by Nick Brown
“I can’t believe how men can be such fools, can you, girls? I don’t suppose you’ve heard this but that ridiculous little vicar, Ed, has gone and got himself lost, I wouldn’t be surprised if...”
Then it all suddenly changed. Olga had been watching the look of delighted anticipation on Jenna’s face when the timbre of Claire’s voice changed. She turned and trained her gaze exclusively on Olga who felt herself frozen, rigid like a stage-frightened actress caught in the spotlight. Claire’s next words were directed in a chilling tone only at her.
“But I don’t suppose you find this funny, do you, Boxer? I think you rather fancy him, don’t you?”
Olga gasped, why did she call her Boxer? How could she know that’s what the other inmates called her? Why was no one protesting at this? Why was Margaret still laughing? Then she understood. Here in the house, their community, real witchcraft was being practised for the first time, and she was the only one to see it. The others, clearly, heard and saw something quite different. Something loveable and funny.
“Yes, that’s right, Boxer, only you can hear - I’m saying this only to you. In this ridiculous community you are going to be privileged to host the birth of the donor of the last bone we need. The special bone. I know I shouldn’t be teasing you like this but it’s been so long since I inhabited such an enjoyable body that I can’t resist a little amusement.”
Olga heard, as if in the distance, a ripple of laughter as the other women listened to the end of Claire’s story about Ed. Rose and Jenna were the most amused but Jan barely managed a smile. Olga felt she’d been transported to a different dimension.
“Just watch them lapping it up, Boxer, they love me, don’t they? I could get them to do anything. Margaret, for instance, she can’t wait to get me into bed; but, of course, you already suspect that, don’t you? And believe me, she’ll get a shock when I let her, they don’t seem to survive my handling very long. Don’t imagine you’ll be able to warn anyone because sadly for you, my oversized friend, no one will believe a word you say. They’ll just agree with me that you’re experiencing one of your little episodes. Depression you called it I believe, although that wasn’t the term the judge employed, was it? No, for you I’m afraid things are all going downhill from here.”
Claire favoured her with the most malevolent smile as she said this. Then Olga felt the voice inside her head begin to withdraw. A snarl final snarl of:
“And of course, if you were stupid enough to attempt mischief we’d deal with you in the same way as all the others.”
Then Olga heard, alongside all the rest, Claire’s closing remarks.
“But sisters, that’s enough of me, and I’m sure you are as delighted by Lisa’s pregnancy as I am. So the rest of this wonderful evening should be about Lisa and her thrice-blessed future in this wonderful community of the spirit.”
There was a burst of applause and Margaret and Jenna opened some chilled Prosecco. Claire directed a wicked smile at Olga as she led Lisa towards the glasses, a smile that would have driven her from the room had it not been for the look of abject misery laced with terror that she saw in Lisa’s eyes.
*******
Anderson was about to leave when the call came through. He’d been watching through his office window the scurry of city workers headed for cars, buses or trams to get home before the expected blizzard marooned them. The wintry scene and Christmas lights should have radiated a festive glow, but instead there was a sense of panic. It looked like an evacuation.
He decided to get off home, he was tired and stressed: and it wasn’t only this gruesome, meaningless case. He was unsettled. The DI unsettled him, added to which half the time they didn’t even know where she was. He took the heat for her but he was getting fed up of that and her behaviour the night he’d taken her home was well out of order. He sympathised with her and supported her behind her back, but there were limits. He logged off, grabbed his coat and then the phone rang.
“Sarge, I’ve got West Midlands CID on the phone, they wanted the DI but we can’t raise her, they say it’s important.”
Anderson looked out of the window as if expecting a decision from out there; the snow had started to fall, heavy, fluffy flakes sticking immediately on the freezing roads and pavements.
“Put them through.”
The voice at the other end sounded like a mix of Scouse and Brummie. It also sounded resentful of having to share intelligence.
“I’d wanted to speak to the DI but you’ll have to do.”
Anderson ignored the jibe.
“Thanks all the same, I’ll do my best to stand in for her.”
“We’ve found a body that might interest you, and you need all the help you can get from what we hear.”
Anderson, having learnt at least this from Theodrakis, remained silent and after a time the voice continued.
“The victim’s name is Marcus Fox. Messed up well and proper he was too, made the lad who found him heave up his breakfast.”
There was a chuckle, then:
“Lots of mess so there should be plenty of DNA for you as well as prints. Whoever did him made no attempt to cover his tracks.”
Anderson asked:
“How does this help us?”
“Because our boss thinks there could be a connection with your case. Some strange old bird turned up here the day before and reported him missing. She was agitated, dressed like a bloke and wearing Doc Martens. She must have been over seventy.
“We’re getting more of that round here; Shrewsbury seems to be a magnet for pagans, wierdos and all the rest these days. Anyway, the thing that should interest you is that the list she gave us of people who might know where he was included a Dr Giles Glover. That rang some bells and it turned out that he was the archaeologist your lot pulled in and kept for a few days for questioning over the current murders. Strange that, don’t you think?”
Anderson agreed and asked:
“Thanks, that’s very helpful. What can you tell me about the late Marcus Fox?”
“Not a great deal. He lived like a recluse, kept himself to himself. He had good reason to and all, he used to be some type of vicar specialising in the occult. You know, like out of the exorcist, that type of thing. He got himself in the papers years ago trying to drive a demon or something out of a young girl. Mistake that was because the church suspected him of kiddie fiddling and he had to disappear quickish.”
The lack of logic over the victim’s decision to get involved in Skendleby must have struck both men at the same time because there was a pause, then Anderson asked:
“So, what’s your take on the murder?”
“Doesn’t seem to be any reason. He was found in the middle of nowhere near a phone box he’d just been using. It was a hell of a long walk from where he lived, particularly in this weather. So it must have been something serious he had to phone someone about. Snow had covered the body; we only found it by chance when a snow plough trying to keep the road open shifted something that obviously wasn’t snow. There was blood all over the place.”
“Anything else?”
“Plenty. Must have been set up in advance and carefully planned. Because who would be hanging round in the middle of nowhere on a freezing snowy night on the off-chance of finding and killing a recluse? So he must have been lured out, yeah?”
“Yeah, go on.”
“And it was a grudge crime, whoever killed him was enjoying himself, enjoyed messing him up. So it makes sense that it’s related to the kiddie fiddling he was involved with way back, yeah?”
Anderson wasn’t so sure about this but kept his reservations to himself and listened to the rounding off.
“All we found on him apart from his wallet, which had been gone through, was a list of phone numbers, all from your patch. Apart from Glover do these names mean anything to you: Rev Edmund Joyce, Claire Vanarvi and Sir Nigel Davenport?”
“We’re familiar with all of them.”
“From last year’s attacks, yeah?”
“That’s right, but we don’t regard them as suspects, in fact, Glover’s helping with our enquiries.”
“Well, as you’ve not made any progress, couldn’t hurt to look at them again. Soon as the evidence is back from the labs we’ll get it straight to you.”
He rung off and for a moment Anderson slumped back in his chair watching the snow silently blanket the streets. It was falling heavily and obliterating any glimpse of the Christmas lights. He was about to try Viv’s number when his cell phone chimed, the call was from her.
“Jimmy, I need you to mind things for a bit longer.”
“Ma’am there has been developments, you need to come in.”
She either didn’t register this or didn’t care to answer, all she replied was:
“Can’t tell you about it but I’m following something up, someone wants to talk.”
He was about to protest but the line went dead as she terminated the call.
Chapter 28: Shaman
If it had been possible to shock Giles any further then the sight of Davenport clutching at his chest and collapsing against the door frame would have triggered it, but he’d already seen too much that night for his senses to cope with. So, in an almost logical state of psychotic detachment, he prioritised between the collapsing elderly man and the crouching creature behind him in the way a triage nurse would.
He supported Davenport and half carried him across the lounge to the armchair by the fire, lowering him into it.
“What can I get you, there must be some tablets or something?”
“Bugger tablets, whisky.”
Giles poured a generous measure into the tumbler from the decanter and then, for good measure, took a swig of the fiery liquor himself. Half of it spilled over his chin and down his neck while the other half he swallowed the wrong way and coughed back up. So, by the time, coughing and spluttering, he’d placed the tumbler in Davenport’s hand it was hard to tell which of them was the more likely to expire. But Davenport was a man who’d dealt with more than most and he’d been toughened as a consequence. He was able to speak first.
“What in God’s name is that foul thing you brought with you?”
Giles turned and scurried back to the doorway. Davenport took a couple of deep breaths and finished the whisky, thinking he’d need all the sangfroid he could muster in the next few moments. He was right.
Giles was framed in the doorway against the background of swirling snowflakes. He was struggling with some kind of garishly made-up mannequin that constituted a dead weight in his arms. The odd couple swayed and lurched across to the empty armchair facing Davenport’s by the fire. With a grunt of effort, Giles deposited his partner into the chair and stood back revealing his burden.
The figure was covered in something like mouldering papier-mâché, was filthy and stained. In the palette of colours, black and smudged brown predominated interspersed by patches of filthy off-white like something painted by Braque during a nightmare. Beneath this hideous carapace there were discernible signs of gentle movement around the chest. So this pupating thing from a Halloween display was alive.
The grotesque presence in his living room made Davenport forget the pain in his chest; he wanted to ask Giles for some type of explanation but couldn’t shift any of his concentration from this most unwelcome guest. So he just sat and stared at the abomination occupying the facing winged armchair.
After some moments of study it became apparent to Davenport that this thing was covered in an outer layer of decomposing organic matter, fashioned predominately, it seemed, out of black feathers in a variety of states of preservation. This mouldering outer surface was held in place with a type of sticky substance resembling a nasty mix of bird excrement and mucus. There were other things as well, things that Davenport feared to classify.
The bird thing began to chunter, then to rub with its feathered hands at the blank spaces beneath its forehead, the places in a human face where eyes would sit in their sockets. After a few seconds of this Davenport saw that hidden centimetres beneath excreta bonded feathers there were in fact eyes, eyes that still worked because after a struggle to unglue the lids they came apart. The creature gave a little noise sounding like relief and Davenport found himself staring into a pair of eyes that he recognised.
*******
When Giles’s faltering torch beam had first illuminated the slithery black mass of feathers his heart had almost stopped. It hadn’t occurred to him that there was any way out. He’d assumed he would suffer the same fate as Ed. So it was surprise rather than any other emotion that gripped him when the birds began to edge back away from the priest. For no logical reason he assumed that they were making way for him, the way the crowd at an accident would make way for the paramedics. But they weren’t.
They drifted back towards the furthest reaches of the cavern, passing through and over the millennia of accumulated fetish shrines. As they passed him they seemed to move through him. Although he could see them, they didn’t seem real. Crowded together, perched in ranks superimposed on each other, the masses of crows, long dead, half dead and seemingly alive dispersed towards the darkness at the cavern’s fringe. The susurration ceased and silence regained its hold on the dread dark space.
The scientific rationalist in Giles told him that neither the birds, the fetish shrines nor perhaps even the cavern itself, existed. But the torch was real enough and its beam, grown much stronger now the birds had gone, shone brightly at the mummified statue crouched on its knees. He hesitated before approaching it. A fluttering sound like ghostly wings being flexed told him the birds had gone. The cavern felt different, less threatening anyway, so with nerves slightly restored he began to inch his way forwards.
He didn’t know what he’d find but as he gingerly stretched out his hand to test whether the figure was real it moved and he jumped back in shock. Now it looked alive he was more afraid to touch it. As he hovered in a lather of indecision there was a flapping of feathers, which sounded percussive in the cold, silent air. He shifted the torch beam towards the sound.
There, perched on the grimmest of the fetish shrines -the stone woman with a bird bursting out of her head - sat a crow. Huge, covered in night dark feathers tinged with grey, this old corvid monster sat staring at him. Its black eyes seemed to pierce his. Giles wondered if it would attack him. Instead it opened its beak.
“Taaakke him.”
It grated the actual words. Giles heard them, astonished. The crow stared at him to emphasise its point and then flapped up off the shrine and vanished. Giles did as he was told and turned towards the priest. To his discomfort, the blind head turned towards him and from somewhere beneath the mass of bird shit and feathers a mouth spoke to him.
“I am both foul and brittle, much unfit to deal with holy writ.”
Giles grabbed hold of him, his hands slipping on the slimy covering, and pulled him to his feet. He didn’t know where the strength came from but his nerve had snapped. Ghost birds and a haunted chamber were bad enough, but quoting poetry was too much.
*******
“I’ve no idea how I got him up out of there, the stuff covering him must have doubled his weight. The way up is narrow and twisting across steep, uncertain steps.”
He stuttered to a halting stop. Davenport prompted him.
“Stress in action can provide extra strength, I remember a chap in Aden…”
“No, nothing like that, it wasn’t anything like that.”
“Then what?”
“My legs were weak, think I was in shock, and I could barely walk myself.”
He paused again, then said falteringly:
“It felt like, like…”
He looked at Davenport as if expecting mockery. The older man said nothing, just waited to hear the rest. Behind them the flames hissed in the fire and the wall clock ticked.
“It felt like it wasn’t only me, felt like I had help.”
Davenport reached across and patted him on the knee.
> “Perhaps you had. Go on.”
“That’s it really, it was only when I was back on the surface in the snow storm that I began to think again.”
Davenport didn’t reply, merely refilled his tumbler with whisky. Then between them, with Davenport directing and Giles supplying the effort, they peeled the foul outer layer and the equally disgusting clothes from Ed and manoeuvered him into a warm bath. Giles had talked throughout the operation.
“Couldn’t think what to do with him at first, knew I couldn’t take him home in this state. I knew that if we went to the Hall Carver would call the cops. So I brought him here, nowhere else really. He didn’t say one thing the whole way. One quote from fucking Herbert and that was it. What are we going to do with him?”
They dried him off, put him into a pair of Davenport’s PJs and a sweater, then into the spare bedroom with a hot water bottle.
“Perhaps I should get Claire over here.”
Giles tried to raise her on his cell phone but got no answer.
“That’s strange, I’ve not been able to reach her all day.”
“Never mind that, now he looks half human we need to tell his wife. I thinks he’s just about cleaned up sufficiently for her to see without the shock killing her. I can’t imagine how you’re going to explain this to her, Giles.”
But the night had one more shock in store for them. Mary answered the phone at the first ring and said she’d be there in minutes. They returned to the bedroom to wait with Ed until she arrived. Through the open curtains the snow fell in a dense blanketing mass; the wind had dropped. Davenport said:
“Gwen rang tonight, she sounded pretty shaky. If I hadn’t seen what happened last year I’d have suspected she’d been drinking.”
He looked down at the oft-refilled tumbler in his own hand, emitting a sardonic chuckle before adding:
“She’s been prey to a growing suspicion that what we did last year hasn’t worked and that Marcus Fox wanted to gather us together again for a purpose not entirely to our benefit. Since then, however, he appears to have disappeared.”