Shepherd's Cross

by Mark White

  Ben let his daughter drag him by the hand towards his car, completely oblivious to the overwhelming feeling of disorientation she had inflicted on him. In spite of the cut above his eye, he’d almost managed to convince himself that last night’s events were no more than the delusions of an exhausted salesman. Maybe there had been a cat in his house, and maybe it had knocked him over by accident; but surely his overworked mind had twisted the facts to suit its own dark fantasy? He’d lain awake all last night, just about convincing himself that he’d imagined the whole damn thing.

  However, what if he hadn’t imagined it? The fact that this cat had also visited Chloe, without his knowing…what did it want with her?

  He strapped his daughter into her car seat and kissed her cheek. ‘Chloe, how would you like to sleep in daddy’s bed tonight, as an extra special treat for being so clever today?’

  Chloe’s shrieks of happiness did little to lighten his mood. While he might have genuine cause to doubt his sanity, he would not let his daughter out of his sight until he dropped her back at school on Monday morning. If this thing did decide to pay another visit, he would be ready and waiting.

  Chapter 11

  4.30pm: Any remnants of daylight were silently strangled as Blackmoor walked to the iron-barred window and drew the heavy, dusty curtains. Darkness enveloped the room like a vampire’s cloak, depriving Ted Wilson of his ability to distinguish even the slightest movement. Fortunately for him, this disabling situation only lasted for a few seconds; natural light being replaced by artificial light as Blackmoor pressed the switch by the door that served as the only way in, or out, of Wilson’s cramped office at the rear of the building. Blackmoor stared at him, his face hard and mean. He turned the key in the door, the lock clunking reassuringly into place.

  Wilson sat glued to his seat. He had been taken completely off guard by Blackmoor’s sudden, unannounced entrance into his office. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked, trying hard to maintain his composure. He sensed no fear in the other man’s eyes, the hollow darkness of which bore unflinchingly into his own with the dispassion of a shark circling its prey. Blackmoor approached the other side of the table and sat down in the empty chair.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed, Mr Wilson, I mean you no harm. I merely wish to clarify certain aspects of our business relationship that I believe you have failed to fully understand.’ Blackmoor’s unconvincing attempt at a smile did little to reassure Wilson as to the cordiality of his visit. Ever since their initial meeting yesterday, he had felt uneasy around the two academics, having immediately sensed that their relationship was unlikely to be without complications. If he hadn’t been so driven by making money, he would have perhaps spurned their interest in Fellside Hall; he could have easily found an excuse as to why he couldn’t rent it to them. But even for a wealthy man like Ted Wilson, 2008’s almost overnight collapse of share prices and property values had punched a sizeable hole in his retirement fund; therefore the fortuitous arrival of two southerners with money to spend had come as a welcome and timely surprise. His pride had been greeted with little resistance as it slipped down his throat.

  ‘Which particular aspects of our business are you wishing to discuss? And is there any reason why we need to conduct our affairs behind a locked door with the curtains drawn?’

  ‘I was visited earlier by two Police officers who appeared to be very good friends of yours. I take it you are familiar with Sergeant Jennings and PC Jones?’

  Wilson’s face gave no clue as to where Blackmoor was heading with his line of questioning. ‘Yes, of course I know them: especially Jennings; he’s been here for years. But good friends? No, I wouldn’t say that exactly. I occasionally have a few drinks with Brian, I mean Sergeant Jennings, but I certainly wouldn’t describe our relationship as close. As for PC Jones; I rarely have anything to do with her. She’s only been here a few months. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I ask,’ replied Blackmoor, leaning over the desk to emphasise his response, ‘because their questions were based almost entirely on information that you’d obviously provided them with.’ As he spoke, his eyes appeared to grow darker and wider; beckoning Wilson’s attention towards them like a net pulling a trapped fish towards the riverbank. ‘From our very first correspondence,’ Blackmoor continued, ‘did I not make it perfectly clear that our relationship was to be based on trust? That any dealings we had with each other were to remain strictly confidential?’

  Wilson felt sick, his stomach seeming to rise into his chest, as if he was suddenly hurtling down a track on a rollercoaster ride. He could feel himself weakening under Blackmoor’s gaze, whose eyes continued to tighten their grip on his senses, controlling them against his will. ‘I…I hardly told them anything. Only…only that you were here to study Roman forts. Really, there’s no cause for concern. I apologise if I’ve upset you, but…’

  ‘SILENCE!’ cried Blackmoor, his face twisted with the anger of a madman. He stood up and leaned across the desk, grabbing Wilson by the knot of his tie and throwing him effortlessly across the room against the wall. Wilson groaned as he slumped to the floor, his body curling up in a futile attempt to defend itself from the next blow. A blow which, fortunately for him, was not dealt. Instead, Blackmoor picked him up off the floor and held him up against the wall by his throat; his legs dangling and thrashing like a man hanging from a noose. ‘Look at me! I said: LOOK AT ME!’ Wilson slowly lifted his sagging head. He found Blackmoor staring straight at him, his face now only a matter of inches from his own, his foul breath clogging up Wilson’s lungs like poisonous gas. But there was no longer any sign of anger in his face; any hint of violence had vanished as swiftly as it had appeared. He loosened his grip on Wilson’s throat and lowered him to the ground.

  When Blackmoor spoke next, his voice had become softer and more sympathetic; almost gentle. ‘You’ve disappointed me, Mr Wilson, but I believe it wasn’t your intention to do so. Therefore, I am prepared to strike a deal with you – a deal that you would be very wise to accept.’ Wilson looked into his eyes: whatever the deal was, he knew he would have little choice but to go along with it. But those eyes, drawing him in again, deeper and deeper - to a place he wanted to be more than anywhere else in the world.

  ‘I want you to come with me, Mr Wilson. I want you to help me prepare for the arrival of someone very important, someone who will change your life forever.’

  Wilson was no longer able, or willing, to resist the hypnotic force of Blackmoor’s presence. He’d been hypnotised once before: that had been ten years ago, when his doctor had given him the option of either ending his life or his forty-a-day nicotine addiction. He’d been referred to a hypnotist in Newcastle, an unassuming Scot called Gerald Dalgliesh. He could remember the experience as if it happened yesterday: he had walked into the clinic full of scepticism, only to walk out forty-five minutes later and throw his crushed cigarette packet into the nearest bin. He hadn’t smoked a single cigarette since.

  But this was different – Blackmoor’s hold on him was so much stronger. His aura was too powerful, too enchanting. Whatever it was that Blackmoor was referring to, Wilson knew he wanted to be part of it, to be consumed by it. Blackmoor placed his hands on Wilson’s shoulders and stared directly at him. ‘Will you come with me?’ he asked softly.

  Wilson made no effort to back away; he could feel himself floating in Blackmoor’s pupils. It was as if he could see into his soul. All he could manage was a slight nod and a feeble attempt at a smile. ‘I will,’ he replied. ‘I will.’

  Without saying another word, the two men left the office together, climbed into the car that awaited them outside, and were driven away up the snow-covered lane, back to the welcoming arms of Fellside Hall.

  Chapter 12

  5.30pm: Cara Jones was parked outside number eight, Rowan Lane, dwelling on what a bitch she must have been in her last life to have ended up working every third weekend in this one. There were many reasons why she hated working weekends, but towering above all the others wa
s the fact that she could not be around to play with her son Luke. It wasn’t that the little fella would be left abandoned to fend for himself - her philandering ex-husband would be collecting him from nursery later and looking after him until Monday morning - it was more that she would simply miss being with him. It annoyed her to think that tomorrow there would be kids rolling around in the snow on the village green, their proud parents watching over them, while she spent her day catching up on overdue paperwork and being held up on her rounds by cantankerous old busybodies with nothing better to do with their time than whinge about the youth-of-today. Still, at least she could look forward to an early night: being on duty tomorrow, she wouldn’t be able to enjoy a glass or three of wine, but a good night’s sleep was not such a terrible alternative.

  On returning from Fellside Hall, she had spent the remainder of the afternoon in the Station, following up on the morning’s visit to Banktop Farm. After completing the incident form, she had decided to check the archived records to see whether or not any other similar incidents had been reported in the area over the previous couple of years. Her search had proven unsuccessful; plenty of mindless vandalism, but nothing like this. She would, however, have been the first person to admit that she hadn’t carried out the search to her usual exemplary standard; her mind constantly drifted back to the earlier events at Fellside Hall. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but there was something unusual about Blackmoor and King. They’d been perfectly hospitable to both her and Jennings, especially considering that they’d taken the liberty of calling by unannounced; and they had given entirely reasonable answers to their questions. But Blackmoor in particular had an enigmatic way about him; a weird energy that seemed to radiate from him, drawing you into him. He seemed to have the power to manipulate people, like a hypnotist, turning it on or off at his discretion. She’d come away with the frustrating feeling that she had only managed to scratch the surface of Benedict Blackmoor, whereas she sensed that he’d found out all there was to know about her within two minutes of their meeting. He had taken everything from her and given her nothing in return, and this had left her both disappointed and angry at herself for being so naive.

  By 4.30pm, Brian Jennings had hung up his uniform and headed home for the weekend. Although he lived in the village, he was extremely adept at keeping his professional and personal lives separate; woe betide the resident who took it upon themself to knock on his door when he was off-duty, especially if their reason was trivial and could wait until the morning. He didn’t mind Cara phoning him if she urgently needed advice, but certainly nobody else. As he left the Station, he’d asked Cara to follow up on a conversation he’d had that morning with Yvonne Turner; something about a disturbance last night at Rowan Lane. Yvonne had told him that the man in question, Ben Price, worked in Newcastle and wouldn’t be home until after 5.00pm, so perhaps she would be kind enough to quickly call by on her way home to make sure everything was okay. Hence the reason why she now found herself waiting impatiently outside his empty house. It had been a long day and she wasn’t in the mood for hanging around; if he wasn’t here in the next five minutes, she would have to call again in the morning.

  She was on the verge of reversing out of his drive and heading off, when she noticed a pair of headlights rounding the corner and moving her way through the falling snow. The car pulled up next to her, and through her steamed up window she could just about make out the figure of a man in the front and a small child peering back at her from the rear seat. She climbed out of her car to speak to them.

  ‘Hello, my name is Police Constable Cara Jones,’ she said, smiling at the girl and holding out her identity badge as proof. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met, which is rather strange for this place! Are you Ben Price?’

  Ben looked at her, concerned by her presence. ‘Yes, I’m Ben Price, and this is my daughter Chloe. Can I ask what’s happened? Is there something wrong?’

  ‘No, nothing serious,’ replied Cara. ‘I just have a few questions to ask you regarding a disturbance last night at your house that was reported earlier this morning. Shouldn’t take a minute.’

  ‘Disturbance? Oh…right…I…errr…I think I know what you’re referring to. Look, it’s dark and we’re getting covered in snow here. Why don’t we discuss this inside where it’s warm?’ Ben nodded towards the front window of the house a couple of doors down from his, behind which Charlotte Bainbridge was pretending to dust a vase. ‘And,’ he added, ‘where there aren’t any nosy neighbours gawping at us.’

  ‘Good idea,’ replied Cara. She smiled at Chloe, who nervously stared back at her, as if at any moment Cara would handcuff her daddy and take him away to prison. Cara bent down to look at her eye to eye. ‘And how old are you, Chloe?’ she asked.

  ‘Six,’ replied Chloe, ‘and a half.’

  ‘Six-and-a-half? You must be a very clever girl, then?’

  Chloe nodded, some of the fear disappearing from her face.

  ‘Would you like me to carry your school bag into the house for you – it looks full of heavy books?’

  ‘Okay,’ replied Chloe, handing over her bag and quickly shuffling across to take hold of her father’s hand as he proceeded to lead the three of them inside.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?’ asked Ben, taking off Chloe’s coat and hanging it over a radiator to dry. ‘I’m having one myself so it’s no bother.’ He walked into the kitchen and filled the kettle with water, flicking the switch for it to boil before pouring a glass of apple juice, which he handed to Chloe. ‘For a moment back there, I wasn’t sure we were going to make it home this evening. The roads are pretty bad. I don’t think we’ll be going anywhere this weekend.’

  ‘Coffee would be great, thanks,’ replied Cara. ‘You’re right - I think we’re in for a few days of this. Hopefully Bill Hardwick will get his plough out in the next day or two to help clear the roads. I’m on duty this weekend; I was going to head home after speaking to you, but I think I’ll take a room at the Youth Hostel.’ She didn’t feel confident of the drive home, in spite of having a Police Land Rover at her disposal. Besides, there was only an empty apartment to return to; it would be nice to catch up with her friend Bronwyn, and the extra half hour in bed tomorrow morning would be very welcome. Before heading over there, she could maybe even return to the Station to squeeze in an hour or two of paperwork: not exactly the most appealing of prospects, but there was a truckload to catch up on and now was as a good a time as ever.

  ‘Better safe than sorry. Would you like to call the Youth Hostel from here? The phone’s on the table in the hall. There’s a directory on the shelf below it.’

  ‘If you don’t mind? You never know, one day they might get round to installing a mobile phone mast around here. Sometimes I feel like we’re stuck in the dark ages. I won’t be a moment.’

  Ben didn’t need to buy any more time to think of an excuse for his erratic behaviour the previous evening; he’d already decided on a way out of that one. But he was glad of the opportunity to catch his breath for a short while and reassure Cara that there was nothing to be worried about. By the time Cara returned to the kitchen, he’d be confident of having the situation under control.

  ‘Sorted,’ said Cara, walking back into the room and accepting the cup of coffee being offered to her. ‘Thanks again for letting me use the phone. Now, if I can just ask a few questions and I’ll leave you two to your evening. At around eight o’clock last night, there were reports of screaming coming from inside this house. Can you confirm whether or not you were home at the time?’

  ‘Yes, I arrived home around seven-thirty and was here until six this morning.’

  ‘Were you alone?’ she asked, casually observing the absence of a ring on the third finger of his left hand. Ben felt his cheeks reddening slightly as he noticed what she was looking at, and self-consciously moved his hand into his pocket.

  ‘Yes, I live alone. Chloe comes to stay with me every other weekend, but apart from that it’s just m
e. Anyway…I think I can explain what all the noise was. I’m afraid it’s rather embarrassing. I had a nightmare; I can’t remember what it was about, but I remember waking up drenched with sweat. It must have been pretty frightening because I was making a hell of a noise when I woke up. Pretty pathetic, I know.’

  ‘A nightmare? Are you normally asleep by eight o’clock in the evening?’ She looked at him, immediately gauging from his defensive body language that he was almost certainly telling a lie.’

  Ben’s heart thumped against his chest, like that of a guilty man discovering that he’s finally been rumbled. All the same, he opted to persevere with his story. ‘I have difficulty sleeping,’ he continued, that part at least being truthful. ‘Sometimes I’m so exhausted when I get home from work that I crash for an hour or so. Then I’ll lie awake half the night turning things over in my mind – it drives me mad, but I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep for almost a year. And last night, well, I guess I must have had a horrible dream or something. I suppose I should apologise to the neighbours; I didn’t mean to upset anybody.’

  Cara could tell by the darkness under his eyes that he probably wasn’t getting enough sleep. I wonder if that’s all he’s not getting enough of. She blushed at her inappropriate thoughts. How long has it been girl? Too bloody long, that’s for sure – and he is rather handsome...gorgeous eyes…

  ‘Are you alright?’ asked Ben. ‘You seem miles away.’

  ‘Eh? Oh, I’m fine,’ she replied. ‘Sorry, it’s been a strange day and a long week. Anyway, I hope you’re feeling better now. It must have been some nightmare?’ She still didn’t believe him, but was prepared to give him the benefit of the considerable doubt; after all, there didn’t seem anything untoward going on. Most likely he’d done something foolish and was too embarrassed, or proud, to admit it.