When he opened his eyes, he saw Heather standing in the doorway, her arms folded, leaning against the doorpost. She was wearing only a T-shirt and panties. “I heard you shagging my mum last night,” she said bluntly. “You can shag me if you want to. She'll be asleep for ages yet if she's been drinking, she can't handle it.”
“No,” said Eric, raising his hand in denial. “No, that would be totally wrong.”
“Come on, you know you want it,” teased Heather, pulling the crotch of her knickers tight against her sex and pouting it forward.
“Heather, just stop it!” said Eric, rising from his seat. “You're far too young.” His face wrinkled with distaste as her lewd posture revealed a raw, weeping rash spreading across her inner thighs. “And if I was you, I'd get your mother to get you a doctor's appointment about that rash, it looks nasty.”
He brushed past her and picked his jacket off the living room floor. “Tell your mother … well, tell her I'll see her later. I'll call by this evening.” Then he left the house, closing the door behind him.
Heather glared after him with contempt, her fingers unconsciously reaching down to scratch at her inflammation.
Eric returned to the bed and breakfast after he had collected his car. His mobile phone would still not charge and he needed to call Sandra, so he'd just have to toss some more coins into Mrs Stoop's drawer and risk the woman eavesdropping.
The front door was still locked when he got to the house at about ten o'clock. He used his key to open it and walked in. The door to the living room creaked open and Harry shuffled out, still wearing a sagging pair of old flannelette pyjamas. The smell from them was unconscionable, making Eric gag. He suspected the old man must have been sleeping in the same pair for weeks.
“Oh, it's you,” said Harry in his truncated speech. “Out all night? We'll still have to charge.”
“Yes, I appreciate that, Mr Stoop,” grimaced Eric, drawing another day's payment from his wallet. Loathe to approach Harry in his undressed, unbathed state, he said, “I'll just put the money here, shall I?” He placed it down on the telephone table. “I'll put some money in the drawer for the phone too. I need to call my editor and your wife said it would be all right to use your phone as long as I pay for my calls.”
“She's sick,” said Harry. “In bed.”
“I'm very sorry to heard that, Mr Stoop,” said Eric. “I hope you're in good health yourself?”
“Yes,” said Harry, immediately belying this by giving a cough that sounded like a death rattle. Then without another word he turned and shuffled back into the choking atmosphere of the living room.
Eric had a wash and took a couple of paracetamol from his bag before making the phone call. Sandra answered almost immediately.
“Eric, darling, any progress?” she asked, after he had greeted her.
“Not much,” he admitted. “There's definitely something 'off' with the two people who've been healed, they're just not right. I don't know how better to describe it than that. I'm having some difficulties getting around Terry Gaunt's mob, though. They're dug in up at the monastery and although I've sneaked in a couple of times, I don't fancy getting caught. I'm hoping the vicar may be able to help a bit, though, I'm going to see him after we've spoken.”
“The vicar?” she laughed. “How quaint. Well, at least you managed to get a sample of the water. Thank you for sending that.”
“I'm hoping maybe a full analysis may tell us something,” Eric said.
“It may,” Sandra said. “I've got some lab boys looking at it, they owe me a favour. I sent them half your sample and drank the rest myself.”
“You did what?!” exploded Eric. “For Christ's sake, Sandra, don't you realise how dangerous that stuff is? The two girls here are both sick in the head, even if their bodies have been healed. But the whole damn village seems sick and lethargic.”
“Hey, don't panic,” she assured him, “though it's nice to know you care. I get what you're saying about the village, I really do, but I'd suspect that malaise to be more of a local thing, maybe even inbreeding.”
Harry then reappeared in the living room doorway, sternly shushing Eric after his outburst. “Quiet,” he insisted. “Wife sleeping.” His chest rattling, he inhaled deeply from his rancid pipe, then slunk back to his armchair.
“Okay, okay, what's done is done,” said Eric, trying to calm down. “I just hope you're right, that's all.”
“Well, I feel fantastic,” said Sandra cheerfully. “I've been having a spot of backache recently, but this morning when I awoke I felt as good as new, like I could run a marathon. So there's no need to worry. You go and see your vicar and I'll contact you as soon as I hear from the lab in a day or two.”
“Actually, I think I'd better call you,” said Eric. “Either there's something at fault with my mobile phone or the electricity here is just as sick as everything else; it won't charge.”
“Fine, I'll expect your call, then,” said Sandra. “In the meantime, have fun, and please be careful where Terry Gaunt is concerned.”
“I will,” promised Eric. “Goodbye, Sandra, and look after yourself...” But she had already hung up.
Jenny Gaunt was not having a good morning. At the hotel the previous evening, she had summoned Vicky to her room. She had slapped the girl around a bit and fisted her front and rear passages mercilessly till the girl had screamed and been violently sick. The violent lesson seemed to have sunk in, however, for the terrified Vicky was present and ready for the shoot this morning. But now two of the other girls, Sharon and Trisha, were complaining of feeling unwell. They were both only eighteen, the youngest of the six girls hired for the movie.
“It's a fucking disaster,” moaned Ed Gibbs. “Your dad will go fucking mental when he finds out. What are we going to do, Jenny?”
Jenny thought hard, a fierce expression on her face. “They're playing the two heretics, aren't they? The torture victims? So it won't matter if they look sick on screen. That's exactly how you'd expect them to be, isn't it? Pale and scared and crying.” She patted Ed on the cheek. “Method acting, that's what it is, Ed. We carry right on filming, that's what we do.”
“And if they won't?” he asked.
“You tell Vicky to have a little word with them in that case,” said Jenny. “She can tell them how I treated her problem. Believe me, they'll work till they drop then.”
Sadie Wilmot didn't feel at all well. She was cold to the bone, her flesh chilled and clammy, like putty to the touch. Every few minutes, her body would experience uncontrollable shivering, a trembling which would leave her aching, gradually abating till the onset of the next attack. Her vision, so recently restored, was blurred and she found it impossible to focus. All she could see was a mess of washed out colours, all pale and sickly.
But she felt great! Even as her body winced piteously as her affliction worsened, she knew deep down that all was well. This was exactly how things were supposed to be. The nausea and the pain were her friend. She knew this because the voice that whispered in her head, soothing her through her symptoms, assured her that it was so. The voice also insisted that she must conceal her beautiful malaise from her mother, because her mother only sought to do her harm. So she suppressed her symptoms as best she could when her mother was about, dabbing away the thin, watery, greenish pus that streamed continuously from her eyes.
Ellwood was waiting for Eric when he called, and it was obvious that the vicar was extremely agitated.
“I know that you were turned away from the monastery yesterday,” said Eric as they sat down. “I was watching from a hidden spot inside the grounds. What did they tell you?”
“The same nonsensical story that they told you,” said Ellwood miserably, “a complete pack of lies, about David having gone away after giving them written permission to film. They did show me the contract, however.”
“And?” asked Eric eagerly, leaning forward.
“And I'm as sure as I can be that it's genuine. If it wasn't, it wa
s as good a forgery of David's signature as could be imagined. But when I saw it, I could tell that it was him who had signed it. I've seen his signature often enough.”
“And you're sure he can't have gone away somewhere, like they say?”
“Oh, I'm sure he's gone away somewhere, but not willingly. I fear you must be right in your suggestion that they're holding him captive somewhere. You see, David has a sacred responsibility and he would never abandon it. He and his companions are the last remnant of the holy order of monks that once used to reside at the monastery and they are sworn to protect and guard the site. So you see, he wouldn't just up and leave. He is the head of the brotherhood, which is why he lives on site. His two companions deal with more subtle protection, eliminating online references to the monastery and the healing waters, suppressing news stories and so forth. I've contacted them and they'll be here tonight. They have both confirmed that David would never willingly leave the monastery ruins or forsake his duty. They are very concerned.”
“Can you tell me more about this 'brotherhood'?” asked Eric.
“I'm afraid not. I know very little, only what they deigned to tell me to ensure I understand the situation and the need for keeping 'St Wulfred's Well' secret. But you'll have opportunity to ask them yourself. They want to meet you tonight, I told them about you.”
“Thanks … I think,” said Eric. “What about the police? Did you go to them?”
“Oh, I went,” said Ellwood with a hopeless shrug, “and they were completely dismissive. They simply asked me if I believe it was David's signature on the contract. I couldn't lie, so I told them it was. As far as they were concerned, that was the end of the matter. I tried to explain how out of character it would be for him to leave the premises, but they just told me that it sounded eminently sensible for him to go and visit relatives for the duration of the upheaval caused by the filming.”
“That's … not what I hoped for,” admitted Eric. “I had entertained the thought that they might listen to you.”
Ellwood scoffed sadly. “Why should they do that? Vicars don't command the same unquestioning respect as they once did, you know.”
Eric sighed and rubbed his eyes. They were itching terribly, as if the pollen count was high and he was sure he was developing a sore throat. “So what time will these guys be here tonight?” he asked after clearing his phlegm.
“Their train is due in at about eight o'clock,” said Ellwood, “but the station is in the next town and by the time they've got a taxi it will be about half past eight.”
“I'll be back by then, in that case,” Eric said, rising. “I'd better go and explain to Diane Williams that I'll be busy this evening.”
“Oh, I'm terribly sorry to upset your plans,” said Ellwood sincerely, “but I do appreciate it. This is terribly important. I want to thank you for coming to me with your concerns, Eric. I know you initially came here in search of a story, but … well … I can't help feeling you're on the side of the angels.”
Eric chuckled. “Anything I can do to help,” he promised. “I write because of a genuine interest, I'm not a scandal-mongering hack.”
“I know you're not,” smiled Ellwood warmly. “Please give my regards to Diane. She's a good woman.”
Dan Treadwell was a tall, lean man with a pale, pinched, cadaverous face, which was always extensively made up to appear in the full bloom of health for his television appearances. Nonetheless, he was very self-conscious about it and had not been overly impressed when Tel's Star Productions had first invited him to host a documentary which involved a tomb. He feared it would invite adverse comment on his appearance, something his vanity could not countenance. He had finally been persuaded by the size of the pay cheque offered by Terry Gaunt, but he still felt uneasy now that he stood outside the ancient vault, having been collected from his train and escorted directly here by Johnno and Alec.
He folded his arms defensively and fixed Gaunt with a concerned stare. “I'm just a little concerned that I'll resemble a vampire, filming down there in a vault,” he said. “I don't want to come across as the new Vincent Price, you know.”
“Don't you worry about that, Mr Treadwell,” Gaunt assured him. “Our documentary isn't meant to be a spooky thing at all. It's all about healing, d'you see? So our lovely make up girls are going to add some extra blusher to your cheeks and the lighting we've installed will give everything a beautiful golden glow, like a summer's day. So it won't be morbid at all. In fact, the documentary will only work if you appear a picture of health and and life.”
Treadwell was a little mollified by this. “Very well, I'll trust you to get it right, but I'd like to see the rushes of the day's filming.”
“Sure, of course,” said Gaunt, taking his star turn by the elbow and leading him towards the make up trailer.
“Can I ask you what inspired you to film this documentary, Mr Gaunt? I don't mean to be demeaning when I say this, but you don't strike me as the sort to be particularly moved by sacred wells.”
Gaunt shrugged. “That's fair comment, I'm not. But I am a very shrewd businessman and I've got a nose for secrets. I learned about this place by chance, but you know what? In spite of a long history of healings, you can find hardly any details about it anywhere. So it's all new, and this spiritual healing stuff is all the rage at the moment. I've already got this documentary booked into movie festivals I've never been able to get near before. So it's purely business, but don't you worry, we're going to do a great job. This needs to be a world class production if it's going to open the doors for me that I hope it will.”
Treadwell sat down in the chair and reclined as the make up artist began her work. “And do you believe in these healings?” he asked. “Are these histories genuine?”
Gaunt shrugged. “I believe in what I can see and feel, Mr Treadwell, but that doesn't matter. What matters is that plenty of other people will believe in them.”
Heather Williams lay on her bed in her room, listening to the faint buzz of conversation rising through the floorboards from below. That journalist was back, talking to her mother. Fucking bastard, why wouldn't he fuck her? She reached her fingers down towards her crotch, only to withdraw, mewling in pain, as they brushed against the weeping sores that afflicted her there. A livid rash now covered her thighs and stomach and the skin was beginning to deaden, thicken and flake.
She wanted to run downstairs right now and rage at the two of them, flaunting her scabbed nakedness at Eric. She wanted him to ravish her in front of her mother, while Heather spat and swore and scratched the flesh off his back, raking him with her nails. She wanted to scream about the way she was treated as a child.
But the gentle voice that whispered inside her head wouldn't let her. It stilled her fury and lulled her into a docile trance, murmuring softly that everything was going to be perfect. “Be at peace,” it crooned, “Lie still and conceal the perfection that is flowering in your flesh.”
Heather curled herself into a cosy ball and drifted to sleep, wrapping the bedclothes tightly around herself, as her mattress gradually stained and stank with accumulated sweat and pus.
“Do you think these monks will be able to help with Heather?” Diane asked earnestly. “They're holy men and they know all about St Wulfred's Well, surely they'll be able to put things right and help her with her psychological problems?”
Eric's heart went out to her. She looked tired and ill, the strain must really be getting to her. But still her first thought was for her daughter. “I'm sure they will,” he assured her, though he was aware that he knew nothing of the sort. “They're coming all this way as a matter of urgency, so I'm sure they'll be able to put matters right.”
“Thank you, Eric,” she said, her voice cracking. “You've been such a support to me and I didn't even know you until a couple of days ago. I don't know what I'd have done if you hadn't come along.”
He so wanted to make love to her again, but this was neither the time nor the right situation. Instead he smiled and si
mply said, “I'm really happy for any help I can give. You … well … I like you a lot, Diane.”
She smiled gratefully and he took his leave. He wanted to fetch new tapes and fresh batteries for his dictaphone before he returned to Ellwood's that evening to meet David Stoker's acquaintances.
Dan Treadwell was inside the vault, holding a dramatic pose until the clapperboard marked the beginning of the take. He started to descend the steps, gazing earnestly into the camera, as he spoke.
“There are many wells and springs of water in the world which have become famous for their alleged healing properties. Mexico, Germany, China, Australia and many more countries have their well-attested accounts of healing springs. But one of the most miraculous of them all is hardly known and is right here in rural England. Is its very secrecy a part of the reason that it is so holy, and its cures so efficacious? Let us investigate these claims for ourselves, as you join me here now in the burial vault of St Wulfred, by the small village of Scratchbury. It is here, in his very tomb, that we find the remarkable water source known as St Wulfred's Well.”
Dan stepped aside as the next shot was prepared, one in which he did not appear. It was a panoramic sweep of the camera to establish mood, following the steps down to the floor of the vault, pausing momentarily on the dusty wall niches which bore the crumbling remains of what had once been corpses in coffins, reduced to dusty bones by the centuries. Then focusing in upon the stone sarcophagus at the lowermost slope of the floor, and the stream of water that bubbled through a crack in the tomb and flowed away through another narrow gap at the base of the wall. All was encompassed in a warm, golden glow, courtesy of the lamps that the film company had installed, making the vault appear much more appealing than the dismal, clammy ruin it actually was. It was also very hot in here, and Dan awkwardly ran his finger around underneath his collar, which was uncomfortably slick with sweat. The make-up assistant noticed this and hurried over to apply a little powder. The combination of the muggy summer's afternoon and the heat of the powerful lights was making Dan feel quite faint. He could feel the blood hammering in his temples and he hoped he wouldn't develop a migraine. He really felt quite nauseous, and the smell in this place wasn't helped by the rising heat either; there was an indefinable odour that gnawed at his nostrils, too faint to be labelled, but undeniably present; a nasty, tinny, fishy smell.
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