one where you can throw yourself into some type of social work, because that’s your real interest isn’t it? Not God as a reality in people’s lives.”
Davenport got out of his chair and walked across the dimly lit stone flagged kitchen floor. By the window he paused and stared out into the night. Ed had the impression that he might even be doing this for effect, to add weight to the advice he was about to deliver.
“Listen carefully to this, Vicar.”
He corrected himself.
“Ed, rather.”
He took a sip of whisky and began.
“Whatever it is out there, it’s ancient and unknowable, not of our world, maybe not even our universe, and its contact with us, the living, is never less than misfortune. When I was about fourteen, my grandfather talked to me about it. He was not a communicative man, he’d commanded a battalion on the Somme, was decorated for it. You follow my drift? Men like him were not easily shaken and he had deep religious beliefs of the type we don’t seem to encourage these days, unquestioning belief. In his philosophy there was evil, modernity had not quite replaced superstition. One day he took me for a walk round the estate boundary, beating the bounds he called it. I remember we stopped to lean on the wall looking over the fields towards Woodford, where our archaeologist friends have been so busy. He told me our family and the mound were linked, that back in the middle ages we disturbed something better left undisturbed.”
Ed noticed that the volume of Davenport’s voice had diminished and he was speaking more haltingly as his narrative progressed; the ticking of the clock seemed louder.
“I didn’t much care to hear what it was that should have been left undisturbed, even at that age when curiosity takes you in every direction. But he told me the family tradition: there was something guarding or watching the mound in some way linked to us. It was here long before we were and it would be here long after we’d gone. Stay clear. That was all he said, not enough to explain but enough to tantalise. I think I understand him better now. He died rather badly shortly after.”
Davenport paused and Ed suspected he might be grappling to control his emotions.
“Now there’s no more family Hall and, after me, no more direct family so at least the circle is broken. Take a break, Vicar, go on holiday and get away from here for a bit. Ah, I hear the front door, I’ve stayed too long, and I’d better be off.”
He turned to leave the kitchen and met Mary coming in radiating a cheerful normality from another world.
“Squire Davenport, how nice to see you. I don’t think you’ve visited us before. I hope Ed’s been looking after you.”
“Yes, very well, thank you, Mrs Joyce.”
He turned to fix Ed with a level stare,
“I�
��ve enjoyed our little evening together, Vicar; now don’t forget our discussion. I’ll let myself out. See you both on Sunday, goodnight.”
Ed particularly appreciated Mary’s company that night. She, as always, made him feel secure and gave him strength and comfort. However, when she suggested they go to bed, ‘busy day tomorrow’, he remained in the kitchen alone. He even, most unusually for him, refilled his tumbler. The night had frightened him and he was gripped by a presentiment that the events of the day were not yet over. So when the phone rang at eleven forty five he was shaken but not overly surprised.
“Hello, St George’s Rectory, the Reverend Ed Joyce speaking.”
At the other end of the line there was silence, then some creaks and whooshes of white noise but the feeling of a presence of someone there. Then a strange distorted voice began a chant in a language he couldn’t recognise. Ed was about to replace the handset when he heard a throaty giggle and then a familiar voice.
“I saw the way you looked at me outside the party, trying to look up my skirt, not what we expect from a man of God.”
Then more silence which Ed broke.
“Lisa, where are you? What do you mean? Your father is worried to death.”
A harsh laugh interrupted him.
“You don’t know where I am but I’ll tell you where I’ve been. I’ve been with them, dancing on the tomb. I’d have asked you to join us; you could have had me there. Except you wouldn’t have been man enough, would you? Not a pervy little hypocrite like you.”
Again there was nothing but the remote sibilance of the chant and a sound like the distant sea and he thought she had gone, then a human voice again.