Beneath the Tor

by Nina Milton

  “Ah. Like river water. Even when it is at its most limpid, you will never see the bottom as it really is, for the water is in constant motion and distorts the images below.”

  “Yes. Like that. I’ve been trying to help Brice Hollingberry. I felt so sorry for his loss, and for the awful way someone was goading him.”

  “I understand,” said the lady.

  “I’ve ended up with shadows, a philosopher’s allegory, his truth about good and evil.”

  Her mouth was a hard line. “Indeed. To read shadows is to read the bottom of the river.”

  “But you said, didn’t you? It’s my inheritance. I have to try.”

  Sabrina spoke directly to Trendle, who was waiting by my feet. “Take her then. Take her.”

  Trendle didn’t take me to a shadowed cave, as I’d expected. Almost instantly, I was standing on cracked earth, the desert of dried soil in the Lower Realm I’d visited at Stonedown Farm. Nothing had changed in the month since I was last here. There was not a tree, not a plant, not even a weed. Only the bare, rutted, dried-out soil and the billions of worms, still writhing as if in their death throes; as if they gasped for moisture.

  A hot wind moved the dusty soil. It blew into my face, into my ears and nostrils. The sun was white with heat; already it burned the back of my neck. I shaded my eyes and looked to the edge of the horizon in every direction, searching for the wattle fence and the rough timber hut of the old man.

  Nothing. Just heat haze and hot, dry breeze and worms crawling over the trainers I had worn to the police station.

  And then, for just a few, blissful seconds, a shadow moved over the sun. I gasped with relief. The coolness felt glorious. I looked up. Something was hovering, high up in the sky, so large it blocked out the brightness. A bird, gigantic against the sun.

  It saw me. It marked me. Its dive was so fast it seemed set to crash me into the ground. It opened its hooked beak and screeched.

  “Death of beauty! Death of grace! Death of love!”

  For a second, I was mesmerized. Against the sun, the bird had seemed big, but as it soared down, it expanded, its wings stretching wider and wider. Its feet pushed out, ready for the smash and grab. I could see its talons, the razor points that would rip skin, find flesh, kill prey.

  “Sabbie!”

  Seconds before it hit me, Trendle’s bark brought me out of my spell. I threw myself to the ground. Worms squished beneath me, slithered over me. I had to clamp my mouth shut to prevent them squirming in.

  When I looked up again, the creature had lifted on the air currents and was disappearing towards the horizon. I pulled myself up. “What was that, Trendle?”

  “One thing you did not lay out in order.”

  Sabrina had told me to call her by her true name. Finally I’d found it, and now everything was different. Instead of talking in ciphers, what she showed me rang as clear as a bell. I pulled the scarf from my eyes and scrabbled up. Drumbeats were still pounding from my CD player, but I’d had my vision. I understood my one possibility. A shiver went across my shoulders. I didn’t want this to be true. Three berserk attacks on passers-by. I’d assumed such an offender would be true to form—wicked, a villain. It was hard to process what Sabrina had revealed.

  Now I needed to get to my phone. Shell was at the heart of my mystery, and I had to talk to her before I did any other thing. I found her number in my contacts, but the call went straight to voicemail. I left a message, making it plain we urgently needed to speak, and almost as I put the phone down, it rang.

  “Sabbie?” came a male voice. “Sabbie Dare? This is Eijaz.”

  “Eijaz?” Deep in the back of my mind I knew that name. I just couldn’t bring up a picture of the face.

  “Ricky’s flatmate. I went to that party with you, d’you remember?”

  I paused for a second. “Where is Shell? Why are you on her phone?”

  “She’s here, in Bristol. With Ricky. They arrived about an hour ago, yeah?”

  “They’ve left the funeral?”

  “Yeah, man, there’s some things going on, I can’t work out what. Shell’s left her bag here and buggered off again. Her phone was ringing and I saw that you’d called her.”

  “In Bristol? In your house?”

  “Yeah. She’s …” He trailed off. “There’s something wrong. Can’t put my finger on it.” He tried a laugh. “Can’t be done on a spreadsheet, for sure, man. Sorta … weird. Like, what’s happening between them … .weird. You’re Shell’s friend, right?”

  “Er—absolutely.”

  “She needs a friend. Right now. That’s what she needs. Could you get here? Would that be possible?”

  “Eijaz, you’re not making much sense. Can’t you just put her on, please?”

  “They’ve gone out somewhere. To get food, I think.” His voice dropped, in tone and register. “This is what I was saying at the party. This shamanism stuff, it messes with your head. Ask me they’ve gone mad. I don’t like it, Sabbie, and I reckon you should be the one to sort it out.”

  I remembered how Eijaz, the full-on business student, hadn’t liked Ricky’s involvement with shamanism. Some people only see the stereotypes. I’d only seen detached, remorseless bankers, until I’d met Alys and Brice; Eijaz probably imagined rituals that included chicken blood and drug-maddened witch doctors.

  “Let’s slow down here. Can you tell me what Shell said? How she acted?”

  “They were talking … not to me, but I overheard. I didn’t mean to, but … I hated what they were saying. They’re involved in something and just listening—just the bits I heard—they need help and I don’t want to be the only one. I mean, when they get back—I don’t wanna to be the only one here.”

  I swallowed. Eijaz’s cool body language had gone down well with my brother and his friends He exuded that sense of trendy-tough. What could have scared him? Shell had talked about taking risks … shocking fun. Intense.

  “Sabbie? There’s something in Ricky’s room … you have to … see.”

  “Eijaz? Can you please explain what you mean?”

  “Please come.” Eijaz’s voice faltered.

  He thought I’d begun it, that was the subtext. That this was my fault. I had introduced Ricky to shamanism … and to Wolfsbane’s girlfriend.

  I was on my feet, snatching up my shoulder bag and car keys.

  “Look, keep in touch, okay? I’ll be an hour getting to you and I don’t want to find out that they’ve headed back to London or something crazy.”

  “It’s out of my depth, that’s for sure.”

  His voice had dropped into a growl. As I headed for the door, I realized that was because he was terror-stricken.

  twenty-nine

  anagarika

  Eijaz let me into the flat. The hallway was dark and silent. “Everything okay?” I asked. “Only you didn’t phone me en route, so I’m guessing Shell is still here.”

  He looked down at the ground, nudged a dust ball into a corner with the sharp point of his black leather shoe. For once, he wasn’t wearing his shades. His eyes were points of deep brown in the gloom. “No sign of them. I’m sure they’ll be back.”

  “Eijaz! I’ve used a lot of petrol coming here.”

  He lifted his hand. He was holding Shell’s phone. “Why should she leave it behind?”

  “Isn’t Ricky answering his?”

  “It’s dead. Not surprising—he didn’t take his charger to London, left it plugged into the kitchen socket.”

  “So they’re both incommunicado.”

  “I’m wondering how accidental that is.” He held my gaze for the first time. A lot of his natural cockiness was missing. “I got something I wanna show you. You better prepare yourself.”

  The hallway was silent, but I could hear a regular plop-plop from the kitchen. A dripping tap. My heart was thudding in sympat
hy behind my ribs. “Show me what, Eijaz?”

  “You know.” It was almost an accusation. “When I phoned you, I could tell. You know, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know a thing.”

  It wasn’t the truth; I did know something. Not in the same way that Rey would piece a case together—not like Pippa would methodically reach a conclusion. But my way, the way of the shaman. The things Ricky had told me, crouched in the shrubbery at the crematorium, and the journey Sabrina of the Severn had sent me on had become a succession of keys fitting into locks.

  He walked away, taking the stairs. “Up here, Sabbie.”

  I didn’t move. My feet were lodged in some sort of groove that held them fast.

  “You gotta to confirm this,” he said, “or tell me I’m completely off my rocker.”

  Finally, I was up the stairs. Eijaz pushed Ricky’s bedroom door half open, but he didn’t step inside. He was waiting for me to take my look and make my comment. “I’d prefer to be off my rocker, okay?”

  The room was dim, the blinds pulled to the sill. I almost turned to ask what I was supposed to be looking for, but thought better of it. I fumbled with the light switch; it was hidden behind a long piece of black paper, pinned in place. A low-watt energy bulb flickered on overhead, taking its own sweet time to illuminate the scene, so that, as my sight adjusted, the surreal nature of the room became apparent in increments.

  Ricky’s bedroom had once been as orderly as a pharmacy. Now it was a maelstrom. There was total chaos, yet the chaos seemed to have a purpose, almost a plan within itself. Books and files were scattered over the floor, layered one on the next, each open at a specific page, as if Ricky had so much to remember, he didn’t dare lose the pages he’d read.

  I closed my eyes and heard the whispers.

  The last time I was here, the spirits of the room had spoken to me, but I’d failed to listen. Today, they forced me to hear their lament, which rose and fell, moving from croon to wail. Even the walls cried out. Perhaps Ricky knew they did, for there were no walls to see. They were plastered with reproductions depicting Arthurian legends, posters of sea eagles, and photographs of pagan sites he’d maybe taken himself. Long sheets of paper hung down the walls, some placed so high he would have to use a chair to check what was on them. They were filled with scribbles and diagrams and archaic runes. The picture of Glastonbury had strips of white paper pasted over them—single phrases in thick black marker, like “playing tonight” flashes on flyers.

  I stepped into the room. A tight line snatched at my hair. Another dug into my cheek. I raised my hands and they were caught too. Threads stretched tight across my path. It felt like an attack; a trap laid for trespassers. As if Ricky had brought a mutant spider into his room and I was caught in a web that was taut with menace and control.

  The ceiling light finally reached its full brightness. Ricky had used strands of nylon cord to join up his ideas. The lines of connection ran from the pictures to the paper strips, up and down the walls and across the room. I dragged the twine from my face and heard pins pop out from the plaster.

  A desperation crept up my spine, begging me to get out—to turn and run.

  I glanced back at Eijaz. He was hanging onto the doorframe as if in some house supposed haunted.

  “Yeah … like, he put his mattress on the floor and he crawls onto to it.”

  The stink of unwashed slumber rose from the bare pillow and duvet. His clothes still lay in knotted heaps below the bed frame, which was piled with even more open books and files and a half-eaten shop-bought cake.

  I remembered the altar inside the wardrobe space that Freaky had admired last time we were here. I slithered across the carpet, trying not to get caught in the lines of twine. The ancient coffee spills felt sticky below my hands. The doors to the wardrobe were open. The interior beckoned.

  “He’s been burning candles here,” I murmured. The nightlight holders contained nothing but their black wicks. They might still have been alight when Ricky had left for London.

  I sensed the reverence Freaky had picked up; this was Ricky’s place of devotion. A scent of joss stick lingered inside the wooden frame. The wind chimes tinkled slightly as my movement disturbed the air currents.

  A photo of Alys’s face had been pinned to the back of the wardrobe, blown-up to such a size that everything was slightly pixelated. She was laughing, her teeth glinting toothpaste-white in the flash. I could see the outline of St. Michael’s Tower behind her, and the deep purple sky as the shortest night fell. This wasn’t here last time, and I fancied he’d got Shell to print it out from her camera. I think he’s in love … with the dead Alys, Shell had confessed. As he had also loved his own sister.

  At the very centre of the wardrobe floor stood the framed picture Babette had sketched. Now Ricky wasn’t breathing down my neck, I felt able to pick it up and look closer.

  Babette had used black ink with a fine-pointed pen. Thousands of lines built the image up. The face was long, with raised cheekbones above hollowed cheeks. The raven hair was wayward, escaping from a clip at the back, perhaps. The lips held the only defining colour, blocked in with red ink. The woman had stunning eyes—Babette had cleverly created a glint within them that made them feel alive. They were looking directly at me. They were boring into my eyes. Along the bottom, Babette had scrawled her name as artist. I brought the surface closer to my face, in order to see the signature clearly.

  For almost a minute, I crouched on my hands and knees, staring at the woman’s image and the words Babette had written beneath it. I was seeing the likeness of someone I had longed to meet, face to face.

  Eijaz coughed in his throat. “Like I said, yeah? Ricky’s nutty method of revision, innit?”

  His words brought me back to life. I sucked in a breath and rocked on my heels. I crawled to the door and snapped off the ceiling light, sending the room back into shadow. I had brought Babette’s picture with me.

  “Any chance of a cup of tea?”

  Eijaz made two teas using one tea bag and broke open a packet of cheap digestives. We took our drinks to the kitchen table and I laid Babette’s picture flat upon it.

  “It’s shocking,” said Eijaz. He stared down at his mug. “When somebody changes. Like, they’re another person. He’s not the Ricky I knew no more.” He barked a laugh. “Right—we all pretend a bit, don’t we? Put on an act? Get all dressed up to make a statement an’ all, but this ain’t no act, man. This is like … a takeover.”

  I nodded. “Can you remember when it started?”

  “I dunno. Months, maybe. It was more under control, you get me? Like, it’s escalating lately.”

  “Did it start when Alys died?” I asked.

  There was a silence. “He told me he saw her spirit rise. I’m like, man … you can’t see no thing like that. But he couldn’t shut up about this Alys. Like a trigger set something off inside his head.”

  “You can get obsessed with death.”

  “Yeah, Sabbie, but that’s what I meant about this shaman shit he’s been getting into. Like, what I was saying that time. You didn’t want to hear, I know you didn’t, but after that shaman workshop, he got weirder and weirder.”

  “There was no workshop. It was cancelled when Alys died.”

  “I only spoke true, man. It worried me, even back then. What I think is, meddle with that shit that and … pop!” he slapped his hands together.

  “Shamanism can’t make you crazy,” I said. “But walking in the otherworld can make you feel powerful. It’s important to remember it’s not your power. If you have mental health issues and the wrong person to guide you, I’m not disputing your emotions could go out of control.”

  It was easy to forgot that Eijaz knew nothing about Brice’s emails, or Morgan le Fey or Marty-Mac. All he knew was that his flatmate was behaving strangely. Before we’d gone to Dennon’s party, Eijaz had voiced hi
s concerns. I’d assumed he was slamming shamanism without knowing about it. That happened a lot and it always got my hackles raised. I’d bitten back, shut him up. If only I’d waited, listened to what he was really saying.

  I pushed the picture frame towards him. “There are names on this sketch. Does he ever mention them?”

  Eijaz took it and read aloud. “‘Morgan le Fay by Babette Johnson.’ I don’t know neither of them names.”

  It was time for some honesty. “Babette is Ricky’s younger sister. Morgan le Fay is an assumed name—a writer of poison pen emails—whoever this person is, they’re vile and destructive.”

  “There is someone he’s seeing. He goes AWOL for, like, days—leaves looking good, his usual gothic image, but when he comes back—he’s in a state. Not shaved, not washed. Then for days after, he don’t come outta that room. Nose in a book or Googling things or doing bits to his wall. Then he bursts out, gets showered at last, gets all gothed up, and disappears again.”

  “Where does he go? Would he be with Shell, perhaps?”

  “No. Shell’s phoning up, asking where the hell he is.”

  “So is he with Juke Webber?”

  Eijaz shrugged. “Could be.”

  My heart had got out of place; somehow it was up in my throat and thudding like some archaic steam engine. I’d long ago worked out that any of the workshoppers could have attacked Anthony Bale, if they’d caught his bus to Yeovil. But I’d never thought to ask them where they were the day that Gerald Evens was attacked. However, I did know who had been close to Marty-Mac the day he’d been killed.

  “Look,” I said to Eijaz, “can you give me a minute to make a phone call?”

  I waited until he’d left the room before I called Juke’s number. He replied with a brief “Yep?” His breath came down the line in fast huffs.