The River Dark

by Nicholas Bennett

  Weaver's mouth flapped briefly.

  "Tell us why you ended up on a psychiatric ward last week, David," said Collins.

  *

  7

  The last of the guests had departed and most of the staff had gone home. Even the news crews that had added a timely bonus to the hotel's takings (mostly at the bar) had been ordered out of the hotel by the police. Despite their mutterings about the Freedom of the Press, they had moved on nevertheless. Nothing had happened last night. The one-off fluke was over; Measton was old news.

  Brice stared at the water lapping against the William Morris wallpaper from his vantage point on the gallery overlooking The Measton Hotel's oak paneled foyer. That morning they had carried the Chesterfield sofas up to the first floor corridor; by then they had been submerged up to the seat area. When he had removed the front of house files from reception, he had been standing in water to just above his knees. He suspected it was even higher now and the rain showed no sigh of letting up.

  It was a disastrous end to what had been the worst winter in the hotel's illustrious history. Even the depression years had been easier. In the twenties and thirties, there had been no such thing as a Travelodge with which to compete. If there had been, the more discerning would have disregarded them any way.

  Cultural death: that was the real problem.

  Brice sighed.

  His hotel was an anachronism and so was he, if he was to be completely honest. He did not belong in a world of Americanisation and Drivethru in which even the enlightened were forsaking the sacred ritual of eating for something called supersize me. As a boy, he had enjoyed the Cary Grant/Rock Hudson era. The banality of the storylines aside, their films made one want to dress well, to speak with elegant charm, to order with finesse the more exotic choices from the menu, to be able to dance in whatever style the orchestra dictated. In that particular era, hotels such as this had thrived; people had aspired to want a touch of class in the service sector; it was an aspiration that was not limited to the upper classes- the priviledged- but also the desire of the working class during the positive winds of change of the 1950s when all people began to believe that they deserved more. Many had, after all, fought for it. Men had known how to wear suits and hats back then. Nowadays, a man in a fedora was automatically labeled eccentric or homosexual or both. Brice knew that his own sexuality was the subject of chambermaid gossip but did not really care. It was bound to occur given his singledom over the twenty years he had worked and lived at Measton Hotel. His lack of interest in the opposite sex was obvious. The rest was axiomatic. He walked on the plush carpets of the gallery towards the west corridor noting gloomily the sodden patches left at intervals by his maintenance crew following the removal of the ground floor furniture. He reached into his pocket for the master key that he always carried and unlocked the door to Number 1.

  The décor in number one was similar to the foyer with its oak paneling and Morris designs adorning the walls. The centre piece of the room was an 18th Century four post bed complete with heavy velvet curtains that matched those adorning the large, multi-paned window after the Elizabethan style. The tasteful furnishing and sunken corner bath in the en suite were not the only reasons for Number 1 being the Hotel's most exclusive room; the view was stunning. Number 1 overlooked the pedestrianised area of Riverside which gave way to the landscaped Riverside Gardens with its lantern lit avenue of trees before the antiquated moorings along the river bank. The slope of the Riverside gardens to the water's edge afforded Number 1 the luxury of a view over the century old trees, across the river and up towards Measton Hill with the scattered Abbey ruins dotted against its verdant sweep. Beyond that, the Cotswold Hills were visible on clear days; today Brice could barely see beyond the trees as a result of the drizzling mist that had settled over the town that morning. Below the window Measton market usually buzzed gently throughout the week, all year round. The market specialized in local wares- jam (probably bought at Tesco and rejarred with a rustic label before being flogged at an inflated price to some gullible American lost on his way to Stratford-upon-Avon); homemade cakes (again- how homemade? Brice often wondered); Measton's specialty savoury pasties carried away in grease stained paper bags with faded green prints of pastoral scenes; cut price shoes and trainers bought exclusively by the elderly it seemed along with hangers full of cheap clothes that had the false economy of saving a few pounds but shrinking or falling out of shape after a single wash; the burger van churning out endless cholesterol sandwiches and scolding hot tea to the stall holders and market foragers- for that's what they were, Brice thought, always foraging among the tat for a bargain; bric-a-brac stalls piled high with a never ending supply of such tat- secondhand clocks with missing minute hands, chipped figurines depicting archaic looking characters from a long forgotten pastoral age, a garish green bowl with a mischievous cat clinging to the side and peering inside at a perpetually terrified mouse, the terrible painting of a dusky Asian woman with only a draped shawl protecting her modesty and- of course- the crying boy (the subject of many an old wives' tale), knick-knacks that cluttered a generation of sideboards and glass cabinets, coasters depicting the seven wonders of the Isle of Wight; the nonsensical and the useless that always has a price that invariably someone will always pay. It was the psychological impetus behind the economy that was conspicuous consumption. But today there was nothing to buy and no-one to sell it to.

  Brice looked down on a flooded courtyard; according to Barbara (Babs to the rest of the staff) his Reception Manager, the water was an inch and half shy of the record set in 1933. She told him that when the water was disturbed by a passing boat, the river actually lapped onto the placard outside the main entrance. He thought of the famous photograph safely taken from the wall (ironically, to avoid water damage) and stored in his office on the second floor- Father and Son. 1933. - with its black and white faces peering out of this very window laughing at the spectacle of a boat traveling along a road usually associated with cars and horse drawn carriages. Countless tourists had offered to buy the photograph but Brice- like his predecessor's- remained true to the intention of the hotel's owner in 1933 that "as long as this Hotel stands, that photograph will serve to remind us of the power of Mother Nature". Brice was a stickler for tradition; he could no more have sold that photograph than allowed someone to dig up his ancestors graves and move them to The Warrens starter home estate. He sighed again and began to pull the drapes together when something caught his eye to the right, in the direction of the Old Bridge.

  He had the sensation of déjà vu as he watched the rowing boat drift out of the shadows beneath the near arch of the bridge. The rear of the boat seemed to swing to the right on the tide; the prow pointed off towards the opposite bank. It was Father and Son all over again but- true to the twenty-first century- now in glorious technicolour.

  Brice shook his head and opened the window. Fresh rain sprayed against his face and neck. He leaned out to get a better view of the vessel some seventy-five metres away. It couldn't be Father and Son after all. There was only a solitary figure in the boat, one unmoving shape. There's something wrong with this picture he thought and headed out of Number 1 and onto the West Corridor. His feet squelched on the saturated carpet.

  As he began to descend the stairs onto the foyer, preparing to wade across to the front door for what reason he was not entirely sure, it occurred to him that he realized what looked odd about the boater. The lone passenger was motionless, allowing the boat to drift, without guidance or propulsion, at the mercy of the current.

  *

  8

  Dog Handlers PCs Henderson and Marsh reached the outskirts of Measton at just before 2pm on February 13th. It had been a nightmarish journey that had increased in intensity as each hour of the search had passed with nothing of any real substance to go on. The German Shepherds were tired and difficult after thirty-six hours in the field with little rest. The dog handlers had worked in three hour rotations- two on, two off- the resting pair
desperately trying to close their eyes and settle their dogs for several hours of merciful relief from the bone-numbing cold and skin-pricking rain while the other pair tried once more to pick up the semblance of a trail.

  It was hopeless work.

  By the time they saw the outline of Measton over the hill, both dog handlers agreed whole heartedly that enough was enough. If the missing loons were this close to town, surely they would have been seen by now.

  "What do you think, Pat?" Henderson asked his colleague.

  "Shall we get Collins on the radio?" Marsh suggested.

  "Yes, I think that time is long overdue, don't you? Fucking shambles the whole affair." Henderson nodded to the less experienced man at his side and called in. He listened to the response and signed out.

  "They're going to get Collins to radio back. He's interviewing a witness at present they said."

  The other man- Henderson- grunted and yanked on the short leash with his tired forearm. Gerry, the German Shepherd whimpered and looked at his master pathetically. Henderson massaged the nape of the animal's neck. "Not long now, boy," he soothed. "Good boy." Even in Gerry's state of exhaustion, his usually rich coat plastered to his skin and streaked with river mud, he grinned and panted affectionately. "Let's take a break," Henderson said and veered off towards the canopy provided by the outstretched arms of the nearest oak tree. Both men squatted against the trunk and rubbed some warmth into their charges' tired limbs.

  Pat Marsh took out his cigarettes with stiff and swollen red fingers while John Henderson stared moodily at the spire of St. Peter's rising high above the slate grey rooftops of the small town. Fucking shambles. He had the sheet belonging to one Andrew Davies in a sealed polythene bag strapped to his belt and felt like taking it out and putting Pat Marsh's lighter to it for all the fucking good it had done them since 4 'O clock in the morning, almost a day and a half previous. They had raced out of the gates of Rennick Hospital certain to pick up a trace- Christ; they even knew which direction the nutters had taken. It couldn't have been simpler. A dozen drugged up loonies staggering about in the dark and the rain, half of them probably ready to cry with relief when found and returned to their cozy little ward. The dogs had pulled them down to the river and there the story ended.

  They hadn't sniffed out a single trace of Davies or his fellow escapees.

  "You're not trying to tell me that they've swam across the river?" Collins had barked at Henderson over the police band. The dog handler had held the radio away from his ear, wincing. "Have you any idea how cold that water is at this time of year?"

  "Yes, sir, I have, sir. I'm standing knee deep in it as we speak," Henderson had replied curtly. Collins either didn't pick up the sarcasm or decided to give Henderson a break. "Okay," he said. "Keep trying to pick up the scent- that's all we can do."

  But that wasn't true. There was far more that they could have done, Henderson thought. More men could have been drafted in to sweep the countryside towards Measton and in the other direction to Lower Fart on the Would or whatever the next bumpkin town was called and they would have picked up the absconders without a problem. Instead, in his infinite wisdom, Collins had four exhausted policemen with dogs, slipping and sliding in the shit and mud chasing nothing but shadows while the support unit idled along the nearest navigable track waiting for but no longer expecting the shout. What a waste of time and resources, Henderson thought and- once more- the nagging suspicion that he was in the wrong profession gnawed at him as it had done relentlessly since December 27th the previous year when Gerry had led him to the defiled cadaver of a seven year old girl, snatched from her mother on Christmas Day by one of her many ex-boyfriends as she had been outside trying out her new roller blades. Half of the country had been listening to the Queen while the mother slept off the excesses of another anti-climactic Christmas lunch. The girl had been reported missing at a little after eight. Henderson couldn't shake that particular detail. What kind of parent allows their seven year old to disappear onto the streets of Birmingham for five hours? On Christmas Day? Five hours before it had occurred to her mother that something was not quite right.

  One of life's cruel little ironies had disallowed his wife from carrying a child to term; an incompetent womb they had told her. What a fucking world! Why not just tell her that she was a barren and useless human being and go the whole hog? Why not tell her that she had a fundamental design fault and was therefore pointless. Why not recommend suicide? They'd talked of adoption but half-heartedly. It wasn't for them- somehow it had to really be their own and the years continued to roll by until- every once in a while he would come to from the prosaic history of his life and realize that he hadn't thought about it in weeks. Perhaps even longer. But then there were the news items or aspects of his job that brought them daily bulletins of those that had kids like they were shelling peas and- of course- neglected them, abused them, murdered them or slept off Christmas excess while the psychopathic ex-boyfriend committed atrocity after atrocity. And then he would realize that he may have forgotten about their inability to conceive but his wife had not, not even for one day. Perhaps for not even an hour. Oh, the bitter irony that he- in that year's commercial frenzy that heralded Christmas, heartbroken by his wife's painstakingly chosen, folded and wrapped baby presents for their relatives' youngest babes (not to mention the sad and secret smile as she looked at the latest expensive- batteries not included- toy for their nine year old nephew) - the sheer fucking irony that he should be the one to find the abused body of seven year old Jennifer.

  Five hours.

  "Collins to Henderson, are you there? Over." Henderson's radio crackled into life.

  "Henderson here. Over."

  The DCI cleared his throat over the airwaves. Nice, Pat March mouthed and Henderson grinned in spite of his aching, freezing limbs.

  "I know you want to call it a day, Henderson. I understand that and think that you should but-"

  Henderson nodded a sardonic- here it comes – nod at his partner.

  "-Detective Sergeant Heaney has just told me that a senior citizen by the name of Albert Pinchin reported seeing ghosts near your current location."

  Henderson broke radio protocol and interrupted. "Sorry sir. Repeat. Thought you said ghosts. Over."

  "I did, Henderson." Marsh and Henderson grinned at the annoyance in the DCI's voice. "But what he probably saw were two men in white hospital gowns. Understood? Over."

  "Understood. Have we a more precise location of the sighting, sir? Over."

  "I'm afraid not, Henderson," Collins said, genuine regret in his voice. "Over."

  "Understood, sir," Henderson returned. "We'll comb the area. Over."

  The two men braced themselves against another biting squall and headed into the meadow.

  *

  9

  Collins studied Weaver and rubbed his eyes. "Well. If you'd told me that a week ago, I would have referred you to Rennick myself."

  Weaver nodded. "I would have gone gladly," he said.

  Heaney looked meaningfully at his superior and directed his eyes to the door. Collins cleared his throat and scraped his chair back from the desk. "Excuse us David, will you? We'll be back in a moment."

  Weaver nodded and leaned back in his chair, eyes closed.

  As soon as they were outside, Heaney said: "What do you think, sir?"

  "You were the one that brought him in Heaney. What do you think?"

  The younger man blew hard and shook his head; he kept his voice to a whisper. "This isn't police work, sir, that's what I think," he said. "Voices in people's minds, taped messages that only the person that it is intended for can hear-"

  "Have any crimes been committed, John?" Collins asked gently. Heaney ran his hands through his thinning dark hair and shifted nervously from foot-to-foot.

  "Yes but- how can we deal with this kind of thing?" He visibly wrestled with the decision to give voice to his thoughts. "I was brought up catholic you know- my whole family have been- going way back t
o the old country for generations-" Heaney's forgotten Irish brogue resurfaced briefly- "and I can tell you what my grannie would say, sir- she'd tell us to call a priest. They'd all be talking about devils and possession."

  Collins put a reassuring hand on Heaney's shoulder. "John, crimes have been committed and we are policemen. So-"

  Heaney shook his head again. "I know that, sir, but this is about more than the law-"

  "So," Collins continued stubbornly and slowly, "we will do what policemen do, John. Am I right?" Heaney looked at Collins blankly. "We'll take statements, we'll search for missing persons- like young David Weaver's Mary Moran and the rest- we'll dot the eyes and cross the tees and make sure that everything is as it should be and- I'm sure- we'll arrest some bad men and women before this is over and perhaps even feel like we've done some real police work."

  Heaney nodded dully.

  "But what we won't do, John, is go in there-" He jerked his head in the direction of the canteen that now served as the main incident room for the special units assigned from the city. "We won't go in there and talk about voices, visions and paintings that paint themselves no matter how much we are starting to believe every old wives' tale we hear. Do you get me, John?"