Shepherd's Cross

by Mark White

  Ted Wilson was barely able to hold himself together at the promise of what lay ahead, his mind possessed by sexual desire as he laid the final placemat on the table in front of the awakening, grinning figure of Frank Gowland.

  Chapter 13

  7.00pm: Tina Radcliffe stood behind the bar of The Fallen Angel, hands on her hips and with a face as grim as the weather outside. It had been an exhausting afternoon for herself and her staff, darting to and fro as they struggled to keep up with the constant flow of stranded villagers traipsing in and out of the pub. The place was far messier than usual; the recently-purchased Axminster carpet in both the formal and the back bars was sodden with a slushy mixture of melted snow and mud. If there was one thing Tina couldn’t abide, it was untidiness. ‘Cleanliness is next to Godliness’: a phrase her mother had instilled in her as a child; to the point where she’d be scolded for so much as leaving a napkin unfolded. Perhaps unsurprisingly, she’d spent the greater part of her teenage years rebelling against her mother’s obsessive behaviour. Fast forward thirty years and it was a different story – ‘like mother, like daughter,’ as the saying goes.

  ‘I know this place is meant to be a Public House, Emily,’ she said, giving a threatening stare to a man who had just entered and was about to shake the snow from his coat onto the already soaked floor. ‘But you wouldn’t behave like that if it was your own home, would you? I mean, honestly: I had to tell Jack Cranfield off this afternoon for putting his feet up on a chair; boots and all, for God’s sake. I had a mind to grab him by the scruff of the neck and throw him out on his ear – probably would have done if he hadn’t been with Susan. God only knows what she must have thought; then again, what on earth is she doing with him anyway? He must be twice her age at least!’

  Emily smiled and rolled her eyes. She often liked to drop by for a quick drink and a gossip on a Saturday evening; if nothing else, she enjoyed the rare opportunity to be served rather than to serve. Sitting at the bar made a refreshing change to sitting behind her Post Office counter. ‘If I may say so, Tina, you appear to be a little agitated this evening. After all, it is only water you know? I’m sure it will be dry by morning if you leave the heating on tonight.’

  ‘Hmm…maybe,’ Tina said. ‘But I just wish that people would be more considerate towards other people’s property. I don’t think that’s asking too much, do you?’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ replied Emily, in an effort to placate her. ‘Are you sure that’s all that’s bothering you? You do seem slightly off-colour this evening.’

  Tina took a deep breath and let out a long, tired sigh. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It’s been a strange couple of days. This weather – everything seems so dark and depressing. We probably could just do with a little sunshine in our lives for a change.’

  ‘I heard about what happened here last night with the Woodsman boy. I must say, it sounds horrific what they did to him.’

  Tina nodded. ‘I’ve been a landlady for many years, but I’ve never come across anything like it. Those Carter boys tore into him like a rabid pack of wolves. If Sergeant Jennings hadn’t pulled them away when he did, I honestly think they would have killed him. You could see it in their eyes – they were like wild animals. I’ve been thinking about it all day. I just can’t get my head around how anybody could do such a thing.’

  Emily refrained from suggesting that perhaps some of the responsibility lay at Tina’s door for allowing them to guzzle so much alcohol in the first place. While she hadn't done anything illegal in serving them, Emily couldn’t help but think that plying two rebellious kids with pint after pint of strong lager would likely end up in trouble somewhere down the line.

  ‘And the attitude of some of the customers here today – I’ve never seen anything like it. I mean, is it too much to ask for them to say please and thank you? It’s as if being stranded in The Cross has robbed folk of their manners. Heaven help us if this weather continues…they’ll probably start looting each other’s houses next.’ She looked across at the unoccupied wooden stool by the cigarette machine at the end of the bar, wondering where in the world Frank Gowland could be. It wasn’t like him to be late on a Saturday, or any other day for that matter. ‘You don’t happen to have seen Frank out and about today, have you?’

  ‘Errm…no,’ said Emily. ‘At least I don’t think so. Now you mention it, it’s not like him to not be here on a Saturday evening.’

  ‘That’s what I was thinking, Funnily enough, I kind of miss him…he’s part of the furniture here. And he might have his faults, but you’d never hear Frank Gowland forgetting to say please or thank you. I hope he’s alright.’

  ‘I’m sure he’s fine,’ Emily said. ‘Probably come down with the flu or something. That caravan of his can’t be that warm – he’s proba…’

  ‘Pint of Steeltown and a G&T, when you’ve finished chatting,’ came a direct-sounding voice from further down the bar; without any sign of a ‘please’ or a ‘thank you.’

  Emily turned to discover the voice belonged to Edward Bainbridge. He was standing with his wife Charlotte, glaring at Tina, impatiently tapping his fingers across the polished wooden surface of the bar. ‘Hello, Charlotte,’ Emily said, smiling at her. ‘Awful weather we’re having, isn’t it?’

  Charlotte looked sheepishly at Edward and then back at Emily. ‘Yes it is rather,’ she replied, quickly turning back to face the bar to signal the end of the conversation. Emily looked confused at her untypically sharp response: Charlotte could normally be counted on to be the life and soul of the party; always one for a joke and a gossip. It certainly wasn’t like her to decline an invitation to chat. ‘I bet young Henry’s enjoyed himself in the snow today?’ Emily asked, curious to find out whether or not she’d misjudged her blunt behaviour.

  Edward stared at her, the expression on his face angry and bitter. ‘I’ll have you know that my wife hasn’t slept a wink ever since you and that Youth Hostel friend of yours spouted a whole load of mumbo-jumbo about witches and child murder and God knows what else. Her nerves have been hanging by a thread…why on earth would you want to fill her head with such absolute tripe?’

  ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ asked Tina, the pent-up anger from the stressful afternoon rising to the surface as she sprang to her friend’s defence.

  ‘It’s alright Tina, it’s alright.’ said Emily. ‘I can handle this, please.’

  Tina’s chest rose and fell with disconcerting speed as she tried to calm herself down. It was bad enough that this jumped-up little shit had so rudely interrupted her conversation with Emily with his - no please, no thank you - drink order, but the fact that he’d taken a direct shot at one of the kindest, best-loved residents of Shepherd’s Cross in front of a roomful of people was simply unacceptable.

  Tina needn’t have worried; Emily Mitford was perfectly capable of standing up for herself. ‘Charlotte, I’m sorry if Bronwyn or I offended you yesterday – it certainly wasn’t our intention. Although unless I was mistaken, it did appear to me that you and Olivia were enjoying our conversation. You did seem to be interested at the time?’

  ‘Indeed she was, very much so,’ replied Edward on Charlotte’s behalf. ‘She wouldn’t shut up about it, right from the moment I walked through the front door to the moment we went to bed. What on earth possessed you to come out with such rubbish?’

  Emily blushed. ‘I was only passing on some of the old folk tales from years gone by. A brief history lesson, so to speak. And if we’re being honest, Charlotte did ask me to tell her. Again, I’m sorry if I…’

  ‘History, what history?’ Edward interrupted. ‘History would be telling her something about lead mining or developments in agricultural practices: events based on fact; not some blatantly false speculation about witches and evil spirits. What kind of backward place is this?’

  Having thus far only listened with half an ear to their conversation, the whole of the formal bar suddenly went quiet. Whether or not they believed in it, the majo
rity of the clientele had grown up with superstition all around them, passed down from mother to daughter and father to son. To them, the village’s history, their history, was not something to be publically ridiculed and dismissed out of hand by outsiders, especially not insipid, obnoxious outsiders like Edward Bainbridge.

  Emily realised that she needed to speak on behalf of them all, before the atmosphere in the pub deteriorated any further. ‘Oh, I’m afraid you’re wrong about that,’ she said, trying to remain calm. ‘Speak to any of the local people here, or better still, check out the village archives at the library in Cornforth. You’ll be able to see for yourself that executing innocent women and children for supposedly worshipping the devil was every bit as real as the ruins of the lime kilns and lead mines you see scattered across the Pennines. In case you hadn’t noticed, Mr Bainbridge, Shepherd’s Cross is not Newcastle, or any other cosmopolitan city for that matter. Whether you like it or not, this village, and the hamlets and hills that surround it, are steeped in superstition and folklore that have made them what they are today; as well as shaping the people whose families have lived and died here for generations. Newcomers like you, who choose to settle here because of perfectly understandable reasons like fresh air and beautiful scenery, would do well to remember that Shepherd’s Cross is not some kind of faceless, sanitised red-brick suburb. This land, and more importantly the people whose livelihoods have depended on it for generations, do not need the likes of you coming here criticising their ways and telling them what’s right and what’s wrong. If nothing else, it’s downright rude. I don’t know if you want to be accepted as part of the community here, Mr Bainbridge, but if you do, I would recommend you start by showing people around here a little respect.’

  For the first time in as long as he could remember, Edward Bainbridge was lost for words. He’d been publicly chastised by a woman half his size and twice his age, and he had nothing to come back at her with. Moreover, as he looked around the room for support, only to find ice-cold faces staring back at him, he realised that even if he could think of a wisecrack to throw back at her, it would probably not be in his best interests to do so. ‘Forget the drinks,’ he said to Tina. ‘I think we ought to leave.’

  ‘For once I think you’re right,’ replied Tina, the silence and tension in the room palpable.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said to Charlotte, his voice almost a whisper. He was on the verge of saying sorry, a word that didn’t normally figure in his vocabulary, when the entrance door was pulled inwards, revealing the falling snow outside, baked in the orange glow from the streetlights on the village green. Wilf Blackett had opened it and was standing behind it, holding the handle, the look in his eyes suggesting to Edward that he would be wise not to linger inside any longer. Edward didn’t need to be asked twice, and without further ado he walked swiftly towards the door, Charlotte tottering awkwardly behind him, the heels on her boots more suited to the smooth, pristine floor of the shopping mall than the deep, uneven snow of the countryside.

  ‘I suggest you change your attitude, lad,’ Blackett said to Edward as he passed by. ‘Time might come when you need a friend around here…’ Edward pretended not to hear him as they made their way outside, Blackett almost walloping Charlotte’s behind with the door as he slammed it shut behind them.

  ‘Three cheers for Emily!’ Tina shouted. ‘Hip Hip…’

  ‘Hooray!’ came the reply from within the room, once and then twice again, each occasion louder than the preceding one.

  ‘You’re quite the politician,’ Tina said. ‘I couldn’t have said it better myself.’

  In spite of the boisterous support from her fellow villagers, Emily didn’t appear to be the slightest bit proud of her rant at Edward; if anything she seemed embarrassed and disappointed at her uncharacteristically assertive behaviour. ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘What did I go and do that for?’

  ‘Because, like the rest of us, you don’t appreciate strangers coming in here insinuating that we’re nothing more than a bunch of hillbillies,’ Tina replied.

  ‘Even if we are!’ shouted Dougie Hickman from a table in the far corner of the room, crossing his eyes and scrunching up his face as if to prove his point; prompting his fellow protagonists in the room to burst out laughing.

  ‘Mind you,’ said Blackett. ‘That wife of his is right not to rest easy at night. Something’s in the air alright. You can feel it on the moors.’

  ‘What on earth are you blathering on about, Wilf?’ asked Tina. ‘Didn’t your mother tell you there’s no such thing as ghosts?’

  ‘WWOOOOOOHHH!’ cried Dougie, evidently in the mood to continue in his role as village idiot.

  Blackett rounded on him, upset at not being taken seriously. ‘You go ahead and laugh, Hickman,’ he said. ‘But I don’t know how cocksure you’d be if you knew what was sticking out the ground up at my top field.’

  ‘Oh aye, what’s that then?’ asked Dougie, his smile fading slightly.

  ‘A bloody great upside-down crucifix, that’s what. And what’s more, some bastard has ripped the head of one of my ewes and stuck it on the top for good measure.’ Once more, the whole room fell silent. ‘Scariest thing I’ve ever seen,’ Wilf continued, quieter now. ‘Brian and Cara came up to have a look this morning: they couldn’t believe it either. They’ve got no idea who’s done it; not even the foggiest clue where to start looking. Ten foot tall it is!’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Dougie, his smile now completely vanished.

  ‘Aye, bloody hell indeed,’ Blackett said. ‘Not so daft now, am I?’

  Emily looked at him, her voice calm yet serious. ‘This cross…can you remember which direction it was facing?’ It could have been the light, but she seemed paler, as if the colour had drained from her face.

  ‘Which direction?’ replied Blackett. ‘Aye, I can tell you exactly where it was facing. Right at this village, that’s where.’

  ‘Are you absolutely sure about that?’

  ‘One hundred percent sure. Feel free to have a look up there yourself; as far as I know, the damn thing’s still stuck in the ground. It was buried so deep that we couldn’t get it out. It’ll be frozen in solid now, there’ll be no shifting it until the thaw comes. Anyway, what does it matter which way it’s facing?’

  ‘Well,’ said Emily. ‘I suppose it depends on who put it there. More to the point, it depends on whether or not whoever put it there knew what they were doing. If they did know…well…in that case it does mean something. Something not particularly pleasant, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Go on,’ urged Blackett, everyone in the room now engrossed in what she had to say.

  Emily scanned the room, making sure she was familiar with everyone in it. She didn’t have a problem talking to her people about such matters, but would perhaps have felt differently had there been any of the Rowan Lane residents listening in to what she was about to say. ‘It’s probably coincidence, but in the olden days, when witchcraft was commonplace around these parts, if you wanted to curse somebody, or even a whole village, you would do so by marking them with a sign of the Devil. There were several ways of doing this: you could paint an inverted pentagram on your target’s house in tar, or nail a black cloth soaked in goat’s blood to their door; indeed, there were numerous means of skinning the proverbial cat. One of the rarer choices, however, was to place the cross of Lucifer between the sun and the object of your curse, ‘casting the shadow of the Devil upon it’. Now I’m not saying that’s what’s behind the discovery you’ve made on your farm, Wilf, and it’s probably just an unfortunate coincidence, but from what you’ve told me, it sounds like it could be the work of someone who knows a thing or two about the occult. Firstly, it’s up on your top field, way above us to the west, coming between the sun and Shepherd’s Cross. Secondly, it’s facing towards us, which means figuratively speaking its shadow will be falling directly on us; and thirdly, from the size of it, it doesn’t sound like the work of a couple of bored school children with too much time on th
eir hands.’

  Blackett took a heavy swig of his beer. ‘All that may or may not be true,’ he said, wiping the froth from his mouth with his shirt sleeve. ‘But it still doesn’t get us any closer to finding out who did it.’

  ‘Or perhaps more importantly, why they did it,’ replied Emily.

  ‘Come on Emily, don’t be ridiculous,’ Tina said. ‘Why would anyone want to curse a harmless village like Shepherd’s Cross? The majority of folk around here wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Emily. ‘And I don’t want to force the matter any further than it needs to be. However, the fact that there was a sheep sacrificed arguably makes it all the more serious – a sacrifice to what, or to whom? That’s the question I’d be asking.’

  ‘Don’t talk daft!’ said Tina, her smile tinged with nervousness. ‘This isn’t the seventeenth century.’

  Emily smiled. ‘I know, and you’re probably right. But I can’t think of any other motive for it, can you?’ She looked at Blackett. ‘I’m reluctant to admit it, but from what you’ve told us, there are clear similarities with that thing on your top field and the actions of someone familiar with black magic and witchcraft. Why else would they have done it?’

  Blackett shrugged his shoulders, hiding the fact that inside he was terrified at the thought of such people roaming around his fields. ‘That’s not all,’ he said, staring at the floor like a guilty schoolboy. ‘Standing between whatever that thing is and Shepherd’s Cross is Fellside Hall. What’s more, I noticed this morning that the chimneys were smoking. Someone’s inside.’

  ‘That I can help you with,’ said Tina. ‘Frank was telling me last night about these two archaeologists from London. They’re planning on studying the forts around Hadrian’s Wall and are staying in Fellside Hall while they’re here. Ted Wilson brokered the deal, apparently. He’s asked Frank to do some work tidying the place up. I’ve no idea how long they’re planning to stay, but Frank reckons they’re full of money. If that’s the case, I can’t for the life of me understand why they’d want to stay there. The damn place is falling apart.’