Triskellion

by Will Peterson

  Laura looked across the table at Dalton’s shiny, enthusiastic face. He was right. It was hardly rigorous archaeology, but it was already sounding like a very watchable TV show.

  “And…” Dalton continued, “when we dig under the circle, we’ll do it live. Build the tension. We’ll have the whole country watching. Then, if we do find something, we’ve hit pay-dirt, publicity, global fame. We’re talking a bagful of BAFTAs here.”

  Laura laughed at Dalton’s confidence. “And if we find nothing?”

  “All the above.” He smiled when Laura looked confused. “We expose Honeybum as a crank who’s wasted our time and we still end up looking like the caring professionals we are. We can’t lose, whichever way things turn out.” Dalton winked at Laura, balancing his hands in the air to describe his perfectly thought out win/win scenario.

  Laura drank the last of her fizzy water. “OK, Chris. You’ve sold me, but I’m not going to victimize anybody if it doesn’t work out. It’s a show, but I don’t think it’s right to string up the poor guy who put us in touch with all this. If there is nothing there, it’s our risk, OK?”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Laura stood up. “I’m going for a bit of fresh air. I might stroll up to the circle, see what sort of vibe I get from it.”

  Dalton stood up and put on his leather jacket. “I’ll come with you. These streets are not very well lit.”

  The look on Laura’s face told him in an instant that he was not especially welcome. He made an elaborate yawning gesture and looked at his watch. “Actually, I think I’ll turn in,” he said. “Got a few calls to make anyway and we’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

  Laura nodded and strode away towards the door of the pub.

  “Don’t talk to any strange men,” Dalton called after her, jokily. He gave a general wave to the bar, and another to his crew playing darts, before slapping a wad of notes down in front of Tom Hatcham. “Thank you, landlord! Charming hostelry. Excellent victuals. Good night, good sir.”

  Dalton nodded to the stern military-looking man, who sat by the bar sipping brandy. He leant down to pat the head of the giant wolfhound at the man’s feet, then went up to his room.

  “Seems like a decent enough bloke,” Hatcham said, sweeping up the pile of cash from the bar.

  “I thought he was an idiot,” Commodore Wing growled. “Nice-looking girl, though.”

  Hatcham grinned at the commodore’s evaluation of Laura, and was about to add one of his own, but was pulled up short by the old man’s steely glare.

  “Just make sure we don’t get any more of this kind of interest, Tom. We’ve lost the fight on the archaeology, but I don’t want them snooping around anywhere else. They’ll dig up all sorts of stuff that doesn’t need digging up. Clear?”

  “Don’t worry; Honeyman’s had a very serious warning. I don’t think he’ll be saying too much more to anyone about the village.”

  Wing slammed a palm down on the bar. “I don’t just mean Honeyman,” he said. “I don’t want anyone talking to them. Understand?”

  From the comfort of her bed, Rachel watched a bee slowly circle the ceiling light in the bedroom, its wings working barely enough to keep it in the air. Did they hibernate, she wondered? There were certainly fewer of them hovering about the roses in front of the cottage, now the weather had cooled.

  She would ask Jacob. He could tell her.

  It had been a week since that terrible day in the forest, and though the morning sun still shone through the bedroom window, there was a hint of autumn chill in the air. This time of year always made Rachel think of study. She usually got butterflies in her stomach thinking about the start of a new school year, but now everything had changed. The American school term would start soon and this year she was looking forward to going back. Back to the regularity, and the security.

  Back to the certainty.

  The anguish Rachel had been through, and Adam’s near-death experience, had certainly dulled their taste for adventure. Gabriel had suggested that they lie low for a while and neither of them had needed much persuasion to do so. They had spent more time alone at the cottage: reading, lying about in the garden and letting the last few afternoons of the summer drift lazily by. Rachel and Adam both agreed that this was partly because they needed the rest and recuperation from their ordeal. Neither needed to admit to the other that it was also because they were terrified that Hilary Wing was at large and after their blood.

  They had not ventured into the village, nor gone anywhere near the woods. And all the while, their amazing discovery lay wrapped in cloth and hidden under a floorboard beneath Adam’s bed.

  Their grandmother, who was just about speaking to them again, had been horrified at the state they had returned in that evening. But when they protested that they had been shot at in the woods by Hilary Wing, she had shrugged it off. She had told them not to be silly; had explained that Hilary was probably shooting at pigeons and quickly changed the subject.

  One thing she had seemed pleased about, however, was that Rachel and Adam had seemed far more content to be around the cottage, and had seen less of “that strange friend” of theirs.

  It was Gabriel’s suggestion that they didn’t see each other for a while. He said that he was going away, but was reluctant to say where. Rachel and Adam had presumed that he was catching up with his family, wherever they were.

  Initially, Rachel had felt a bit rejected, and had missed Gabriel a great deal, but for the last few days she had found herself “talking” to him when she was alone in the garden or on short walks along the roads around the cottage. The messages she was receiving in her head were as fleeting and vague as Gabriel himself. They arrived like random text messages that popped up in her mind to reassure her that he was still around and to remind her about the secret she had promised to keep.

  That all of them had to keep.

  At first, Gabriel had urged them to tell absolutely no one about the second Triskellion blade, but Rachel had argued that they were duty-bound to let one other person in on the secret. He had helped them find it, after all.

  Through swollen lips, Jacob Honeyman had let out a whoop of joy when Rachel and Adam told him that they had found the blade. He had blinked at them through blackened eyes and insisted that they did not tell him where they were hiding it. “What I don’t know, I can’t tell,” he had said, holding his ribs as he stood up to see them out.

  “What happened to you, Jacob?” Adam had asked him.

  “Fell down the stairs,” Jacob had replied, tut-tutting at his own clumsiness.

  And as Rachel had walked away down the path from the shack, she had realized that the explanation Honeyman had given for his injuries was more than a little odd; was not even a good attempt at a lie.

  The shack had no stairs…

  Laura Sullivan had found the villagers even less forthcoming than she had anticipated. Along with Chris Dalton and their assistant, she had spent the morning around the village, chatting to passers-by, patting children on the head and getting to know a few of the shopkeepers. Those villagers who hadn’t blanked their enquiries completely had offered little more than a fixed smile. Most “knew nothing” about the history of the village or “weren’t interested” in being on TV.

  Dalton had become increasingly frustrated. “Ninety-nine point nine per cent of the country are gagging to get their ugly fat mugs on the telly, and we choose the one place where they’re all as publicity-shy as Lord flippin’ Lucan. Great…”

  Laura didn’t know who Lord Lucan was, but assumed he must be a very shy person indeed. She had suggested to Dalton that perhaps he should go back to The Star for lunch, while she tried to track down the man who had brought them to Triskellion in the first place. Dalton had quickly agreed, and not just because he was exhausted and liked the look of the pub’s steak and ale pie.

  They needed to talk to Jacob Honeyman, and thus far the beekeeper had been conspicuous by his absence.

  Honeyman peered at the w
oman through a crack in the door. When he was certain that she wasn’t about to beat him up, he opened the door a few centimetres.

  “What?” He gave the woman on his doorstep no invitation to enter his shack.

  “Hi … Jacob, is it?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’m Laura Sullivan. Treasure Hunters. Remember? We spoke on the phone … you sent the mails… You met Chris, the presenter.” Laura held out a hand, waited.

  Honeyman’s beady eye studied the hand through the doorframe then snaked out his own and shook the tips of Laura’s fingers, before retracting his hand with reptile-like speed.

  “I can’t talk,” he said. “I told you everything I know in the emails and the letters and what have you. That’s it. Job done.”

  “But I thought you were going to do a piece to camera for us. Explain some of your ideas … about the burial site, who you think might be buried there, and why. Do you remember?” Laura spoke quietly and persuasively, but Honeyman still showed no sign of knowing who she was. His eyes darted around over her shoulder and she couldn’t be sure that he was taking in anything she was saying.

  “Like I said, I can’t talk.”

  “Why not?” Laura asked.

  “Things have changed, is why not.”

  “That’s a shame…”

  “What I said is true, but I can’t talk no more.” Honeyman drew his forefinger across his mouth. “My lips is sealed.”

  Laura stared down at the toes of her muddy walking boots. This was proving difficult. Not only were the villagers refusing to speak to them, but now their main lead was withdrawing his support. The show was turning into a disaster.

  “Jacob, please help us a little, here.” She raised her voice, carried on even though Honeyman had already begun to shake his head. “Look, you were the one who got us started on this project. Without your local expertise, we’re a bit stuck. I really need your help. If we mess this up, it’s my neck on the line, too.”

  Honeyman looked at Laura through the door. She hadn’t smarmed him like the presenter had when they’d met. She was plain speaking, and he liked that.

  “Please,” she said.

  She seemed honest and he would have liked to help her. But the pain from his cracked rib reminded him that it would be unwise. Then he had an idea.

  “Excuse me for being reticent,” he said. “But I have my reasons, OK?” She nodded, and he leant a little closer to her, lowered his voice to a whisper. “It’s true. Under that circle is the biggest archaeological discovery you’ll make in your career, that anyone will ever make. I can’t help you no more than that.”

  Laura said nothing.

  “But I know two people who might…”

  Rachel was surprised to open the door of Root Cottage to the tall, red-haired woman with a beautiful smile. The few people that did call at Root Cottage were either very old or delivering letters or occasionally collecting for repairs to the church roof.

  The woman held out her hand. “You must be Rachel.”

  Rachel couldn’t quite place the accent, but guessed that Laura wasn’t English. “Hi,” she said, shaking hands. She tried to keep the suspicion out of her voice; a suspicion that would not have been there two weeks earlier. “Yeah, I’m Rachel.”

  “My name’s Laura Sullivan. I’m the producer of Treasure Hunters. The TV show? You may have seen it?”

  “Yeah, my gran watches it, but she’s out shopping. She’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

  Laura shook her head. “Actually, it’s you I wanted to speak to, if that’s OK. Are you American?”

  “Yeah, we live in New York,” Rachel said. “But my mom was born here.”

  “Well, we’re both outsiders then.” Laura smiled. “I’m from Australia.”

  Rachel waited.

  “Listen … Jacob Honeyman said you might be able to help me.”

  “Jacob?”

  “Can I come in?”

  Rachel stared at Laura Sullivan and felt the suspicion begin to subside. She looked over her shoulder and, knowing that her grandmother would be at the shops for some while yet, opened the door wide to let Laura in.

  “Is your brother here?” Laura asked, as she stepped inside.

  “Upstairs,” Rachel said. “He’s not feeling too good.”

  Adam had taken advantage of his grandmother’s shopping trip and attempted to phone home. It had been about 7.30 a.m. New York time when he’d called and he’d been worried that his mother might not have been awake yet.

  She was, and already in tears. Adam could hear it in her voice even as she picked up the phone, cleared her throat and said a tremulous, “Hello.”

  It tore at Adam’s heart to hear his mother’s voice and even more to hear the sobs that kicked in once she recognized his. He had been ready to unburden himself; to tell her how horrible their stay in Triskellion had been. How scary, how dangerous. He had been desperate to ask if they could come home early. But when he heard about how bad a time his mother was having with the divorce, the need to be brave was suddenly more important than anything, and he told her things in England were fine – that he and Rachel were having a great time.

  He had passed the phone to Rachel, who had coaxed her mother along with sympathetic words, assuring her that everything would work out for the best. Adam had left her to it, fighting back the tears and skulking off to their room, feeling worse than he had before he had made the call.

  Rachel had watched him go, feeling less than certain that things would work out at all…

  “Great cottage, isn’t it?” Laura said, sitting down in Granny Root’s favourite armchair. She took a good look round. “We don’t really have places like this at home.”

  “Neither do we,” Rachel said. “We don’t really have anything old.”

  “Same in Australia,” Laura said. “None of the buildings went up much more than a hundred years ago. But we have the Aboriginal sites that are many thousands of years old, so we’re doing what we can to preserve them. It’s funny really, seeing as I’m here to dig things up.”

  “Yeah?” Rachel’s curiosity was suddenly sharpened by the notion that someone else was investigating Triskellion. “What are you digging?”

  “Well, we have permission to dig up at the chalk circle.” Rachel’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Is that a problem for you?”

  “Dig up the circle?”

  “Of course we’ll put it all back exactly as it is. Look, I’m an archaeologist, first and foremost, and a TV producer second. I specialized in Bronze Age burial sites as part of my doctorate…”

  “You’re a doctor, too?” Rachel asked, impressed.

  “Sure, but you can just call me Laura,” Laura said, laughing. “There’re a few interesting theories about this circle. Some people reckon it’s a Bronze Age burial plot, maybe an important one, the tribal chief or something. It’s not like others I’ve seen, that’s for sure, so if it is a burial site, it would be the first of its kind. The area around has been throwing up heaps of stuff, coins and so on, which means at the very least it’s a site of special significance, and obviously has been for a very long time—” Laura stopped, followed Rachel’s gaze to the figure standing at the bottom of the stairs.

  “This is my brother, Adam,” Rachel said. “He’s really into archaeology, too.”

  Adam stared at his sister; he was not looking too happy. “I heard you talking to someone…”

  “Hi, Adam.” Laura smiled at him. “Glad to hear you’re a fan of archaeology. Clearly a man of taste.”

  Adam turned, then blushed. Managed a “hi” before dropping down heavily on to the sofa.

  “So what do you guys know about the area?” Laura asked. “Jacob said you’ve done some impressive detective work, finding bits and pieces.”

  Rachel and Adam exchanged a look that spoke volumes, urging one another not to give too much away. As Rachel spoke, she heard Gabriel’s voice in the back of her mind, telling her to be calm, to go easy.

  �
�Sure, we’ve read up on the local history since we’ve been here, you know, the tomb in the church, the circle … not much else to do here, really. Adam has found a few bits … just coins and that kind of thing.”

  “OK.”

  “Maybe we could help,” Adam said suddenly.

  “Hang on,” Rachel said.

  “Great.” Laura sat forward in her chair. “You’re just what I need. Two, talkative, media-friendly archaeology fans. You both have a bit of knowledge, you’d both look good on TV.”

  “On TV?” Rachel almost shrivelled with embarrassment at the thought of it. “Oh no, I couldn’t go on TV.”

  “Course you could…”

  Rachel shook her head. “No way.”

  Laura shrugged, more than a little disappointed.

  “Sorry,” Rachel said.

  Laura turned to Adam. “How about you?” she said, smiling at him.

  Adam reddened again. “Sure,” he said. “Why not?”

  Yellow tape marked an area fifteen metres or so away from the chalk circle, where four men had started digging, watched by another man in a leather jacket. The cameraman circled, camera on his shoulder, getting some general footage of their progress. Two days after their first meeting, Rachel and Adam stood with Laura Sullivan watching the preparations for the excavation.

  “They’re starting a long way from the circle,” Rachel said.

  “It’s perfectly normal,” Laura said. “We want to dig underneath without disturbing the surface of the circle itself. If it is Bronze Age, then whatever’s underneath will be no more than two, three metres below, so we’ll dig a shaft diagonally down to get to it.” She made an angle with her hand to show the kind of direction in which they were digging.

  “Makes sense, I guess,” Rachel said.

  Adam said nothing. The talk of digging, even the idea of being underground, made him shiver; his mind flashing back for an instant to a very dark place beneath the woods.