Dark Coven

by Nick Brown

  But then, unmistakable, she emerged and came striding across the road towards the car. More statuesque than he remembered, she was wearing a white jacket, stretched taut across the bust, and her strong legs were sheathed in a tight, calf length purple skirt. Not conventionally attractive, she was more like striking, and he was toying with Junoesque as the appropriate epithet when she opened the passenger door and struggled into the passenger seat, having to hitch up the tight skirt to manage. The windows misted up again.

  Ed could feel himself blushing and was pleasantly relieved when she said:

  “This’d give everyone who knows us something to gossip about, talk about dangerous liaisons.”

  He recognised the reference to the film, otherwise he’d have felt considerably more nervous, which he became after she followed up with:

  “I see you’ve got into the spirit of things and come in disguise.”

  He felt at his neck, replying:

  “Yes, I felt it advisable to discard the clerical collar.”

  Then he mentally cursed himself for the pomposity of the reply. Why could he never get it right? But if she minded, she didn’t show it.

  “If you take the first right there’s a quiet pub after about a mile where we can talk undisturbed.”

  He wasn’t really a pub man but it was a good idea and he pulled away from the curb, aware of her proximity and the scent of her perfume.

  It wasn’t difficult to work out why the pub was quiet. They took their drinks, a gin and tonic for her and lemonade for him, to a sticky table flanked by torn and dirty seats.

  “Told you it’d be quiet, never anyone here. Good thing too, don’t we make a strange pair?”

  She giggled and before he got chance to reply she’d moved on.

  “You know, you need to do something with your hair, Ed, that scruffy long look ages you.”

  She sounded almost flirtatious and he kept his eyes on the smeary lemonade glass. Apart from a radio playing softly somewhere there was no other sign of life in the pub. He muttered:

  “What are we doing here, Olga? What do you want?”

  “I need you to listen, listen with an open mind. Don’t judge me on your experience at the house the other night.”

  He nodded assent, knowing he was going to hear something he didn’t want to. He felt strange and out of time; the radio and the table sticking to his hands could have been in another universe.

  “Something’s wrong, Ed, out of step with reality. I’m frightened. I’m talking to you because I know more about you than you think. You’re the only person who’d understand and...”

  She paused and her generous lipsticked mouth fashioned a moue of disgust.

  “And you know that woman.”

  He began to protest, she held up her hand to cut him off.

  “Please listen.”

  “Claire’s a friend of mine, you mus…”

  She cut him off.

  “She’s not, not at all what you think, not what anyone could possibly think. Just listen, give me a few minutes, please listen.”

  He was sweating, something was happening, something wicked was coming, he needed time to think. He got up and went to the bar. Eventually the barman appeared from somewhere deep inside the building and served him. He changed his own drink to whisky and went back to listen.

  “It started to go wrong last Christmas after you carried out your exorcism at Skendleby. I don’t know what you did but I felt it. Around then, Margaret got the idea of the baby. It was like a Damascene conversion, no discussions, not even with me, and I share her bed. Sorry if you’re embarrassed by that, Ed.”

  Ed shook his head, hoping to appear at one with the sexual zeitgeist, but he thought he might be blushing. Olga smiled, said:

  “No need to be embarrassed, we all lead complicated lives and mine’s considerably more complicated than most, which I hope you’ll discover.”

  Then she continued:

  “I didn’t know where the idea came from at the time, but I’m certain it wasn’t Margaret’s.”

  “So whose idea was it?”

  “Save that for later please, Ed. I don’t want to go there yet. She talked me round, she’s so lovely and she’s been so hurt, so together we convinced the others. But even so, I knew this birth meant something more to Margaret than the rest of us, but didn’t suspect what. So when a week or so later I happened on Kelly in a coffee bar it seemed like fate, and I suppose because it was me who found her I began to believe in Margaret’s project.”

  She broke off. Ed thought she was trying to fight off tears, which surprised him. She seemed so powerful, so in control.

  “That poor innocent, sweet girl. I wish I’d never drifted into that coffee house, I only did it on impulse.”

  Ed handed her his handkerchief, she took it with a nod of thanks.

  “Then, gradually at first, things began to change in the house, not just the atmospherics. After the impregnation ceremony it escalated: nuisance calls, really nasty ones, acts of petty vandalism, then we started discovering disembowelled animals at the front door, you know: crows, rabbits, weasels. Cut up with precision, not done by other animals. Margaret blamed Ken, her ex-husband, but I’ve doubts about that, it makes no sense. I think she’s hiding something else. Trouble is, as an explanation, it plays to the sexual politics of some of us: Rose and Jenna in particular.”

  She must have noticed he looked surprised.

  “I think you got a false impression of us, Ed. I know we came across as pretty hostile but that was down to the circumstances. We’re a group of women who want to live a spiritual life independent of men, not hostile to them. That’s why everything is so wrong.”

  He said nothing. Since Skendleby he’d developed into a good listener.

  “Then that hateful killing: poor Kelly, never hurt anyone. Why kill her? I’ve done nothing but think about it ever since. All I’ve come up with is that she wasn’t the target, it was the life inside her.”

  Ed couldn’t help himself, blurted out:

  “No, you can’t say that, how would anyone even know she was pregnant?”

  “Good question. She’d told Margaret she thought she was and Margaret told me. No one else in the house knew as far as I know, but I suspect one other person did. That same day, Claire turned up offering psychic healing and Margaret accepted. She feigned surprise, but when you’re close to someone you know them. I know Margaret was expecting Claire, I could see they were already very close. I’ve got two questions for you, Ed.”

  He waited, knowing that his world was beginning to turn, but there was no time to think about what was coming.

  “We’ve got a new member of the community now, someone I think you know: Jan. So the first thing I’m asking is: why are there three women who were damaged on the Skendleby dig living in our community of seven? They couldn’t wait to get away from here last year, so what could be strong enough to bring them back?”

  He didn’t know and for the moment wasn’t bothered, he was too intent on what was coming next: the thing he was dreading.

  “What is Claire?”

  He swallowed his whisky in one gulp.

  *******

  Within a couple of miles of Skendleby, the weather started to change. Ahead of them they could see dark grey cloud masses blown around by an increasingly strong wind. The drive back had been a strange mix of fracture and intimacy. Ed was both disturbed and attracted by Olga and couldn’t deny he felt a strong tug of intimacy. He knew she wanted something but also that she seemed to get him, had worked out what he really was beneath the awkward and shallow surface. So he’d been able to be honest with her once they left the pub and were sitting in the car.

  “I can’t give you answers, not now, I need to think. I can’t even tell you what really happened last Christmas, well, not yet, maybe later. But you’re right, there is something happening again, something that shouldn’t be happening. I can’t understand why Rose, Leonie and Jan are living so close to Skendleby. The
place almost killed Rose and damaged the others so much it drove them away. They’ll be more likely to talk to you than me. As for Claire, I owe her so much, without her I don’t think I’d have made it. But…”

  He faltered. Olga smiled, encouraging him to continue.

  “But, when I saw her at the house, I don’t know what it was, but something was different. Different, and it just felt wrong. That’s all I can say for now. But, there’s a couple of things I think I need to share with you.”

  The wind was beginning to buffet the car, forcing him to struggle with the steering and pause momentarily.

  “I’ve been examining some previously unknown sources concerning the Skendleby estate. They were run to earth by a researcher working with the archaeologists, just before he was murdered in Nice.”

  The murder of Tim Thompson in Nice and the deranged letter he’d written only hours before were beginning to seem frighteningly linked with their current problems. Another of the restless dead that hovered above Skendleby. But he pressed on.

  “Thompson’s research led me to concealed Davenport papers and extracts of the journals of Dr John Dee that he’d obviously been at pains to hide. Conflating the two, it’s pretty certain that over the years there have been several attempts to exorcise Skendleby from whatever lurks under that foul piece of ground. But the worse thing is….”

  “Go on, Ed.”

  “Look up there, oh God, they’ve come back. It’s starting again.”

  Above them, wheeling in the wind torn air, was a dense mass of black carrion: crows, rooks, magpies and ravens.

  “They’re over the mound, something’s happening.”

  He took a sharp right turn onto a track leading to an open field gate. In the field beyond adjacent to the Skendleby mound, two men were shouting at each other while trying to get a heavy bulldozer to start. Ed excused himself to Olga and began to walk rapidly towards them, stumbling over the uneven turf in the swirling storm blasts. When he was about fifty yards away he heard the engine begin to splutter into life and he realised what was going to happen. Heart pumping, he began to run, shouting:

  “Stop, you mustn’t do that, this site is protected. I must insist you move away.”

  The destruction and reopening of this site was his worst nightmare, and it overrode any of the dangers of interrupting the work of two hefty and obviously angry men. He was close now, less than ten yards away, and for the first time they noticed him. The bigger and nastier looking man was climbing back into the cab. Ed grabbed at his left arm to stop him.

  “Stop, please stop, you don’t know what you’re doing.” The man shook him off and he fell into the mud on all fours, losing his glasses. He heard the roar of the engine, felt it begin to move forward. So, scrambling to his feet, he managed to get round the front of it, where he stood gasping out like a distressed asthmatic child.

  “Stop, please, please stop.”

  For an instant as he stood there, the mound behind him, the birds wheeling and cawing above, he thought it wouldn’t stop. Thought that he would be ploughed into the mound to lie with the bones and whatever else lurked underneath. The shovel brushed into him but stopped, and he found himself confronted by the driver. A jowly, stubbly, red-face man, apoplectic with rage.

  “You fuck off out of here or I’ll fucking bury you under it.”

  “No, please, I’m the vicar, Reverend Joyce, call me...”

  “You’re a fucking joker is what you are.”

  He was swung away and out of the bulldozer’s path, and he saw the man pull a clenched fist back to smash him in the face. On the periphery he was aware of the other man ineffectually attempting to intercede.

  “Jed, don’t, it’ll make things worse.”

  Ed was closing his eyes to block out the impact when he saw, coming from behind his right shoulder, another fist covered with rings crunch into his assailant’s head. The man seemed to crumple up before collapsing incrementally to the earth.

  Chapter 13: From The Other Side

  Theodrakis tore himself out of the nightmare and jerked awake, hoarse screams reverberating inside his head. The same dream, the English dream. Now that he was in England it was worse.

  Despite the cloying hotel heating system he was cold, yet the crumpled bed sheets were wet and sweat stained. He went into the coffin sized bathroom and splashed water from the tiny washbasin over his face - he needed a shave. He wanted Hippolyta, which speaking to her last night had exacerbated. She’d told him her crone grandmother Yaya Eleni was having visions, and although non-specific they spoke of danger for him. Hippolyta wanted to join him in England, but having recognised what he’d seen yesterday he wanted her as far away as possible.

  He wondered what time it was. His body clock wasn’t working and he’d been constipated since arriving at Manchester airport. He was considering asking reception for the nearest pharmacy when his phone rang.

  “Syntagmatarchis,” it sounded like Syntmarchers. “Theodrakis, it’s DS Anderson, can you be ready in half an hour, Sir, we’re sending a car.”

  It was a relief to be doing something, but he could have done without the assault on Greek pronunciation and replied:

  “Good morning, Anderson, I’ll be outside the front door and Colonel Theodrakis is sufficient.”

  He dressed with care, determined not to be contaminated by the shabby chain store fashion of his new British colleagues. Reluctant to face the hotel breakfast, he patronised an adjacent coffee house for an espresso. It was cold on the street and as he was opposite Selfridges he bought an expensive but heavily lined Herringbone overcoat, which struck him as elegantly English but made him late. Anderson was in the hotel lobby looking none too pleased when he returned, and he greeted him with a dyspeptic:

  “You’ve got your chance to see the archaeologist now, Sir”

  But not immediately it seemed. First there was a briefing in the incident room. He hated incident rooms: their grisly photos, x-rays, samples and artefacts. They were bad enough in Athens, but the English seemed to make a religion of them, which he found almost pornographic. Thus immersed in the gruesome evidence he had his first real experience of DI Campbell.

  He’d been surprised when he’d first seen her. She wasn’t what he’d expected and would have been unusual in the Athens office, never mind Samos. So he empathised and was disposed to like her and ignore that it was her case, even though he outranked her by several grades.

  “Good morning, Colonel Theodrakis, I hope you’ve settled into the hotel while they’re looking for somewhere more suitable for you.”

  She was taller and maybe more broad shouldered than he was, and still looked unwell. This couldn’t disguise that in a strong, rugged way she was beautiful, like Michelle Obama crossed with the Williams sisters. He knew she was waiting for him to say, “Please, call me Alexis.” Everyone had to be a friend these days.

  “Thank you, Inspector, I believe we go to visit Dr Glover today.”

  She seemed vaguely disappointed with this reply and he noticed a flicker of irritation cross Anderson’s face.

  “That’s this afternoon, we’ve a session to bring you up to speed first.”

  The briefing lasted two hours. Theodrakis listened selectively and contributed nothing; he knew he was there to give specialist advice, not do the legwork that would solve the case. He wasn’t sure it could be solved anyway; they were dealing with things way beyond their capabilities. From his ordeal on Samos he knew they’d only make progress if their objectives coincided with those of more ancient forces. He sat and looked at the pictures of the poor mutilated girls with horrific injuries with which he was so familiar.

  The victims, these and the ones who would follow, were not even significant as people, they just supplied a commodity. With these things, humans as individuals didn’t even register. His new colleagues didn’t realise this yet and he pitied them.

  He pitied himself too, always being moved to alien environments, dependant on the comfort of strangers but com
fortable with no one. He could sense their disappointment. To this was added a measure of awkwardness when his only contribution to the briefing was a comment entirely irrelevant to the case.

  “These days in Greece, Zorba is not a name parents often give to their children.”

  *******

  For Viv, the car ride to the archaeology department at the university was uncomfortable and embarrassing; the Greek said nothing and she was wondering how to handle Dr Giles Glover. She felt awful, not only physically, her perspective was bleak, always bleak. She felt a shroud of uncertainty covering everything. She was lonely, anxious and worried that she was slipping into clinical depression. She sat in the back with Theodrakis, wishing she was in the front with Jimmy. She supposed the Zorba gaff hadn’t helped much.

  They drove through the neo-Gothic arch into the university quad. The archaeology unit was housed in the basement, and to use the adjective utilitarian in relation to it would have flattered its ambiance. Once they passed through the shabby institutional door labelled GMAU, with its peeling green paint, they found themselves in a cavernous office. The ancient desks and shelves were scattered with books, papers and artefacts and were occupied by one smartly dressed woman and a series of scruffily dressed students and ex students whose taste in fashion and hairstyling had frozen in time the day they’d graduated.

  Sitting in the centre at the largest desk, shaggy haired in some sort of olive green knitwear smock worn over a faded white T shirt and baggy Primark jeans, was Giles. He made no attempt to rise and greet them when Viv, followed by Anderson, entered. It was exactly the difficult start Viv had anticipated. He barely favoured them by bothering to look up.

  Then something surprised her, altered her perspective. The look of sullen resentment on his face vanished and was replaced with a look of delight that transformed him, made him attractive, desirable possibly. She felt Theodrakis push past her and Anderson, striding towards the central desk. Giles almost leapt out of his chair, scattering piles of paper. They met halfway, paused for a moment as if to shake hands when, to Viv’s amazement, they hugged each other, pulled apart and stood smiling like lovers. Giles spoke first.