by Davies, Neil
When he woke he was in hospital. He had been stitched and bandaged.
A doctor stood a little way off in deep discussion with Mr. and Mrs. Walters. Occasionally they would look over. Mrs. Walters would smile at him, nervously.
He knew they were deciding what to do with him. But at eighteen he at least had some say in the matter.
He decided to leave. Not just the hospital, nor just the Walters, but Byre. Leave, travel, clear his head, his thoughts. He didn’t want to be on pills for the rest of his life. He had to escape to sort himself out his way.
There was nothing to stay for anyway.
3
Standing before his parents’ headstone, knowing their bones lay beneath his feet, he finally felt ready to confront those memories, those feelings. At eighteen he had somehow convinced himself that their deaths were his fault, his responsibility. Now he knew that the accident was nothing to do with him. Just blind chance. For whatever reason, it was meant to happen. He could not change that.
As he faced the grave, his thoughts on his parents, there again came that feeling.
Someone was watching him!
He turned quickly, eyes flashing about the cemetery, sharp vision peering into the dark shadows, through the mist, almost willing themselves through the solid headstones.
For one brief moment he thought he saw something sitting on top of one of those stones. A statue. A gargoyle. When he looked closer there was nothing.
As before, he could see no one.
Unsettled, edgy, he headed back towards the cemetery gates, looking over his shoulder, searching behind each headstone as he came upon it. Beads of sweat tickled his top lip, his forehead.
The feeling was not unknown to him, but in the past there had always been a tangible, visible reason. Taliban in the mountains of Afghanistan. People traffickers in the ports of the Black Sea. Insurgents in the deserts of Iraq. To feel this when there seemed no cause was strange and unnerving.
His fists were clenched, his muscles tight by the time he reached the gates and stepped out onto the roadway.
The feeling began to seep away on the walk back towards the centre of the village. Slowly he unwound his tense muscles, relaxing. But the worry remained. Something was wrong in that cemetery. Very wrong.
CHAPTER EIGHT
1
Byre Sixth Form College.
Other than a road sign some two miles back, this was the first indication the Professor had seen that they were nearing their destination.
Byre Sixth Form College. Principal Miss K Bayley.
The buildings behind the closed gates were sprawled out with little apparent order. The closest ones were low, flat-roofed. He guessed they were built in the 1960s when such prefab construction was popular. Behind them rose older buildings, more intricate in their design, with slated roofs and gable-ends.
“I prefer the Victorian ones myself.”
“What?” Susan, waiting for the traffic lights to change in her favour, glanced, with a puzzled expression on her face, towards her father.
“Schools,” he explained. “I prefer the Victorian school designs to these boxes. The tall, brick-built buildings. The sloping roofs. Guttering to catch the rain rather than let it pool and soak in.”
Susan nodded, as though unwilling to get involved in the subject any further, and pressed down on the accelerator as the lights turned green.
The Professor fell silent again as the road took them past the college’s playing field and through a small residential area. Most of the houses were semi-detached and had a look of affluence about them. Perhaps not rich, but comfortably off. Well-kept gardens fronted PVC double-glazed windows and porches, most looking remarkably similar. All had driveways. Many had more than one car.
Further on, and set back a little from the road, they drove past a row of five terraced cottages. These were obviously older than the semis, and only one had the PVC double-glazing of the earlier houses. The others had small paned windows, wooden frames beginning to rot. They had a genuine look of age about them.
“It must be me,” he sighed. “I find I have an affinity with the older things.”
Susan smiled.
“If you’re talking about the houses, I’d prefer to live in the old cottages too. You don’t have a monopoly on liking old things.”
He laughed, “I guess not,” and pointed to the front and left. “There’s the bay. When you reach it, head inland directly away from it. Take you right to the village centre guesthouse”
Susan peered into the distance.
“Not exactly Spain or the South of France,” she said. “Bit dull.”
The Professor looked, could just make out the slight shift in greyness between sea and sky.
“We’re not here for a vacation,” he said. “But yes, it’s a bit dull. On the other hand, the couple of hotels and guesthouses I found are reasonably priced and look comfortable.”
“Since you know so much about the place, how come you didn’t book us rooms in advance?”
“I know what I read in an old guide book to Devon. And if I booked in advance, people would know we were coming.”
“I hate to disillusion you Dad, but I really don’t think people will know who we are. We’re not exactly famous.”
“You’d be surprised how interconnected these people are. Some of our previous investigations have caused major ripples in the underground network many of them share.”
“Most of these people, as you call them, have been nothing more than petty crooks. Con men. I doubt very much they’re part of anything, let alone this sophisticated underground network you seem to believe in.”
“I don’t mean them, and you know it Susan.”
Susan stopped smiling
“Not often you call me Susan these days,” she said. “I guess you’re serious about this stuff.”
“I’m talking about the devil worshippers,” he said grimly. “The black witches, the dark occultists and true magicians.”
“I’ve still not seen anything to convince me they’re anything more than very clever crooks or seriously deranged people. Nothing magical about insanity.”
The Professor sighed. His daughter’s scepticism was, most of the time, a useful tool in their work. Sometimes, however, it grated.
“Whether you believe in the supernatural or not, you must believe me when I tell you these people are often in touch with one another. Town to town. City to city. Village to village. They may not always be particularly friendly towards each other, God forbid they should ever join forces, but they are aware of what goes on. When we take one of them down, you can guarantee the word gets around.”
As they approached the marina, Susan turned up the road by a small group of shops and headed towards the centre of Byre.
“If even part of what you say is true, then the more of these bastards we put away, the more danger we’re in ourselves,” she said. “Kind of scary but, in some bizarre way, it makes me feel proud. Like we’re making a difference, at least enough to get noticed.”
“Let’s find a car park and stretch our legs a bit,” said the Professor. “We’ve both been sitting in this car for too long.”
2
The car park they found was signposted off the main street in the village. It was small with faded white lines marking the bays, almost empty. There was a tall wooden fence at the back of the concreted space, and behind that the side of a house, a small window showing just above the top of the fence. As Susan stepped out of the car she thought she saw a movement in that window, but when she looked closer it was dark and, as far as she could tell in the shadows thrown by the overhanging guttering, empty.
The Professor, pushing his door shut, stretched, arching his back. He smiled.
“Sunday afternoon in an English village. What could be more peaceful?”
Susan, her driver’s door still open, her valise on the seat, looked back towards the main street. There was no traffic. As she drove along it she had noticed that the only shop open seem
ed to be a newsagent at the far end.
There was a noise behind her.
She snapped her head around, a sudden moment of panic tightening her stomach. .
An old man riding an even older bicycle rattled up the road alongside the car park. As he passed them, he smiled and nodded. Susan smiled back, heard her father say “good afternoon”.
She waited until the man had reached the main street, heading towards the village centre, and turned to her father.
“It doesn’t exactly look like a hotbed of witchcraft and evil does it?”
The Professor raised a quizzical eyebrow.
“Looks can be deceiving.”
“On the other hand, priests can be a little over-eager to see Satanists wherever the Church is not particularly strong. Maybe this just isn’t a very religious village?”
“I agree priests sometimes read the signs wrong, as do we all, but Father Rex was very adamant about this. And then there’s the disappearance of the other priest.”
“Probably shacked up with some local woman and doesn’t want his bosses to know about it.”
“Have I ever told you that, as well as being sceptical, you are also an accomplished cynic?”
Susan laughed.
“I prefer realist.”
“I prefer bitch!”
The interruption startled both of them. The Professor frowned. Susan turned towards the figures she now saw emerging from around the corner of the tall fence. She noted the spiked hair of three of them, the baldness of the fourth.
“Shit.”
The Professor glanced towards her.
“Friends of yours?”
“We’ve met. But what are they doing here?”
As if in answer, one of the girls called out, “We’ve been waiting for you.”
Susan shook her head in disbelief. How did they know that she and her father were coming here, to Byre?
Too many questions, and now wasn’t the time.
She lunged for the open car door, grabbing at her valise, struggling with the catches.
She heard a shout, the sound of running feet pounding the concrete. Her father called out, but she couldn’t understand what he was saying. She was too busy frantically trying to reach her gun.
The driver’s door pounded into her back as a heavy boot kicked it. She screamed as her legs were trapped, let go of the valise and reached back to push at the door and relieve the pressure. Clutching fists grabbed her arm, her hair, and dragged her away from the car, away from her valise and her gun.
She struggled, grabbed the hand in her hair and held it tight against her head. She turned, twisted, forcing the trapped wrist to bend sharply backwards. The man holding her cried out as she pushed upwards, taking his arm with her. She felt his fingers loosen, let his hand go, stood up straight and swung a kick towards him.
She made contact, felt the impact, heard him grunt. She didn’t know where she had kicked him, but she wasn’t going to stay to find out.
The two girls had her father pinned against the car, a knife to his throat.
She hesitated.
Something moved on her left.
Before she could lean out of the way, a fist smashed into her face, knocking her head sideways. She tasted blood in her mouth. Her legs threatened to buckle beneath her.
Another fist, swinging round in front, pounded into her stomach, almost lifting her off the ground. Air exploded out of her mouth. Gasping, she fell to the ground, rolling, clutching her bruised body.
She had nothing left to resist with as they turned her onto her back. The bald-headed one grinned at her and sat down heavily across her stomach, one leg either side. She couldn’t help notice that he had an erection. He was getting off on this!
Limping towards them came the one with spiked hair, rubbing his thigh. She guessed she’d missed her real target with her kick. He knelt beyond her head, pulled her arms up and pinned them to the ground by her wrists.
“You deserve this, cunt! You almost crippled me with that kick.”
“Sorry I missed,” she said with a bravado she did not truly feel.
The bald-headed one slapped her, snapping her head, stinging her cheek.
She heard the girls laughing, knew they were watching. That meant her dad was watching too. She didn’t want him to see this. He shouldn’t have to watch his daughter get raped and murdered.
Seemed she was wrong about this village. Things weren’t right here at all. Why wasn’t anyone helping them? It was Sunday afternoon in a car park in an English village, not midnight in some dark alleyway in the centre of the city. How could this be happening?
Baldhead pulled a knife from a sheath at his side and waved the blade in front of her face. He used the point to trace a circle on her right breast, where he imagined her nipple to be.
“I’m going to enjoy this.” He pointed the blade back at her face and laughed. “But I don’t think you will.”
3
Tim waved at the old man on the bicycle who smiled and nodded at him.
He was walking back through the village, heading towards his house. His visit to the cemetery still disturbed him. That feeling of being watched, of being in danger. Although it no longer dominated his senses, it refused to completely disappear. Along with some of Mr. Crosby’s comments, it added to a sense of unease he had not expected to feel when he returned home.
He could hear voices somewhere up ahead, but it was so quiet that afternoon that it was difficult to say how near or how far they might be. Sounded like kids, maybe teenagers, messing around. As long as they didn’t mess with him that was fine. He was in no mood for dealing with anyone at the moment.
He hesitated. He was thirsty. Looking back to the far end of the row of shops, to the newsagent that was still open, he sighed. Could he really be bothered to walk all that way back?
Shaking his head, smiling to himself, he continued walking out of the village. There were drinks at home. Gave him something to look forward to.
He slowed down as he reached the side road, glancing around to make sure no traffic was coming. He was about to cross when he heard the voices again. Nearer. Raised voices. Sounded like swearing.
Just so long as they don’t bother me.
He was half way across before his curiosity won out and he looked down the road, towards the small car park.
It only took a moment for him to see that this was something more than kids messing about. He saw an old man held at knifepoint, a woman pinned to the ground.
4
Baldhead had lifted Susan’s T-shirt, pushing it above her bra. He slid the tip of the knife inside her bra cup.
Susan’s eyes were closed. She didn’t cry or scream, wouldn’t give them the satisfaction, but she was afraid. She couldn’t stop them. She just hoped it wouldn’t be too painful.
Baldhead heard the girls shout, looked up puzzled and annoyed at the interruption.
Someone pulled him backwards and threw him roughly to the ground.
5
With the bald-headed one momentarily out of the way, Tim slammed the heel of his shoe into the face of the teenage boy holding the woman’s wrists. The teenager was knocked backwards, sliding and rolling across the car park, holding his face as blood ran between his fingers.
The bald-headed one was getting to his feet, waving the knife.
Tim stepped quickly towards him, taking the knife-hand in his fist and twisting. The knife clattered to the ground. Even as the teenager opened his mouth to scream at the sharp pain stabbing through his wrist, Tim moved in with cold efficiency.
A knee to the groin. An elbow slammed into the jaw. A leg snapped by a well-placed kick, the knee bending grotesquely outwards.
The bald-headed teenager collapsed to the ground, sobbing and screaming with pain.
One of the girls had left the old man and was rushing at Tim, knife stretched out before her.
He let her get close, easily knocking the knife to one side, snapping his fist into her stomach. Th
e knife fell, followed quickly by the girl.
The other girl looked at her three fallen friends and ran away, back towards the fence.
Tim watched her go, considered chasing after her but decided there was little point. He had wanted to save the people they were attacking, not track them all down like a hunter. He didn’t do that anymore.
The other three were dragging themselves away, slowly, bloodily. They helped each other, the bald-headed one dragging a useless leg with him.
The woman was sitting up, straightening her T-shirt, looking shaken but surprisingly in control. Tim was impressed.
The old man hurried to her, helping her to her feet. He looked towards Tim.
“I don’t know how we can thank you enough.”
Tim shrugged, glanced towards the car with its driver’s door still open.
“Could you give me a lift home?”
CHAPTER NINE
1
Christina Jameson crawled back into the hole in the cellar wall, her face and hands bloody and slippery. She was smiling. The food had been good. Holy food.
She laughed, a deep, guttural laugh. Around her she felt, rather than heard, her companions join her laughter. They had fed well too, on the strength of the living, the soul of the dead. Soon they would feed on her too.
She crawled through darkness, hands and knees scraping across jagged stones. She did not feel the pain of the cuts, was not aware of her own blood mingling with that of her recent meal.
She could not see but she could sense when she exited the short tunnel that the hole led to. She could feel the walls around her open out. She could smell the change in the air. This was her home, her hideaway, her temple. This was where the spirits of the house had led her all those years ago. A safe place.
At first she had almost starved, living off the small animals and insects that crawled into her home. The taste of raw flesh, of warm blood spurting into her mouth as she bit, sickened her at first, but it was that or die. She did not wish to die. Neither did she wish to leave. She felt at home with her companions, in the dark. Loved and wanted.
Sometimes she would venture out, always at night and never far from the house. She had started with the dogs and cats that wandered the night time streets, but she had not been truly satisfied until she chanced upon the young man, drunk, almost incapable, sitting on the pavement, chuckling to himself.