by Nick Brown
“Yeah, OK, have fun; oh hang on, Gi, I meant to tell you Jan suggested we contact that pompous vicar who came to exorcise the site. You know the one I took the piss out of; you should have seen his face as he left, hilarious.”
“Yes, I’m sure it was, Steve, I wish I’d seen it. Anyway I’d better get off, never does to keep council officers waiting.”
Giles hadn’t found it hilarious and wondered why the vicar wanted to bless the site and why Jan agreed with him. What were they messing with? He thought about this all the way to the Victorian Gothic Town Hall and throughout most of the meeting, which dragged on seemingly unending for three hours. It was after five and dark when he got out.
The square outside the Town Hall was blazing with the glow of the stalls and Christmas lights. The streets were crowded and the European market packed and noisy, even the street cobbles glittering with hoar frost seemed to give off cheerful vibes. Pushing his way through the crowds Giles thought Skendleby might as well exist in a different world. He decided not to pick up his car but do some Christmas shopping, perhaps have a drink, and then take the train.
He imagined spending Christmas with Claire as he walked the brightly lit streets looking in windows and dreaming of a happy future. Sitting in a bar with coffee and grappa watching the people he tried to think of a gift for Claire and came up with red roses. He enjoyed buying them, talking to the shop assistant, beginning to feel that he was starting to re-engage with life. After listening to the Salvation Army silver band outside the theatre for five minutes, he helped an elderly woman loaded down with shopping onto a bus and then, feeling sentimental, he rushed off through the crowded streets and gathering fog to try to catch the packed six fifteen to Wilmslow.
He decided to walk from the station to Lindow and the first ten minutes, strolling past the shops with their Christmas window dressings sustained his unusually cheerful mood.
By the time he reached the fringe of Lindow, fog was hovering and the cold palpable. To save time he decided to take a short cut and follow the footpath across the Moss. He reckoned if he cut through the trees he should hit the path on the other side in a couple of minutes. He climbed the low ranch style fencing and picked his way through birch, alder and scrub oak. Fog flowed after him.
In the dark of the trees it was cold and silent, fog muffled any noise; this was disorientating. Where was the path? He should be on it now: he paused trying to get his bearings; if he crossed the open ground ahead he must eventually find it.
This had been a mistake: he considered heading back to the road but couldn’t trust his sense of direction to get him through the trees; anyway the open seemed less threatening. As he hesitated the fog thickened. He made himself set out across the shrouded space in what he guessed must be the right direction. It was an open patch of ground he knew well and yet tonight in the cold with poor visibility it seemed bigger. He began to feel afraid.
Perhaps it was this that made him think of the warning one of the council officers, a guy he quite liked, gave him as he left the meeting a couple of hours earlier. He’d taken Giles into a quiet corner saying,
“Listen, don’t say this came from me, Giles, but you need to take seriously what Richardson threatened you with the other day. He’s the type of vicious bastard who means what he says.”
He looked round to see if anyone was listening then went on in a quieter voice,
“He’s too deep in this Skendleby scam to get out. Once Carver gets his hooks into you, you’re stuck. Richardson’s trapped; if the deal goes down Carver will make sure he does too. You need to watch out, Giles: you’re on Carver’s radar, he doesn’t stop at threats, if you cause him too much grief he’s got psychos on his payroll who’ll break your legs or worse; he’s done it before. I’ve got to go; not good being seen talking to you. Take care.”
He tried to push this out of his mind but only succeeded in replacing it with the memory of his last visit to the Moss. Of the woman who saw the figure walking behind him: ‘He had his hand on your shoulder and did seem to be moving in a most peculiar way.’
The fog was thicker now, he could hardly see. He quickened his pace; even if he’d missed the path he must be almost halfway across the Moss
But the idea something was shadowing him fixed in his mind. He found himself repeating ‘moving in a most peculiar way’ over and over to himself. He tried to rationalise, given his experiences of the last few days, it was no wonder his imagination was playing tricks. But the phrase ‘moving in a most peculiar way’ had lodged in his brain and he couldn’t shift it. What was it moving in a peculiar way and how could it have had a hand on his shoulder?
He thought about the peculiarities of fog, the way there was always something just on the edge of vision. He remembered the attacks stretching from his house to the dig. They only started after Rose surveyed Devil’s Mound. Then he thought of Carver’s hired thugs. He broke into a jog.
But he was lost in a darkly opaque world, cold and silent. Lost but not alone; there was something behind him. Something just out of sight. Just out of sight moving in a peculiar way, he could hear it moving with him.
He increased his pace but it didn’t help; the fog distorted any sense of speed or direction. Something brushed against his cheek, like the light touch of a wet glove. There was an exhalation of breath close by as he pushed his way through stunted thorn trees.
This brought him to a halt. What was he doing in the trees? This should be open ground leading to the road, the trees shouldn’t be here. He shouted out in panic,
“Is anyone there? I’m lost.”
His voice sounded puny and muffled but the ensuing silence was worse. But listen: it wasn’t complete silence: there was sound: rustling like something moving with purpose through thick forest undergrowth. He heard the crack as a branch close by snapped.
“Oh Jesus, this can’t be real please, what’s happening?”
He tried to run but the trees were too thick, they seemed alive. He had to force himself through their clawing, scratching branches. Unspeakable things, dead things, were grabbing him, pulling him towards them, reeling him in. The rank undergrowth was winding itself round his ankles dragging him down. Next to him there was an exhalation of foul breath; he could smell it, almost taste it, feel it on his cheek. Something sharp was jabbing him in the back, he heard a horrible sucking sound like some deformed chuckle. He could feel liquid oozing beneath his shirt.
“Oh Christ, I’m going to die out here, please, please make it stop.”
He screamed for help, a tiny gasp like the snivel of a petrified child. He stood rooted to the spot screaming and swinging his arms to beat it off. He jerked a foot free and managed to move forwards: open ground, he was out of the trees.
Then he was running, terrified, breathless, heart pumping, panicked, arms flailing, roses discarded. Glancing back he saw a patch of shadow tracking him. He swerved to the right. Surely he must be close to the road. He turned his head. Something hit him with a crash. He hit the ground. Darkness.
CHAPTER 19
THIS WAY COMES
Sophie was putting on her coat before locking up for the night. The phone rang. She debated whether to answer it. Not much point, no one here to answer any questions, but habit overrode logic in its atavistic way.
“Hello, Archaeology Unit, Sophie speaking.”
“Hello, I wonder would it be possible to speak to Dr Steve Watkins?”
“Sorry, he left about half an hour ago, can I take a message?”
“No, it’s really important I speak to him, it’s about the pictures for tomorrow’s feature.”
“You mean about the Skendleby dig, I thought that had been cancelled.”
“No, it’s back on. Dr Glover and my editor agreed a general feature on the site would be possible for tomorrow but I need to check more details with Dr Watkins before it can go to press.”
“Well, as I’ve said, you’ve missed him.”
Sophie was keen to end the conversation, she
was due to meet a lawyer she’d met through an internet dating site, but the voice on the end of the line was insistent.
“Could you put me in touch with him or give me his mobile number?”
“Sorry, we can’t give out phone numbers.”
“This is really important; the feature only works if it includes his evidence.”
Sophie wanted to shut the conversation down and be off.
“Look, I’m sorry, but as I said we don’t give out people’s numbers.”
Then as an afterthought to prevent further dialogue,
“He usually goes to the Royal Oak after work. Your only chance is to find him there.”
The line went down without any recognition or thanks at the other end. Sophie arranged her hair over her coat collar, touched up her lipstick in the small mirror hanging behind her desk, switched off the lights, and hurriedly closed up. It was only as she was crossing the quad heading for the downtown bus stop that it occurred to her that she hadn’t asked who it was on the other end of the line.
***
Steve hadn’t had a good day. Anna hadn’t put it quite this way but she’d dumped him, giving some reason about too many complications. So, after a brief word with some of the early evening regulars at the bar he had taken his pint, bag of salted nuts and free copy of the Journal to a corner table. The paper’s lead story was the death in hospital of the last attack victim and it had a special feature on how to stay safe at night in the south of the city. To his relief there was no speculation connecting the attacks with the dig but all the same it was the last thing he wanted to read so he discarded the paper and sat nursing his pint wondering what to do that night.
He didn’t want to go home, in fact he didn’t really have a home; he’d never moved on from student flats and the state of his current one made most student accommodation look distinctly up-market. He didn’t have any close friends, just drifted from one girlfriend to another, but as he aged the girls stayed more or less the same and he wondered if he was getting too old for this lifestyle. His work life wasn’t much better; short term contracts alternating between England and Southern Europe offered no future in terms of either pay or prospects. So he drifted downhill through life incapable of growing up; uncaring and, in the main, uncared for.
He’d been deeply hurt by Leonie accusing him of stalking her: why would he do that? Perhaps she just imagined it or maybe it was wishful thinking but neither explanation seemed convincing. He finished the first pint too quickly, bought another and sat gloomily trying to listen in to an argument between two couples at the next table. Despite their advanced middle age and beige blandness he envied them their stability.
He was watching them so closely that he didn’t notice the attractive, heavily made up girl enter the pub obviously looking for someone, nor did he notice the look of anticipation cross her eyes as they locked onto him.
It was only when she was a few yards from the table that he sensed a presence and looked up. Approaching him he saw a striking blonde in a long black coat and boots and wearing bright red lipstick.
“Dr Watkins, do you mind if I join you?”
She slid, smiling at him, into the seat opposite, opening up the coat and crossing her legs. He noticed a great deal of bare leg but no apparent hemline beneath the coat.
“You obviously don’t remember me. We met at the excavation. I’m Lisa Richardson and I was wondering if you could do me an enormous favour.”
She rolled her eyes flirtatiously and it took Steve some time to connect this woman with the mousy photographer from the Journal but by the time it clicked he was on his way to the bar to buy her a drink. He found it difficult to believe that Lisa could look so different. On the site she’d been anonymous, almost not there, whereas here in the crowded pub she was the focus of attention. Perhaps his luck was changing.
“Here, Lisa, house white wine, a large one, I hope that’s OK. I’m sorry I didn’t recognise you at first.”
She laughed throatily and tossed her hair back but her eyes remained locked onto his.
“No, I look different out of work, don’t I? Is that why you bought me a large one? I hope you’re not trying to get me drunk, you naughty boy, I’ve heard about you and girls.”
She held eye contact as she said this and circled her tongue round her lips.
“But seriously, Steve, would you mind if we talked about the dig for a bit, I’d be ever so grateful and I’m really sorry to be taking up your time.”
She said this in a breathy girly voice and as she finished the sentence she stretched her hand across the table and gently placed it on his wrist in a way that managed to be familiar and yet also suggestive, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.
“I rang the Unit’s office but you’d left. Sophie was very helpful though when she realised how urgent it was, she suggested that you might be here.”
Good old Sophie, thought Steve, she has her uses.
“Still, it was lucky to find you and, I have to say, I’m surprised to find you on your own, most unusual for you I hear.”
She fluttered her eyelashes and smiled at him in a manner that suggested a shared intimacy and then moved across to the seat next to him.
“It’s so noisy in this pub isn’t it, Steve; good atmosphere but it’s hard to make conversation. We’ve come up with a new idea for the focus of the piece on the mound.”
“What do you mean new idea? Giles told me that your editor abandoned the idea. Giles seemed to think he was frightened of the place; Giles certainly is.”
Lisa laughed softly and brushed aside the sweep of blonde hair partially covering her face.
“Is he now, Steve? Well actually that’s the whole point. Now Jim thinks it would be a good spooky story for Christmas; people love Christmas ghost stories don’t they? You know the haunted tomb type of stuff – a mix of archaeology and local legend. He thinks we can run the story and then sell it on as an idea for Cheshire Life and some of the nationals. We need a picture of it in a night setting for atmosphere and Jim suggested you as the centrepiece of the story.”
She re-crossed her legs and began smoothing her stockings, watching his eyes follow her every movement.
“It’s a great idea, you’re much better looking than Giles, long hair, stubble, a bit like Johnny Depp or that Scandinavian actor in those old Lord of the Rings films. You know the one, moody and quite dishy. The idea is: a picture of you by the tomb at night with a piece about the weird happenings when you opened it. A kind of male tomb raider.”
Under normal circumstances Steve would have rejected this out of hand for the crap it clearly was. But after three pints the idea that the Journal recognised he, not Giles, was the main man on the excavation seemed no more than fair. But really, it was the aphrodisiac effect of Lisa’s seduction that did it, the flattery and flirting persuaded him to suspend common sense. Anyway no one else had any time for him and the thought of his lonely dirty flat drowned him in self pity.
“I know that it’s a lot to ask you to drive out to the site with me on such a cold night Steve and I’m sure you’ve got something far more interesting laid on, but I would be very grateful. Tell you what; if you like I could get us some supper and a glass of wine at my place later as a way of saying thank you.”
As she finished speaking she placed her arm lightly around the back of his neck and moved her face close to his.
“I think you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Stevie?”
Steve, tongue thick in his mouth, agreed, like she knew he would. As she led him out of the pub he was aware of many envious pairs of eyes following them. Outside she took his hand as they walked to the car.
She seemed unused to the car yet drove fast and, Steve felt, dangerously, particularly when they reached the country lanes near the site. She talked for most of the journey and seemed even more hyper than she had been in the pub. From time to time, as if to explain a point, she placed a hand on his thigh. They parked in the lane by the site gate; it was d
ark and silent. As she twisted to unbutton her seat belt she brushed his lips with hers but as he tried to hold her she quickly opened the door and got out.
“No need to be so impatient, Stevie, there’s plenty of time for that later.”
Out in the cold night air and the dark of the field, the wrongness of what they were doing hit him. It was cold and silent, the site was locked up. The skeletal trees and the estate wall looked dark and threatening. What the hell was he doing here with a girl he hardly knew and particularly one behaving the way she was? His mind flashed back to the day of the excavation and Lisa the photographer.
This woman, Lisa the seductress, was nothing like her; slight physical resemblance maybe but this was a different person, behaviour, body language, eye contact, everything. The photographer had been nonexistent, this incarnation was predatory. She sensed his uncertainty.
“Come on, Steve, the sooner we finish here the sooner we can get away. I don’t suppose you’ve got the padlock keys. You’ll have to help me climb over the gate. If you are a gentleman you’ll look away as I swing my leg over, I’ve not much on under this coat. But from what I’ve heard you’re not a gentleman are you?”
They climbed the gate with Lisa laughing suggestively and set off down the path to the mound. It was rough underfoot and in the dark they had difficulty negotiating the hazards of the archaeological site. She led the way, moving quickly. Steve thought she was becoming agitated, casting rapid glances towards the trees as if she suspected someone watching. He remembered Leonie’s stalker in the trees obsession.
The track leading through the village boundary was particularly difficult and frost cracking underfoot produced sharp jagged sounds which pierced the silence. Lisa moved quickly looking from side to side but Steve, feeling rushed, slipped twice. On regaining his feet the second time and pausing to brush the dirt and frost from his knees he thought he saw movement at the fringe of the woods. He thought of the ride back from the Windmill pub with Jan and how normal and comforting she was. Then he saw the shape move again.