Skendleby

by Nick Brown

  Despite his normal bluff delivery Ed knew this was not the complete truth but all the same was childishly touched that Davenport should feel a sense of responsibility for him. By the light of the torch the ill matched couple picked their way through the trees to the estate wall then followed it until they came upon the long disused and overgrown entrance. Davenport ran his fingers almost lovingly across the rusty, frost covered gate.

  “It’s hard to let go of the old place, Vicar. Some of my earliest memories are of playing out near the estate wall and trying to squeeze through this gate when I was a little boy, before I got packed off to school. Not much chance of squeezing through now I’m afraid, so it’s lucky I decided to hang on to the key, save us having to go round to the front.”

  He fiddled with the key in the lock for a moment and then with a push and a creaking sound the gate opened and they were inside. It seemed darker this side, and the trees pressed more closely together. Ed thought it best to put this down to imagination; but it was clear that Davenport felt the same.

  “Something’s changed, the place feels wrong and it’s more than just the estate grieving the passing of the Davenports. The sooner we deal with Carver and get back home the better as far as I’m concerned. When you rang I felt a pang of nostalgia to see the old place again, but not now. I’m not an imaginative man but I’m getting the strongest feeling that I’m not wanted here and that it’s the ground itself that wants me to leave.”

  Ed felt Davenport’s description of himself as unimaginative was an understatement but he was impressed by the depth of feeling he could sense in the older man. So together they stumbled and blundered along the winding track through the dark wood towards the great house, which they could now discern, gaudily lit, in the distance. During the walk through the woods Ed felt a sense of companionship and calm infuse him, which made him feel part of something, however odd, for the first time in years. It was like he’d imagined it would be to share an adventure when he was a friendless boy at school. They reached the tree line and gazed across the lawns at the back of the hall. Davenport noticed trees had been cut back to provide Carver with a golf driving range and a few holes. The scene, lit sporadically by the moon penetrating the fog, looked almost like a Christmas card with the moon bathed frosted lawns sweeping up to the brightly lit house.

  However, the peace was broken by the arrival of a figure rapidly striding across the garden towards them and in a moment the red angry face and polished head of Si Carver confronted them.

  “Hey how did you bloody get here? I was waiting for you at the front, that’s where you was meant to have come. Anyway you’re too late, they’ve gone, it’s quiet now, but I warn you, Joyce, don’t think you’ve heard the last of this.”

  He addressed himself to Ed but couldn’t help pointing out to Davenport the recent improvements.

  “See you noticed the golf, do you play? I do, like a pro. I’ll invite you over for a game; you can see some other changes I’ve made. You won’t recognise the old place once I’ve finished with it.”

  Davenport ignored him; he was staring intently at the woods separating them from the estate wall with beyond it the mound. Carver turned back to Ed.

  “Now, I’ll be making a complaint to your boss unless you get your churchyard cleaned up by Christmas Eve. I’ve already had to call the police twice. I want it done by Christmas Eve because that’s when we’re having a house warming in style; know what I mean; quality, celebs, footballers and wags, only the best.”

  He put his face intimidatingly close up to Ed, glaring through small eyes, his mouth forming a threatening smile.

  “You do understand what I’m telling you don’t you Joyce? I don’t want no disturbance from your church at Christmas. You should have enough to keep you busy without sheltering tramps, there’s places for them paid for out of my taxes. Should be the busiest time, in your job. So just stick to your bleeding church and your own fucking business. I won’t tell you again, you’ve had your last warning.”

  Normally a mild man Ed responded.

  “You never even visit the church, so how can you be so sure they are members of the mendicant community?”

  “Oh Christ!”

  The shout was Davenport’s. Ed and Carver, startled, turned to stare in the same direction. First they heard the sound of a distorted screeching voice, and then, across the lawns, running towards them saw a wild figure, long coat billowing behind, moving at a speed no runner could match. And certainly no human voice could make that sound. The manic high pitched and unintelligible chant bordering on the pitch of hysteria held them rooted to the spot.

  About twenty yards away the figure stopped and for an instance it looked straight at them, eyes wide in a rictus of fear and hate. Its mouth and jaws were masked with blood dripping down to cover the neck and shoulders. Fixing them with a glare it made a sound pitched somewhere between a hiss and a snarl in no language they understood. Then it changed direction, passing them at an angle, and headed towards the woods and the church gate. As it disappeared into the trees Carver’s jaw dropped open in shock.

  “Jesus, what the fuck was that?”

  The other two ignored him as Ed, who thought he knew what it was, gasped in horror to Davenport,

  “Oh God, Lisa, I think that was Lisa, quick follow, we must catch her.”

  Ed and a shaken Davenport turned and chased after the apparition with Carver’s voice ringing behind them.

  “There, see, that’s the type of thing I deal with here. That and the shadowy one, he’s worse. It’s your fault, your fucking fault. Clean it up, deal with it, get rid of them; now! Do it now because I know people who’ll make your life hell if you don’t. I know people, I know people.”

  Then as no one was listening and he was alone, he turned and moved back towards the Hall, after a few steps breaking into a run and not looking back.

  This was fortunate for him; because if he had dared to look back he’d have seen a shadow moving among the trees. Was it moving? Certainly it seemed to arrive in different places but its movement was hard to track, peculiar and jerky, yet swift. The manner of its perambulation suited its stature, which was long, tattered and dislocated, dark as if a collection of raggedly blackish shrouds had achieved life independent of any occupant. It paused at the tree nearest the house and from there it watched the owner rush rapidly in through the rear entrance, slamming and bolting the door behind him.

  CHAPTER 21

  IN THE WEE SMALL HOURS OF THE MORNING

  The phone rang again as Ed replaced the handset and the noise in the silent kitchen made him jump. It was after eleven, far too late for a normal call. Phone calls at this hour meant trouble or at least nuisance, and on a night like this it was unlikely that anyone was ringing up with Christmas greetings. He and Davenport hadn’t found Lisa. They’d followed the course of the estate wall, searched the church and churchyard then followed the silent deserted lanes that fringed the site. On their despondent trudge back to the Rectory Davenport suddenly stopped.

  “We forgot Devil’s Mound.”

  “Yes, but that’s where she came from. You saw the state she was in – that’s the last place she’d have gone.”

  “But the blood, what if the blood wasn’t hers? Listen, go back home, phone the police and her father in that order. I’ll cut across to the mound and see if anyone’s there.”

  “Is that wise? After what we’ve seen tonight? You’ve no idea what else might be out there.”

  But Davenport had already gone, heading for Devil’s Mound. Ed set off home to carry out his instructions. He’d rung the police, who’d promised to send round a car when one was available, and left a message for the Richardsons asking them to call when they got back in from whatever function or party they were attending. Then the phone rang. He lifted the handset.

  “St George’s Rectory, Reverend Ed Joyce speaking.”

  “Joyce, we’ve not met but my name is Wolf; we attended the same college and have a few common ac
quaintances in Oxford and Litchfield. I don’t want to alarm you but I think you are in danger and we need to talk.”

  A few weeks ago Ed would have regarded this as the type of crank call all clergy get. Now in his present state of mind it came almost as a relief and he agreed without hesitation to meet the next day. Mary entered the kitchen in her dressing gown, unable to sleep, and made a hot chocolate drink for them both. They sat in the warmth at the kitchen table for a while in companionable silence. She was unwilling to question Ed too closely for fear she’d find he was descending into the depressive state that was the first step on his path to mental breakdown.

  To her surprise he seemed calmer and more content than he’d been for days. She knew beneath his pompous exterior he was essentially a kind man, willing to take on other people’s problems beyond his capacity to cope with them, and that he was frustrated by his faith and career. But most of all he never seemed to belong anywhere or fit in. He’d no self confidence and the unctuous manner was his way of protecting himself from an uncertain and frightening world. But what she didn’t know was that he recognised this only too well and was bitterly ashamed of himself and the pathetic figure he cut.

  Ed Joyce despised himself for his uncertainty and lack of moral courage. He suspected the world took him for a caricature of all that was most risible and derided in popular perception of the clergy. At his core he was still the lonely and frightened child he’d been at boarding school, friendless and the natural target for bullies. Tonight however he felt he might finally have arrived in the right place, he and Davenport acted as a team. He felt closeness; and then the call from Marcus Wolf like a deus ex machina. So someone else knew there was something wrong in the parish. Unlike Heatly Smythe he wasn’t alone, perhaps this time God would include him. He finished the hot chocolate, left his chair to stand behind Mary, massaging her shoulders as she finished her drink. Then, hand in hand, they went to bed.

  ***

  PC Wilson and WPC Dixon pulled into a lay-by on the Silk Road to drink the coffee they’d bought at the all night garage and take a break on the long night shift. They were waiting for a serial attacker that no one in the force had any idea how to catch. The first couple of nights had been edgy, even though they were issued with a tazer for use in extremity, but now it was just boring. They kept the engine on so the heater would continue to run. The night was cold and steam from the Styrofoam cups filled the car’s interior. Outside it was quiet, the road empty. Another four boring hours to fill, with banter and bickering, unless they got a call. That would be worse than doing nothing; bringing more paperwork to no real purpose other than help the division make its targets, all of which were manipulated and pointless anyway. So they settled to pick at the point of contention between them.

  “You’ll never get anywhere singing with that band, George. Face it, you’ll be stuck filling in forms and sitting in stinking squad cars until you marry some randy sergeant from CID.”

  George, whose real name was Gemma, settled happily to the routine.

  “Piss off, Ges, you’ve no idea, even if we don’t get a recording deal we’re getting plenty of bookings. Soon I’ll earn more from the band in a month than from the force in a year and then I’ll be off. The next time you see me it’ll be on the pages of Hello, and I won’t be in this poxy uniform.”

  “What about seeing you without the poxy uniform now? I’ll tell you what I’d like……”

  But he never did. A heavy container lorry approaching the squad car sounded its klaxon loud and abrasive in the still night air. They looked up startled causing Ges to spill coffee over his groin. Gemma saw the lorry swerve to avoid a wild figure zigzagging across the carriageway. She would never be quite sure what happened next but the front of the lorry clipped the figure throwing it in a heap into the dark at the side of the road. The lorry corrected its swerve and sped off into the night, maybe the driver never felt any contact.

  Gemma, followed by a spluttering Ges, ran towards the prone figure, nerving herself for the horrific injury she expected to find; sweating despite the cold night. She was just a few feet away when suddenly it jumped up like a Jack in a Box and stood for a moment facing her, an image from hell.

  For an instant it seemed to hover unsupported in the freezing air as its legs unbuckled and straightened to support it. Then, slowly, it turned its face towards them and they saw the rictus of its blood stained mouth grinning horribly in the sickening parody of a smile. After a few seconds, which seemed an age to Gemma, its eyes focused and it hurled itself forward. Gemma took the brunt of its velocity and was knocked off her feet landing badly several yards away, the breath crushed out of her. From the ground she could see Ges struggling with the wild figure, being forced back towards the squad car. He was gasping and squealing for help in a voice raised in pitch by fear and the hand clasping at his throat.

  She radioed for assistance then got shakily to her feet. With one hand round his neck the figure lifted Ges and bent him backwards over the bonnet of the car like a torn rag doll. She could see Ges trying to free his throat from the force of the grip squeezing it closed. Gemma was dizzy and frightened, too frightened to disturb the figure that was killing her colleague in case it should turn on her. Her one contact had been sufficient for her to understand this was no normal thing. It could survive the impact with the lorry and hit her with such force. Every instinct in her body urged her to turn and run. She’d stumbled a few steps when a repeated strangulated cry stopped her. She looked round and saw Ges, now screaming her name, his voice strangely high pitched like a girl, he’d given up struggling. Then he started to cry.

  She watched as he lay prone across the bonnet with the creature over him tearing at his face with its teeth, its mouth covered in blood. Ges managed to sob out,

  “Gemma, pleeease, pleeease.”

  She could never understand what made her to do what she did next, perhaps it was training, maybe love. Taking deep breaths she checked the tazer then advanced towards the creature and standing behind it deployed full force. The creature let out a hiss, like a geyser erupting, and turned its head to face her. What Gemma faced, the blood, the eyes, the sharp teeth, would inhabit her nightmares until she died, but the red-tinged eyes lost focus and it staggered unsteadily on its beautiful legs. Gemma used the moment’s grace to snap open her baton and hit it as hard, quickly and often as she could until, to her relief, it released Ges and stumbled to the ground. She quickly cuffed it then dragged Ges into the car, which she reversed away from the prone, but still struggling, handcuffed body. Close enough for it to be just inside the main beam of the headlights, but far enough for her to accelerate away if it showed signs of getting to its feet. There, sobbing, bloody and badly bruised, they waited until the blue lights of relief appeared in the distance.

  ***

  At the same time, on the same road, Davenport sat in the ambulance with the mutilated man who, though no longer babbling had continued to grip his hand. In the gloom of the ambulance interior it was like the road to Hell. But he could see that the long blood-soaked hair of the man that he’d taken for fairish was in fact dead white. Yet the man was, at least from his perspective, young. Despite the night’s unnerving sequence of events he felt calm, almost disorientated, as if he’d entered someone else’s dream, yet he knew that if it was anyone’s dream it was his by ancestral right.

  He felt more concern for the vicar than for himself; he should have kept him out of all this. There was a bond between his family, the land whether for good or evil. This was a local problem that a series of strangers had come and disturbed: they could take the consequences; they’d brought it on themselves. But the vicar, he was different. The local clergy had always been the responsibility of the Davenports and he should never have involved Joyce in any of this. The ambulance pulled to a stop and the doors opened revealing the well lit entrance to the A and E unit of the general hospital.

  The victim was stretchered out of the ambulance and into hospital accompanied b
y Davenport. A police officer standing by the reception crossed the floor towards them, recognised Davenport and took him to one side as he watched the stretcher recede down a long ill-lit corridor.

  “I thought I recognised you, Sir Nigel, back on your old lands tonight then. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you for a statement.”

  Davenport realised how tired he felt and how difficult all this would be to explain. The look of weariness at least communicated itself to the policeman who in an unexpectedly kindly way led him across to a waiting area furnished with some of the types of chairs that all hospital waiting rooms contain.

  “Perhaps you remember me, Sir Nigel: Wayne Barford. I lived on the estate near the church, my uncle Eddie used to work for you. I’m a policeman now.”

  He added, as an unnecessary afterthought,

  “You sit down there, Sir, and I’ll get us a drink.”

  He moved across the hallway to the drinks dispenser and while he manipulated the controls for two coffees, Davenport was left to try to make enough sense of the night’s events for a coherent statement. He remembered Wayne Barford as a large and violent youth whose parents had moved off the estate before Wayne had the opportunity to cause any major trouble. Barford returned with the drinks.

  “I’ve put extra sugar in your cup Sir; good after you’ve had a shock like.”

  Davenport took the cup of hot coffee thinking perhaps the boy hadn’t grown up too bad after all. Over the next few minutes he gave his statement, which, although deliberately low on motive or content, was factually correct. He’d been alerted by the Reverend Edmund Joyce of a disturbance occurring on the fields at the back of the Hall. In the Hall grounds they’d encountered a blood spattered and deranged young woman who’d disappeared into the night. He made no mention of the unnatural speed at which she moved or the unnerving noise she made, which still echoed inside his head. Then he sent the Reverend Joyce to phone the police while he had searched the fields from which the young woman had emerged, and there he’d found the victim lying semi conscious on the feature known locally as Devil’s Mound. He didn’t mention the horror he felt at the discovery or the fear which almost stopped him functioning.