Dark Coven

by Nick Brown

  The phone still rang, couldn’t be interesting, all important calls came to one of his mobiles. The ringing stopped at last; then bloody well started again. The two bouncers who, since the upsets, tended to stay with him weren’t sufficiently skilled to answer it properly so had been told not to, and that lazy cow he’d married must be out - no change there then.

  Not that he was bothered about that particularly, he preferred it when she was somewhere else, even if she was wasting more of his money. Still, he supposed she had to look the part. He walked a few feet across the room and picked up the handset.

  “Yeah, Si Carver, what do you want?”

  There was an old, poncy voice he thought he recognised but couldn’t place on the other end, but he wasn’t left wondering long.

  “Carver? It’s Davenport, I’ve details with which I need to acquaint you.”

  “Too fucking late to try and apologise now, my lawyers have already been instructed.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, man, I’m not apologising to you for anything, but I am trying to do you a good turn, which, believe me, it would be a grave error to refuse.”

  Si Carver realised if he didn’t reply Davenport would ring off. He couldn’t make up his mind whether to answer and show weakness or not listen to what might be useful. But it was possible Davenport might be able to help alleviate what this house was doing to him.

  “Alright, but you betta make it quick, I’m a busy man.”

  For a moment there was a silence at the other end as if Davenport found this transaction as distasteful as Si did, then:

  “I won’t pretend that I have any time for you or what you stand for, Carver, but I feel that in some ways I haven’t behaved the way I should have.”

  “I already told you, it’s too late to apologise.”

  “We don’t apologise to your type, Carver. Now are you going to listen or not?”

  Davenport must have assumed that silence indicated assent and he commenced spelling out his warning.

  “We left you with a legacy. A legacy we should, or rather I, should have informed you of. I think some of the events you now experience are a direct consequence of that legacy.”

  “Yeah, and how you going to help with that, then? With the police and the murder and what they found under the chapel?”

  Si could tell that the mention of what was under the chapel was unexpected and had thrown Davenport for the moment.

  “Didn’t know about that then? Not so bleedin clever now, are you, eh?”

  “No, I wasn’t aware of that but it just serves to make what I tell you of greater import. Listen carefully, there are things in that house, things on that land, that you need to leave alone. Things that have been there for longer than people have, things that don’t like being disturbed.”

  “So, why didn’t you do something about it then?”

  “We did. We tried for centuries without success. There is only one thing that you can do to quieten them and even that only works some of the time. But these things occur in periodic episodes, you have to get through the episode then it quietens down.”

  Carver was torn between a horrified need to know more and anger. For the moment, fear held the upper hand.

  “Go on then, tell me what I should do.”

  “Nothing, do nothing, it’s the only option you have.”

  “Nothing, just let it happen? So what about me improvements then?”

  “Particularly the improvements. You’re stirring things up that you don’t understand, things that can…”

  But Si had got what Davenport’s game was now, and he was going to pay for it.

  “Same old game then, this is just to stop me and the development, innit? I got you’re measure now, all this bollocks is about that. Well, let me fucking tell you…”

  But he got no chance, Davenport rung off and left him hanging. He was sweating, what was wrong with him? This wasn’t how he was, he was a winner. He crossed over to the bar and poured himself a drink. He reckoned Davenport had been right about one thing though, and that was the land, well one particular piece of land anyhow: the Skendleby mound.

  He needed to deal with that, not the way Davenport meant neither, he needed it levelled. Then it occurred to him that maybe the tunnel to the chapel came from under the mound, not the church. He knew this made no sense but it lodged in his brain. If he levelled the mound, knocked down the chapel then sealed the pit up under concrete, maybe things would get better.

  He phoned Jed Gifford’s mobile number and after a couple of bleeps the builder answered. He sounded different somehow but emotional intelligence wasn’t one of Si’s strong points so he ignored it.

  “Gifford, I’m giving you one last chance, yeah? You get yourself into that fucking bulldozer and you level that mound. Don’t take no one with you this time neither.”

  Gifford started to whine about something but Si wasn’t having any of it.

  “No fuck ups this time, last warning, right?”

  This time Si rang off. Game over. He flopped onto the sofa and turned up the sound to Sky Sports’ boxing coverage. It was the adverts and Ray Winstone was advertising a betting company. He liked Ray, a proper geezer, someone he’d like to have a drink with. He needed another drink, it would help to stop him shaking. Threatening Gifford hadn’t helped and he usually enjoyed that.

  His mouth tasted foul and he had this constant pain in his gut. It had been there for weeks and stopped him working out. He was putting on weight, getting flabby. He was proud of his body, he built it up with weights: massive biceps, pecs and shoulders, and almost a six pack. He liked looking at himself in the mirror at the gym. Shaven-headed and bulky, a real hard man, that’s what he was, a winner.

  He liked the other punters in the gym to watch him pump iron, and if he thought that they weren’t watching he’d make that loud grunt that pro lifters make to demonstrate the weight of what they are lifting. He liked parking his motor on the double yellows right outside the terrace of restaurants like Pissarro’s and Edge Road, where the footballers went. See the ordinary punters staring at him cos he could do what he liked and they had to follow the loser’s rules. That showed class that did: he was well respected.

  He couldn’t concentrate on the boxing; he’d seen the fight before and his mind drifted onto the planning permission for the development. The funding package was there and he’d had his lawyers look into the loopholes that would let him vary the use once the project started. Maybe, when it was all sorted and he’d got the money he needed to cover his problems, he’d move. Maybe somewhere hot by the sea, he deserved it - leave all this behind - Florida or Dubai, somewhere like that, on one of them golfing villages.

  Trouble was, there were still glitches with the permission. He’d had to waste money on the wrong people and the ones he threatened didn’t have power to make decisions. He blamed Richardson for most of the problems. This brought his reverie up short. He shouldn’t have thought of Richardson. He knew where that could lead.

  Back when Richardson topped himself, Si thought maybe it was for the best, but not now and for two reasons: Richardson knew how the council worked, all the levers that needed to be pushed and the losers prepared to push them for a fee. The second reason was worse: when he was alive he was useful and could be controlled. Now he was dead he was beyond control, even thinking this freaked Si. He tried to turn his attention back to the boxing.

  The channel had reverted to adverts. Ray was back. Si decided to hold off from fast-forwarding until Ray had said his catchword, “Bet naaah”, which Si particularly liked. He looked at the screen in anticipation as the camera closed in on Ray’s head.

  But it wasn’t Ray; Ray had gone, it was Richardson. Not the Richardson that Si remembered; the Richardson that was dead. The Richardson that had been dead for some time. Mottled flesh slipping off cheek bones, something that didn’t look like an eye in the left socket, the right looking like an overused teabag. Richardson turned his head towards him and a slit in the gel
atinous mess that used to be the mouth opened to say something. The bone structure moved but the liquefying flesh didn’t as the remaining organic material in the mouth cavity struggled to form words.

  Si waited in horror, not knowing what Richardson was going to say but pretty sure that it wouldn’t be “Bet naaah”. He was right, somewhere out of the pulpy ruin a voice resembling a punctured whistle began to speak.

  “It endures, it doesn’t fade so listen....”

  He wasn’t going to listen, not to this. He hit the off button and got out of the room. He needed help but where could a vindictive bully like him look for reassurance?

  Upstairs in the master suite he swallowed a couple of tablets and lay on the bed trying to see if deep breathing would calm him down: someone was going to suffer for this. He fantasised over who he’d punish the most and gradually regained a measure of equilibrium.

  Sometime later he heard footsteps on the stairs, then the bedroom door opened and Suzzie-Jade bounced into the room flushed and wearing what appeared to be a lycra body stocking.

  “Having a little rest are we, babes? Oh, bless.”

  If there was one thing Si didn’t want now it was Suzzie-Jade with her bitchy little digs. She’d been a mistake, she was meant to be for show, not for having to put up with. She stripped the sportswear off in one fluent and, he thought, practised movement, dropped it onto the carpet and headed naked for the walk-in shower, shaking her arse at him as she went.

  She was fucking taunting him: now he knew who he wanted to hurt, and rage overcame his past experience of what she could be like. She must have been aware of him getting up and looked over her shoulder at him, affected a pout and breathily mouthed:

  “Like what you see, babes?”

  Then she giggled and added:

  “Oh no, I forgot you can’t manage it normal, can you?”

  That was it: he was off the bed and on her, grabbing her from behind, forcing her into the shower. She gave a gasp as he grabbed her, pinching at her flesh, but instead of resisting she began to grind her buttocks into his groin. It must have been the rush from the anger because he felt himself becoming aroused. As he was moving her towards the edge of the bath, she said coldly:

  “That’s it, Si, pretend I’m one of your rent boys, that’ll help you keep it up.”

  Any desire evaporated, was transformed to pure hate; now he just wanted to hurt and drew back his fist for the first blow. But she was both lither and quicker than he was. As he raised his arm for the blow his balance shifted and she wriggled out of the grip of his other hand, turned quickly and shoved him into the bath. While he pushed himself back up she scampered out of the en-suite, scooped up her running suit from the floor and legged it downstairs.

  He wasn’t going to risk humiliating himself further by chasing her so had to resort to smashing his fist into the door a couple of times. It wasn’t the first time this had happened and she’d be back, but he began to seriously think about dealing with her proper at some future date.

  *******

  After the third ring of the doorbell, Ed pulled the door open wondering what emergency he was about to confront; but no crisis could have left him as surprised. So much so, that for a moment he wondered if it was a case of the wrong address. He was dismissing the possibility of someone walking through a graveyard to a rectory as a particularly likely mistake, when he realised he was being addressed.

  “Hiyaaa, I wondered if we could have a little chat?”

  “Yes, of course, Mrs Carver, please come in.”

  “I prefer Suzzie-Jade, although I suppose I might have to change that soon.”

  Now he was completely lost and had no idea what she was talking about. He also wondered about the way she was dressed. Her outfit seemed to bridge the spectrum from tracksuit to lingerie. He pushed any thoughts this engendered to the back of his mind.

  “Well, Suzzie-Jade then. I must admit to being a bit surprised at finding you here, I thought that…”

  “Yeah, well Si don’t like churches.”

  Then she seemed to change.

  “I’ve been in your church a couple of times when it’s quiet. It knows me now, an interesting church: the oldest bits must be early fourteenth century.”

  Surprised as he was at this, he managed to answer.

  “Yes, in fact the most ancient bit of stonework is part of its Saxon predecessor. May I offer you a cup of tea?”

  “Be nice, but I haven’t got time. Look, I want to ask you what you really know about the Hall. I’ve not noticed anything apart from our friends the birds but now they’ve gone. But it’s messing Si up and, despite what the police say about us being secure, it’s hard to feel it since the murder.”

  “Yes, that poor girl, I suppose you must feel…”

  “Not really, I hardly knew her, but something’s changing.”

  Ed noticed that there appeared to be the start of some bruising round Suzzie-Jade’s throat.

  “Has Mr Carver been…?”

  She followed his stare and replied:

  “No, he’s not really up to knocking me about, it’d take a better man than him.”

  Ed had no idea how to respond to her. It felt like he was confronting two entities in one and he couldn’t be quite sure which was which. It was most disconcerting. However, he didn’t need to worry about how to answer: she was talking.

  “Don’t take me for stupid, I’m like this because it’s what Si wanted, you know, a WAG, but it’s all for show, like his big cars. All we’ve got is a type of arrangement but that’s not really working so I’ll have to reinvent myself and move upmarket. Any rich vicars going?”

  She must have seen the expression on his face and changed her tone. She reached out a hand and patted his with it. The feel of her touch was pleasantly reassuring if oddly cold.

  “Only joking, Ed, don’t look so worried, I’m no threat to you.”

  His instinct told him he should be feeling very threatened indeed, but his thinking was confused. She continued.

  “But there’s a serious reason why I’m here. I’ve dug around a bit and found out some of the things that you were involved in last Christmas. I think you should look at what’s under that chapel. I saw the effect it had on the police and the archaeologists who went down there. Something’s wrong and I think you should investigate.”

  Even as he began to answer, Ed realised that she’d dropped the estuary accent and her grammar had improved.

  “I hardly think Mr Carver would agree to that, last time we spoke he…”

  “No need to bother about that, I’ll let you know when it’s a good time. Anyway, I don’t think you’re half as soft as you make out. You’re a much better man than Si is.”

  Ed hadn’t time to agree to either her request or her highly unexpected assessment of him, she was already heading for the front door. She opened it herself and for a moment stood staring straight into his eyes, as if judging him. He found he was spellbound, staring back at a pair of eyes that seemed to change continuously.

  “Expect to be seeing more of me, at least in the near future. I think you’re beginning to understand, aren’t you, Ed?”

  Staring at her, this seemed less remarkable than it should have been. She smiled.

  “I’ll be in touch to let you know when.”

  She paused for a moment before reverting to character.

  “Maybe have that tea next time, vicar, nice to talk, innit. See u laitaa.”

  The spell was broken.

  Chapter 23: The Gathering

  Theodrakis requested to be part of the interviews to be held at the women’s house in order to confirm the previous statements concerning the death of Ken Trescothic and to open the investigation into the attack of Olga. He could tell this took Viv by surprise but he couldn’t read whether she was pleased or not. Anderson had certainly looked relieved at being stood down, which struck Theodrakis as peculiar. He still hadn’t figured how the relationships in the investigating team worked, but he recogn
ised the tensions and could tell Viv was uneasy. That she was unhappy with him was apparent and the almost silent drive from police HQ to the house wasn’t needed to confirm this.

  After a perfunctory conversation about the interviews they were going to conduct and their suspicions concerning Olga, conversation trailed off and they sat together in the back seat gazing out at the low cloud massing in the silver grey sky. Theodrakis had forgotten how oppressive the skies of England could be and North Cheshire was greyer than his memories of Cambridge.

  Most of the tension in their relationship was down to him, even though unintentional. In fact, he needed to talk to her, wanted to warn her about what he was fairly sure was facing her. But he couldn’t. Part of this stemmed from his awkward reticence, but the major impediment was that until she understood more of the nature of the killings, anything he tried to explain would sound mad. Sometimes he thought he was mad, that he’d imagined what he’d encountered on Samos.

  He knew in a sense this was true, and the nearest he could get to an understanding was that the things they faced operated on a quantum scale in an alternative reality where things were different, that they were only able to make progress through being granted a limited window of artificial perception. They could see the bodies but not appreciate the levers and mechanics that ruled the game.

  The car slowed down and looking up he saw the electrified iron gates slowly swing open, exposing the driveway to the house. How isolated it was; something exaggerated by the low cloud that limited visibility.

  In summer it may look beautiful but he could understand why any threat the women faced must feel magnified out here in winter, with no other houses visible. He guessed that DI Campbell must be feeling the same as she shivered and said:

  “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

  He followed her across the frost covering the stone chipping drive towards the front door, which he saw swing open. He followed Viv in: the interior couldn’t have felt more different, light warm and comfortable. All the women, except for one, were in what the woman who opened the door, Jenna, described as the Gathering Room. He had no idea what a Gathering Room was but it sounded, to his Greek consciousness, like something out of the pages of Aeschylus. He didn’t warm to Jenna either, but there was no time to reflect on that because he found himself gathered into the presence of what Anderson had referred to as the coven.