The Gated Trilogy

by Matt Drabble

  “I don’t suppose that you would be able to take the time to teach me?”

  Jemima stared at the boy’s innocent and lost looking face and she felt a hard tug at her heart strings. “It must be so difficult for you being so far away from home and not having a single familiar face.”

  “Oh there’s one face that I know all too well” Joshua whispered as he closed the computer lab door.

  ----------

  Alex stood guard outside of the library.

  Joshua had given him strict instructions that no one was to enter whilst he was in with Ms King.

  He had no idea what Joshua was up to and he had been a little concerned at first. He liked Ms King; she was the youngest of the teachers here and pretty cute as well. But Joshua had explained things in such a way that Alex had found himself agreeing.

  Joshua seemed to have a habit of explaining things that made you agree, even when afterwards you couldn’t quite remember what the American had actually said.

  He stayed at his post for the next couple of hours.

  Some of the kids came along to use the facility but all were sent packing.

  Fortunately, James Corner had been the only other kid in school capable of making any sort of challenge to his authority, but James had now gone home for the break.

  ----------

  Barnaby shuffled his way through the myriad of paperwork that seemed to accumulate no matter what the time of year.

  Outside of his window the steady dripping of melting snow was giving him a headache. The sun was high and clear in the unbroken sky and he found it hard to believe that the worst of the snow wasn’t over.

  He gave himself a break from admin duties and wandered out towards the main school entrance. It was always strange at this time of year for the halls to be empty of running feet and echoing shrill voices.

  He found Maurice salting the main steps and, not for the first time, he wondered if the old caretaker had run his course.

  He didn’t know just how many winters Maurice could manage, at least without any help.

  The only problem was that Maurice’s home was tied in with the job and if he took away one then he was taking away the other.

  “How are things Maurice?” he asked conversationally.

  “Colder than a witch’s tit,” the caretaker grunted without humour.

  “The boiler?”

  “She’ll go another year I reckon,” Maurice replied without looking up. “She’ll probably outlast the both of us.”

  Barnaby took a close look at the caretaker’s gnarled hands that were twisted and swollen. “Don’t you ever wear gloves?”

  “Only when it gets proper cold,” Maurice sniffed.

  “I’d hate to see your idea of proper cold then,” Barnaby laughed uncharacteristically.

  “Did you want something special? Or did you just come out for a weather report?”

  “The television says that it’s going to thaw pretty soon.”

  “Then the TV don’t know shit,” Maurice said grumpily. “All this...,” he said, pointing around at the snow, “it ain’t even the start, this is just a tickle; it’s going to get a lot worse before it gets any better.”

  “You can’t be sure of that,” Barnaby said firmly, but knowing that the caretaker had never been wrong before.

  “Just you watch,” Maurice grunted, as he slammed the lid on the grit bucket and started to walk away.

  “You’ve been here a long time haven’t you, Maurice?”

  “Aye, a long time.”

  “And your father before you?”

  “Yep, reckon that there’s been a Duncan here cleaning up since she was built. Why?”

  “Have you ever…, seen or heard anything…, unusual?” Barnaby asked, feeling increasingly awkward.

  “How do you mean?” the caretaker replied interestedly as he thought back to his own feelings of unease only a couple of days before.

  He was normally in tune with Ravenhill. He normally knew what needed doing and where she needed patching up before it became necessary, but now he couldn’t help but feel like something was out of whack.

  “I don’t know, noises, sounds, that sort of thing; it’s hard to put into words.”

  “No it ain’t, it’s a real simple word. Ghosts is what you mean,” Maurice said firmly.

  “That’s not what I meant,” Barnaby blustered, as the word aloud sounded so ridiculous.

  “Yeah you did, you meant ghosts. You meant have I or any of my kin ever seen a ghost here.”

  Barnaby stared at the caretaker for a long time as a silence grew between them. “Well have you?”

  Maurice stood and pondered for a while, his face creased with concentration.

  “I think that this place has a certain…, a certain energy about it,” he said, trying to think of the word. “There is a lot of history within these walls and a lot of it is not very pleasant. I think that if you shed enough blood some of it will seep into the floorboards and if the walls hear enough screams then some of them become trapped in the mortar.”

  “But have you seen anything personally?” Barnaby asked in a low voice as he stepped in closer.

  “Not personally, no,” Maurice shrugged.

  He was thinking of the strange way that the kitchen staff had acted in the dining hall when they had seemed to surround him like some satanic version of the Salvation Army.

  He wasn’t a man prone to scares, but they had certainly made him uneasy in the sort of way that was all too easy to dismiss after the fact.

  “But I believe that every house, especially ones as old as this, have more than their fair share of skeletons in their closets. I also believe that some closets are best left alone and that some doors should be nailed shut and never opened.”

  ----------

  Sarah looked out over the sea of eager faces for once. Noses were pressed up against canvasses and foreheads crinkled in concentration.

  “Is there a church near here, Miss?” Joshua Bradley suddenly asked out of the blue.

  “We have a local priest who comes in sometimes to lead services; why do you ask Joshua?” she enquired looking at the slender blonde boy.

  “Oh, my faith is very important to me,” he answered almost shyly. “Isn’t yours?”

  She thought on the question for a moment. She knew from her own experiences that her fellow countrymen tended to be far more religious than those that she had met on her travels.

  The UK in particular seemed to treat one’s faith as a deeply private and personal matter and one not to be discussed in public.

  She had no idea which, if any, of the staff were religious or not and Barnaby only seemed to invite Father Monroe into Ravenhill on special occasions.

  “Well…,” she began slowly, “I suppose you could say that my faith has been tested once or twice” she said thoughtfully, thinking of Eden. “But I do believe that there is something out there, even if he is sometimes late to the party.” She had meant to sound glib and light hearted, but her words felt bitter and sour in her mouth.

  “Don’t you think that everything happens for a reason?” Joshua smiled with sparkling blue eyes.

  “If it does, then I’d like to know why,” she said coldly.

  “Oh I think that God always has a plan for us, Ms Mears; you just have to have a little faith is all.”

  “The trouble is that if there is a God, then his word can be corrupted between his mouth and our ears by mortal men.” As she spoke, she could see that the rest of the class were leaning forward watching the exchange with interest.

  “But God must have his emissaries here on earth, surely? After all, who among us could stand the majesty of his voice without being driven mad?” Joshua stressed.

  “But who can be trusted with such a task? Mankind, by its very nature, is fallible and weak. But can’t we be tempted and polluted by greed and selfishness? Surely we cannot be relied upon with such a burden?”

  She hadn’t intended to be drawn on a theological de
bate but there was something intense and mature about the boy that demanded to be engaged.

  “But you must have experienced faith at some point in your life?” Joshua asked delicately. “Surely someone once touched your soul and brought you bliss?”

  Her mind immediately went to her home town and the fog of deceit and lies that had engulfed them all under the guise of Tolan Christian and his ideals.

  There had truly been an Eden on the surface, but it was a house of God built on lies and murder. Tolan had worshipped an old faith, something old and dark out in the woods that demanded blood and sacrifice.

  “Yes someone once did, Joshua,” she said through gritted teeth of anger. “But he lied and we all paid a terrible price for that.”

  “Perhaps he wasn’t the only liar,” the boy smiled. “Perhaps we do not know what we have until it is gone. Don’t they say that ignorance is bliss after all?”

  “No Joshua, ignorance is ignorance and nothing more. We all have to make our own choices in life and then live with them, somehow.”

  “I’m sure that God demands much of us in order to bestow his bountiful gifts,” Joshua said, with all the conviction of a touring preacher. “Nothing in life that is truly worthy comes free of charge; there should always be a price to pay and a bill to settle.”

  She could feel the air in the art studio crackle with electricity and for the time being the rest of the kids no longer existed.

  The slender blonde American held her gaze and their eyes locked together.

  “But surely we must know the details?” she demanded. “It is too easy to hold religion over our heads and make us cower before our superstitions. If there is a price to pay for achieving happiness then we must know what we are paying for. I don’t accept that we should just sign blank checks and look the other way; trust me, Joshua, that way brings only madness and enough guilt to bury us all.”

  He stared at her hard for another couple of seconds. His face seemed old and dark and his expression was one of cruel amusement. Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, his face broke and he smiled warmly again. “Maybe I have a lot to learn after all,” he grinned.

  “Maybe,” she agreed, but she couldn’t help shake the feeling that she was being toyed with in some way.

  ----------

  Colin Merryweather stoked the fireplace again, watching the sparks fly as the logs spat. He slammed the poker into the hearth again, stabbing viciously with the metal tool, picturing his wife’s face.

  He had been a big man to begin with, but retirement had rapidly increased his girth to the point where he was starting to think that his wife wasn’t just nagging.

  His stomach was swollen and fell over his belt as his calorie intake remained high, but his exercise had become non-existent.

  His hair was a silvery mop that hung loosely over his jowly face. His cheeks and nose were crisscrossed with bright red veins, birthed by an incalculable number of whisky bottles. His eyes, which had once been a piercing royal blue, were now dull and lifeless.

  He had spent 40 years man and boy working for the Water Board rising through the ranks and paying his dues.

  He had finally become a supervising manager with a cushy desk job barely five minutes before they had ushered him out of the door and pensioned him off.

  His dreams of a life without having to drag himself into work had soon become a nightmare as his days were empty and black.

  His drinking, which he had managed to convince himself of only being social, had rapidly spiralled out of control with no routine to guide him.

  It used to be that he would look forward to a few quick halves with lunch and a few pints after work, topped off with a few nightcaps at home.

  Once he was home all the time, there was no way to regulate his intake and the days started to blur into one.

  He stabbed the fire again as the flames died below a roaring blaze. “WOOD, WOMAN!” he yelled loudly into the cottage towards his wife.

  He heard her irritating whistling coming from the kitchen and the sound grated on his nerves.

  Normally, her only saving grace was that she was a quiet woman which allowed him the option of believing that she actually wasn’t there. But the last few days, she had been humming and whistling like she had lost her mind.

  “Did you bloody well hear me?” he barked. “Get me some logs in, NOW!”

  The cottage was small and compact and when he only had to deal with her during the drunken nights that he staggered home it was fine.

  But now he was retired and she was on holiday from the hoity-toity school that she pranced around at, they were on top of each other all day long.

  The lounge was fairly large and he kept the fire burning night and day. More often than not, he fell asleep in his armchair with a whisky bottle cradled in his lap.

  His one mission in life at present was to keep the fire burning. They had central heating, but he was damned if he was going to foot the expensive bill for running it, not when he had his fire to keep his room warm.

  At least Mavis had stopped moaning about the rest of the house being cold for five minutes; now she just grinned and took whatever abuse he threw at her.

  There was a woodshed outside in the garden where he stored his logs to keep them away from the damp. The only time that he moved was when he was splitting the wood with an axe. With every swing he pictured her grinning happy face being cleaved in two.

  He turned to see her walk past the open lounge door. She was wearing her best coat and dressed for work. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” he demanded.

  “I have to go into the school today, dear,” she smiled.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I won’t be long.”

  “You’re damn right you won’t. You won’t be long because you’re not going anywhere,” he stated.

  “Oh but I have to, he needs me,” she said, continuing to smile.

  “Who does? Barnaby?” he sneered. “You are not getting paid to trek across the fields through the snow to wipe his snotty arse. This is the school holidays, is it not?”

  “But I have to go,” she said quietly but firmly. “I have to go when he calls.”

  “Who’s called? I didn’t hear the bloody phone go; what, are you in contact telepathically now?” he laughed.

  “But I have to.”

  Colin dragged his bulk up from the sofa and grabbed his wife painfully by the arms. He dug his meaty fingers into her bony flesh and squeezed hard.

  “You are going nowhere,” he growled menacingly. “I don’t give a shit what the great and glorious Headmaster has had to say and I don’t want to hear another word about it, so help me God.”

  “But he needs me,” she whispered.

  He slapped her hard then. The sound was loud as he struck her with a large open palm.

  He was pleased to see his handprint in brilliant red standing out from her cheek.

  She cast her eyes downwards and he was happy to see that the rebellion had been quashed quickly.

  In truth he would much rather she was out of the house than in it, but not when she was labouring under the misapprehension that she had a choice in the matter.

  “Here’s what you’re going to do,” he said in a low hard tone. “You are going to drag your fat arse out into the woodshed, get me my logs and then if you’re lucky I’ll let you make me some lunch. Is that clear?” he said, squeezing her arms hard and was pleased to see the corners of her eyes pinprick with tears. “Is that clear?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Good, then shift it.”

  He settled himself back down into his armchair with the world set to rights again. The king was back on his throne and the peasants were back in their hovels.

  A couple of minutes later, he heard her return. Her shuffling feet were mercifully unaccompanied by her tuneless whistling.

  He was starting to wonder just why he hadn’t employed this tactic more often to get what he wanted.

/>   He was still congratulating himself when the axe fell and the blade struck him squarely in the head.

  The silver metal buried itself in bone and brain. Mavis had to plant one foot firmly against the back of the armchair to pull the axe free from his skull.

  Several pieces of grey matter and white chips of bone flew out when she finally managed to wrench the axe out.

  She lifted the blade and swung it down again and again and again until there was only a pulpy mess where her husband’s head and face had once been.

  She absently wiped some of the blood spray away from her face, smearing the crimson mist across her pale cheeks.

  “He needs me,” she said, smiling pleasantly. “He has called, and I shall answer.”

  She dropped the axe and left it next to what had once been her husband of over 35 years. She closed the front door behind her and started the hike to Ravenhill, whistling happily as she went.

  ----------

  Sergeant Donald Ross took the bends slowly and carefully. The outer village roads had been partially cleared but they were still treacherous underfoot.

  The last thing that he wanted was to have his authority compromised by having to ask one of the local farmers to pull him out of a hedgerow.

  The 4x4 was capable enough at the minute, but any further downfall and he would be stranded.

  The weather forecast had reassured most of the villagers, but some of the older ones weren’t so sure.

  He had lived out in the country for long enough to know that some of the old wives’ tales were true, especially some of those about weather predicting. He couldn’t help but feel an air of unease that he couldn’t shake.

  Paterson went about his day like any other, regardless of the snow or the potential isolation. Donald wasn’t sure if anything would faze the young lad unless it landed on his head with a direct hit.

  He knew that Father Monroe had been trying to organize and prepare people for a while now for the storm and thankfully the residents were old enough to still respect the church.

  There had been a phone tree set up to cover for the most vulnerable amongst them and everyone seemed keen to chip in.