The River Dark

by Nicholas Bennett

  Weaver thought of the tape again.

  "Harry," he began and Collins looked up from the map briefly. "You said that with the tape wiped clean we had no proof of what happened to Davies and the others."

  "Yep," he continued to trace his finger along the main feature that ran along the centre of the map. "They'd think I'd lost it," he muttered. "Perhaps I have…"

  "What about the engineer?" Weaver said. "What about the guy that tinkered with the sound for you?"

  Collins smiled sardonically and took the notebook out of Weaver's hands. "His name is Horton. He works at Aston University as a Sound Technician but we've used him before. I met him when we were called in on a manhunt following a kidnapping. A tape arrived of the kidnapper demanding money. The usual thing. Ended with the hostage screaming in pain or fear or both. Horton isolated the sound of a train announcer in the hiss; no-one could have heard it. No-one," Collins said. "An absolute genius with anything technical, especially to do with sound. He's obsessed by acoustics, resonance and background noise. A real anorak." Collins smiled that bitter smile once more.

  "Well, give him a call, he'll-"

  "I did better than that, David," Collins said. "I saw him at the station before I left this evening. I asked him right out if he'd back me up about what we'd found on the tape."

  Weaver nodded. "What did he say?"

  Collins flicked through the pages of closely written notes broken by the occasional diagram. He looked up at Weaver and handed him the book once more. "He said that he had no idea what I was talking about," Collins said.

  Weaver frowned. "What-was he scared? Worried about what people might say? What-?" All the time, Collins shook his head.

  "Feasible reasons, David," Collins said, "but wide of the mark, I'm afraid."

  "I don't understand," Weaver stammered. All of it- the past few weeks, the death of Eric, Mary- it was all too much. He felt his stomach churn with anxiety.

  "It's simple, David," he said and grinned looking sickly yellow under the exposed light bulb dangling inches above his head. "Someone got to him."

  Weaver stared blankly back at the policeman.

  "Someone screamed at him," Collins said. "He's changed and he's not the only one."

  "Harry-"

  "Don't try to tell me that I'm imagining things to be worst than they are, David!" Collins snapped at him. Weaver opened the book and looked at its unwittingly macabre title once again. "With all your dreams and feelings and painted visions, you-" Collins pointed a trembling figure at him – "You have no excuse for not believing me."

  There was more gunfire- nearer now? – on the night air. Collins bent back over the map. Weaver squinted at the notebook.

  The lights went out.

  In the immediate aftermath of the power cut Weaver's mind played an optical trick on him. In the darkness before him, etched in burning white ink the words that Davies had written at the top of the first page of the notebook:

  Beneath Measton

  Weaver became aware of the smell of sewage; hardly surprising given the floods.

  Collins flicked on his torch and screamed. Weaver jolted violently in reaction.

  The ravaged figure of Andrew Davies stood between them.

  Before Weaver could move, Davies threw himself at Collins' throat, mouth wide, teeth bared. Collins fell back over the table spilling the torch as he did so. The torchlight failed. Absolute darkness. Tears filled Weaver's eyes as he reached forward into the darkness. Collins roared. More furniture shifted across the floorboards. But around it all, filling the gaps in between sound, penetrating the darkness between the snarling and sounds of struggle there was something more.

  The whispers seemed to seep into the darkness inside the attic, through the walls, from the darkness outside. But what they wanted, Weaver knew with absolute certainty at that moment, was the darkness inside. Whatever darkness was to be found within him. A numbing coldness entered his mind. The sibilant hiss of whispers began to focus and divide.

  Weaver began to hear the words beneath the surface.

  The power returned momentarily and Weaver saw the policeman lay on his back his hands around Davies' throat keeping the possessed man's teeth at arm's length, his knees digging into the other's ribs. Despite the policeman's efforts, Davies held Collins shirt collar in one clenched fist and a handful of his grey hair in the other. Blood flowed freely from Collins' hand where he had been bitten. The sight caused Weaver shake his head to dislodge the whispers.

  "David!" Collins gasped through gritted teeth. "Look!"

  Collins looked over at Weaver wide eyed and nodded into the darkness behind. Weaver glanced back in time to see a figure step out of the darkness adopting the now familiar posture and where her mouth gaped it seemed as if she had brought some of that darkness forward out of the shadows and into the secret study. Weaver shook his head in denial. Not her, please, not her. The voices began again, this time stronger seeming to sense his weakness, his dwindling hope, his growing despair.

  "David! Look…at…me!" Collins managed. The man that had been Davies had his right hand over the older man's windpipe now. At last- after seconds that had seemed like hours- Weaver managed to move towards the struggle. He reached around Davies’ neck and began to pull with all of his weight at the man. Davies' strength was awesome. Weaver succeeded only in causing Davies to lean into Collins harder. A high-pitched wheeze began to whistle from Collins restricted larynx. The whispers intensified. There were words, images, dark, swirling images. He sensed the woman move closer to him and turned and thrust his hands at her chest, causing her to fall backwards into the shadows. The sound of back of her head hitting the foot of the bookcase was sickening but Weaver did not pause. He knew that he could not hesitate. He picked up the roughly hewn piece of Cotswold stone and paused momentarily feeling the lethal mass in his hand and glanced between the back of Davies' head and the prone policeman, eyes bulging at Weaver, still managing to nod urgently despite the pressure of Davies' manic grip.

  "Weeee-verr!" He heard the same voice that he alone had heard on the tape hissing his name, a manic high-pitched giggle and then the brutally harsh voice that he remembered from his bathroom: "YOU KILLED HER YOU BASTARD! YOU KILLED HER, YOU KILLED HER, YOU'VE GONE AND FUCKING KILLED HER!" This last in a parody of a childish chant. He heard excited breath, almost felt it in his ear: "Now he should fuck her! Yesss! Fuck her while she's warm!" A manic high-pitched titter over and over again before the familiar tide of STICKITINYOUREYESTICKITINYOUREYE.

  Appalled and half-mad, Weaver screamed and raised the rock above his head.

  When he brought the stone down onto the base of Davies' skull, he did it not for the policeman dying before his eyes or to stem the tide of whatever sickness was ravaging the town and its people. He didn’t even do it for the memory of the poor girl that he had seen in all her final indignity as she had been pulled unceremoniously from the infected waters of the river or the insanity that had torn his family apart in the past week or the boy that had grinned at him in the reflection cast by his steamed mirror about a hundred years before. He did it for the woman that lay still, her head and shoulders beyond the pool of light cast by the single light bulb.

  The voices ceased.

  Davies immediately fell forward and onto Collins. Collins pushed weakly at the lifeless form upon him but needed Weaver to help him push the man to one side. He helped Collins to a sitting position amongst the spilled papers. The older man coughed violently, rubbing his throat as he did so. There were marks that looked like burns around Collins' neck; the bruising would be extremely painful tomorrow, Weaver guessed and then realized that he still held the paper weight in his hand. He dropped it with a hollow thud onto the floor boards. He looked at what Davies had become- more of an animal that a man- and saw that Davies stared back at him with empty eyes. He was dead.

  I've killed a man, Weaver thought and waited for something to happen but nothing did. Collins managed to get to his feet. He held on to Weave
r for support. He looked over Weaver's shoulder at the still form of the woman.

  "Twice in one day," Collins rasped and winced painfully. He could say no more. He didn't have to any way; Weaver knew what he meant. He released Weaver's shoulder and went to the woman in the corner. Weaver watched him go to one knee and touch her jugular for signs of life. Weaver could not move from the spot where he had stood after helping Collins sit up. He didn't want to move; he didn't want to see or know what he had done to her.

  "I'm not sure if this one's alive," Collins said weakly. "Can't find a pulse."

  Weaver's vision shimmered and he felt a sob well up within his chest. Collins looked up at Weaver, concern for what the young man had experienced on his care worn face. "Hold it together, son," he said gently. "We'll get out of here and then we'll let it all out."

  Weaver wanted to tell the older man that he didn't care. He could no longer hold it back, no matter where they were. He was no hero. This was no action movie when the main character could save the world and lose all of his loved ones shedding a momentary tear before the next chase scene, the next stunt.

  Collins said: "There may be more of them in or around the house."

  The stupefying fear that he had felt in the darkness returned with interest.

  "We need to go," Collins said. "Come on. Stay close." Collins headed for the sliding partition. Weaver did not move. He stared at the dark shape that was the woman's head leaning still against the bookcase. "Come on, David. Let's go now before-"

  "I can't leave her!" Weaver blurted and, finally the tears came. He went to the unconscious woman and knelt next to her. He touched her cheek, pale even in the darkness. He allowed his grief to flow out over her, great sobs racking his upper body. He felt Collins' hand on his shoulder. They remained that way until Weaver felt drained. He sighed repeatedly until he had control and sniffed loudly. "I'm not leaving her here to die, all alone and in the dark next to that!" He jerked his head savagely at the dead man on the floor next to the desk.

  That was when Collins realized the significance of this woman, more dead than alive at David Weaver's knees.

  "Is it Mary, David?" Collins asked but knew the answer already. David Weaver nodded miserably. He looked up at Collins and the policeman did not like the shine that he saw in his eyes. Madness danced in his dark eyes like the flickering flames of he had watched at the burning school only days before. Weaver shook his head and blinked away more tears.

  "I've killed Grant's sister," he said, and began to sob again. Collins squatted by the injured woman once more and tried her wrists for a pulse. Weaver wiped his eyes and looked at him with mad hope. Collins nodded.

  "She's not dead, David, okay? She's alive."

  Weaver looked at him with wide eyes. "Are you sure?" Collins nodded.

  "Let's try and get her downstairs," the policeman said, "but first I ought to check to see if there aren't any nasty little surprises waiting for us."

  Collins headed into the "false" attic, leaving Weaver alone with Mary. He could make out her long eyelashes in the gloom as they lay against her skin. There would have been a better time for noticing the dark sweep of her lashes as she slept; like everything else that was happening in his world, it was all wrong. Even in this state she was beautiful, he thought. He had kissed those lips- when? - only yesterday?

  "Mary," he whispered and stroked her cheek. "Mary, can you hear me?"

  Weaver felt a cold chill on his neck as a heartless, deep-throated chuckle sounded from the corner of the room. David Weaver swung around and the laughter stopped.

  There was no-one there but Davies and Davies was dead.

  Part Four

  Beneath Measton

  Chapter Thirteen

  1

  But what about when water filled the lower echelons of the crumbling labyrinth as it probably always does when the river gets high? It is my assertion that the monks, who had once ferried the cargoes and secrets beneath Measton Hill, had thought of that eventuality. Their tunnels could (probably do) wind up and into the hillside in a series of spirals intersecting each other. According to the Wesley map of the Abbey as it stood prior to the Dissolution, this would make perfect sense. The Abbey stood- of course- on the highest ground in the town looking down on the town and river well and truly at the top of the food chain (nice metaphor- explore!!! Henry VIII not just a control freak but perhaps a King with a social conscience fed up with the Church lording it over the peasants!) but would need an alternative trade route other than the limited one road in and out of town especially if the goods to be transported were of value. Hence the river tunnels. Having been to examine the supposed sight of the only known river tunnel entrance/exit depending on your point of view, there is secondary brickwork above the water line suggesting that, at one time or another, it had been accessible by boat. Either that or they had some kind of pulley system in operation.

  The tunnels must have been invaluable during the sacking of the Abbey at that time, especially if- as Wesley suggests- the monks were not all as happy to take the pensions and new positions that Henry had allowed them as is commonly understood. Wesley said that gold was removed from the Abbey under the cover at night but the real question is- if we are to even entertain this rather typical old myth surrounding the Abbey- only one step away from the classic old urban myth of "The Black Lady" throwing herself from The Bell Tower at the stroke of midnight every Halloween or whatever it's supposed to be! (The student s love that one!)- the real question is who the monks were truly hiding the treasures from: King or townspeople? My money- based on other hints in Wesley and one or two other sources- is on the latter.

  2

  Collins turned his collar against a sheet of icy rain. When the wind died down he could hear the faint pops of gunfire still and what he thought sounded like the scream of a banshee travelling through the night sky from the direction of the river. Where else?

  He had left the boy back at the house with the injured woman although he doubted now that, if he had ordered Weaver to accompany him, he would have had little joy. Young David Weaver was obviously smitten. The surreal nature of this self-fulfilling circle that the three of them seemed be following struck him once more.

  Collins crouched behind a well-manicured hedge and risked a furtive look down the rain-misted suburban street.

  Christ. Was there anything about this that wasn't surreal? He was taking cover among the topiary of a street that housed the elderly and respectable of Measton. As far as he knew there had never even been a burglary here and now he feared for his life at the hands of a breed of possessed lunatics. He also feared a stray bullet from the skirmish that appeared to be taking place along the riverbank. He looked at his mobile phone once more and saw that he had a one bar signal. That was an improvement. He found Heaney's number and pressed the green handset icon. Heaney replied after three rings.

  "Heaney! It's Collins," he rasped into the phone. "Listen to me! I know that you have problems but- at the moment- I think that we all have the same problem! We have-"

  "Hello? ….-at you, sir?...c-…ou-"

  "Yes! Yes! Listen-" Collins looked around desperately. The street was still deserted.

  "Sorry, sir….hear you…wh-…you? We…trying to …municate with my son."

  The line went dead.

  "Fuck," Collins muttered and put the phone back in his pocket. After another furtive look, he stepped out of the garden and onto the pavement. He trotted into the darkness between the lamp posts and ran hard through the pools of light intermittently cast along the road, all the time looking from left to right and occasionally sparing a glance over his shoulder.

  He rounded the corner onto

  Willow Road and saw two figures standing on the white line in the middle of the road. They were twenty or so metres away from the policeman with their backs turned to him. The two men were absolutely still, their hands dangling at their sides. Both men had their heads cocked to one side as though listening. There seemed to be so
mething familiar about them both, especially the taller of the two with shoulder length dark hair. Collins held his breath and crept across the road. If he could get by these men, he would have access to Cornhill and get a good look at what was going on down there for that was surely the origin of the gunshots. He was halfway across the road when both men turned towards him. The taller of the two- Tom Saunders opened his mouth and pointed. The other man said:

  "Mister Collins?"

  The DCI stopped and squinted at the speaker.

  "John O' Connell," the other man supplied, "and- of course- you know Tom." He looked up at his friend who eyes Collins warily.

  "I presume you two are…?"

  "We're okay," O' Connell said. Tom Saunders nodded and looked at the ground. Collins walked slowly towards them both.