by WR Armstrong
“Best give me the good news.”
“The birds have gone.”
“And the bad news is?”
“Someone’s in the garden, wielding an axe.”
At first I thought Mike was joking, but sure enough there really was someone out there in the shape of a man of advancing years who was busy chopping logs.
He turned out to be the handyman employed to maintain the property. Beanpole thin, with silvery hair and piercing blue eyes, he introduced himself as Harold Gentleshaw, “Hal” to his friends, and apologised for turning up unannounced, explaining that he was unaware the house had been re-let.
“I’m not on the phone,” he said apologetically, “so it can be difficult for Mrs Corbett to get hold of me.”
“It’s always nice to have company,” I said, in an attempt to make him feel at ease. “My name is John and this is Mike. Mike is just visiting.”
He smiled politely. “Please to meet you both.” He reached out and shook our hands. His grip was surprisingly firm. He glanced back the way he’d come, and said, “If you’ve quite finished with me I’ll be getting on with my work.” With that he wandered off.
I turned my attention to Mike. “Can I tempt you to stay for a bite to eat?”
He glanced at his Rolex and declined. “Best I head off before daylight fades.”
I saw him to his car.
“Look after yourself, Mike,” I said as he climbed inside.
He gave me a faint smile, “You too. And remember, keep to the straight and narrow, and you won’t go far wrong.”
“You have my word on it.”
I watched him drive off, saddened to see him go.
In the back garden, Gentleshaw was cutting back deadwood as part of a general tidy up. I lent him a hand.
“You’ll like it here,” he said as we heaped dead foliage into a pile and raked up leaves. “Ashley is a pleasant enough place with a good set of people. There are pubs and walks, and local landmarks to visit. The Ship Inn is popular if you fancy a drink. If you like walking, you could always visit the lake or take a hike out to the chapel, or if you feel really adventurous, there’s the folly.” Turning his attention towards the sky, which had suddenly grown overcast, he said, “Looks like snow to me. They warned us we were in for some sooner or later.”
I looked up. “Should I be concerned?”
He glanced at me, and shrugged. “Maybe; maybe not… Best stock up with provisions all the same. Keep a check on the log shed too. You might want to get yourself snow chains if you don’t already have ‘em.”
“It gets that bad?”
“It can do. This road has been known to become impassable. If the long-range weather forecast is correct, you might wake one morning to find yourself snowbound. See the hills up there?” He pointed a gnarled finger at a range of prominent hills beyond the cottage. “Presently, they look pretty as a picture, but look’s can be deceptive. In bad weather they can turn treacherous as hell. I’ve lived here an awfully long time Mr O’Shea. It’s a beautiful part of the country, but a sudden change in the weather can make it dangerous. Been caught out myself more than once and had to call in help. Even when you know the lay of the land you can still be caught off guard.” He grinned sardonically. “Never underestimate Mother Nature.”
I took him seriously enough to drive into the village to buy extra provisions, though I decided against purchasing snow chains, at least for the time being. My needs took me to a General store with the words THOMAS DAVIS & SON, (groceries and hardware provisions) painted in bold black lettering above its entrance. The shop was small, cramped and smelled faintly of mothballs and varnish. Approaching the counter with my purchases, I noticed a fly poster on the wall that read, BILLY MARTIN’S FANTASTIC FAIRGROUND EXTRAVAGANZA: FUN FOR ALL THE FAMILY. Listed below were the various rides and stalls available, and beneath that, Price Reductions for Children and OAP’s. The fair promised to be in the area from tomorrow, Sunday, for fourteen days.
“Highlight of the year,” the shopkeeper said tongue in cheek. He was around my age, with long black hair pulled into a fashionable ponytail and wire-rimmed specs, the old National Health variety, not so fashionable. Embroidered on the breast pocket of his brown work coat was the word, “Genius”. Below that was his name, David, printed on a grubby looking name badge.
“It’s held on the common, ‘bout fifteen minutes walk from here,” he said placing my purchases in a bag, and sliding it across the counter. “Think you’ll be going?” He suddenly narrowed his eyes. “You wouldn’t be the geezer who’s staying at High Bank by any chance?”
“News travels fast,” I said, disappointed my anonymity was blown.
“It’s a small place. People talk. PC Morgan mentioned we had a celebrity moving in, said you’re a singer songwriter. Never ‘eard of you myself, but Morgan rates you; reckons you used to be able to rock with the best of them.”
Use of the past tense had me frowning.
“What happened?” David asked, unintentionally twisting the knife. He raised a hand. “Sorry mate, none of my business. If ever you’re at a loose end, I drink at The Ship, here in the village.”
“I’ll bear it in mind,” I said.
He referred back to the forthcoming fair. “You really should treat yourself.”
I re-appraised the poster. Amongst other things the show promised a strongman, clowns, a high wire and trampoline act, and a clairvoyant by the name of Madam Lee.
I suddenly found myself wondering if the clairvoyant might be able to explain the unnerving tipper truck episode. Unlike the premonition in which I’d foreseen the arrival of the brochure and my recent feelings of déjà vu, all of which I’d pretty much forgotten about, the thing with the tipper truck continued to play on my mind.
“Is Madam Lee any good?” I asked with forced casualness.
Dave nodded his head emphatically. “My better half reckons she’s the best in the business.”
“What do you think?”
He hesitated. “I prefer to reserve judgement.”
“You’re a sceptic in other words.”
Resting an elbow on the counter he said: “Let’s put it this way, if fortune telling really is possible, then Madam Lee is probably the real deal.”
“Then I might just pay her a visit,” I said with a grin.
“You do that, Mr O’Shea.”
“Call me John.”
I grabbed my groceries, and left.
CHAPTER THREE
Gentleshaw was perched halfway up a ladder fixing a down pipe when I returned from the village. He looked frozen. I offered to make him a hot drink. He declined, saying he wanted to finish the task before the light faded.
“Procrastination is the thief of time,” he said quoting Browning.
“Let me know if you change your mind about the drink,” I said, trying not to shiver.
He nodded and continued working.
I hurried into the kitchen with Lennon shadowing me, switched on the kettle and started unpacking the groceries. As I was doing so, I happened to glance through the window and did a double take.
A child was out there, sitting in the gazebo at the bottom of the garden: a little girl; no more than five or six, with angelic features and pretty blonde hair. Dressed in a tailored brown coat, pale blue skirt and matching bowed shoes, she cradled a thick grey blanket in her young arms.
I waved to get her attention. She appeared not to see me. I started for the back door with the intention of going outside to find out who she was, but was distracted by the sound of the house phone ringing out in the hall. It was Michelle calling.
“Well if it isn’t the great adventurer himself,” she said, sarcastically. “Why on earth didn’t you tell me you were leaving?”
“There wasn’t time,” I replied guilty.
“To such an extent you couldn’t even make a phone call?”
“What are you, Michelle, my mother?”
Sounding hurt, “I thought I was your friend, m
ore than a friend in fact.”
She was right. We’d been seeing each other on and off for the past couple of years. While Mike had proved to be my saviour by making me see sense before I finally self-destructed, Michelle was equally supportive, sticking around even though I repeatedly let her down.
She changed the subject. “How’s Lennon?”
“How do you want him to be?”
“I’m trying to be friendly, John.”
“He’s fine. Lennon’s fine. Mike said you wanted to discuss dates and venues?”
“I do, but I also want to discuss us.”
“Didn’t anyone tell you it’s dangerous to mix business with pleasure?”
“If you’re not interested, just say, we’ll keep it strictly business. Otherwise stop toying with my emotions.”
“Okay, point taken. So when can you come over?”
“Hey; not so fast. Let me think about it.”
“What is there to think about, Michelle? I’m inviting you over for the weekend not asking you to commit blue murder! We can pick up where we left off.”
There was a pause, and then: “Okay John, I accept your kind invitation. I really don’t suppose it can do any harm. How does next weekend suit?”
“Great. Can’t wait... But a word to the wise, bring warm clothing. The wind bites like a bitch up in this neck of the woods.”
We talked, me doing most of it, explaining and apologising as if my life depended on it, until finally, Michelle ceased hostilities, more or less, and got down to the other reason for her call, which was business. She proceeded to give me the lowdown on the scheduling for my new single: a little number entitled, “For Love nor Money”. To my mind it was the best thing I’d written in years, a gutsy rock ballad with a catchy riff and a set of good honest lyrics, telling the story of a single-minded man who refused to be bought for—yes, you got it—Love nor Money. He was a maverick, which incidentally, was how I saw myself, and still do, who went his own way, whose conscience was untroubled, and who was answerable to no one.
Michelle was still talking when I suddenly remembered the child, and returned to the kitchen to look out of the window. During my short absence she had left the gazebo, and was walking across the lawn towards the cottage, still cradling the blanket. Birds circled above, cawing noisily. She ignored them and continued approaching. The birds soared skyward and then, without warning they swooped, and to my utter amazement, they began attacking the child who fell screaming, dropping the blanket, the contents of which tumbled out onto the grass. Revealed was some kind of doll. But it was unlike any doll I’d ever seen, being devoid of all but the most basic human characteristics.
I hurriedly ended the call with Michelle and dashed outside onto the patio, expecting to witness mayhem. Instead there was nothing. Both the child and the birds were gone.
The following day the little girl would be there again. A case of same time, same channel; sitting demurely in the gazebo cradling the strange looking doll wrapped in the blanket. And just like before she would rise to her feet and start walking towards the cottage, while above her the birds circled majestically, before launching a violent attack. This time however, she would manage to ward them off long enough to make it to the patio area, before being overpowered and forced to flee with her treasured doll. And once again I would rush outside to find both she and the birds gone.
Next time I saw Gentleshaw I mentioned the child to him, hoping he might know who she was and clear up the mystery, but he too was at a loss.
“I thought she might be a relative of yours,” I said, still digging for an answer to the mystery.
“Then I’m afraid you thought wrong,” he replied forthrightly.
I tried another approach. “Where is the nearest neighbouring house?”
He pointed in an easterly direction. “Roughly a mile away, just beyond Mill House Lake.”
“Is it possible she lives there?”
“The house is owned by the Hamilton’s: an elderly couple: childless.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“They’re blood relatives, Mr O’Shea. I’d be the first to know if they shared the company of children.”
Inside the cottage I tried to re-establish contact with Michelle but she was unavailable; in a meeting with a client. I pictured her in my mind’s eye, visualising her face, her smile, her naked body, and I suddenly wanted to be with her more than ever. It had been a while. It was no secret we were more than a little fond of one another. Sadly we hadn’t been able to get it together: my fault, not hers. Oftentimes I preferred to share my bed with an ounce of coke and a bottle of whisky. Those days were supposedly gone on the advice of the doctor, who’d offered me a pretty bleak prognosis regarding life expectancy should I fail to mend my wicked ways. I’d taken his advice seriously, genuinely trying to cut out the bad habits, but it was hard and I’d been unable to resist temptation completely. It was going to take time, and an awful lot of willpower to get back on the straight and narrow, and stay there.
In retrospect I guess I saw High Bank as a pleasant form of solitary confinement. Less than two weeks into the sentence however, this prisoner was already looking for an excuse to escape. For starters, the idea of visiting the local watering hole, The Ship Inn, was an increasingly appealing one, as was the thought of breaking into the little package in the car’s glove compartment that, luckily for me, had escaped PC Morgan’s attention that day on the roadside.
In the end I decided to stick to more sober pursuits, such as visiting the Folly Gentleshaw had mentioned, which was marked on the ordnance survey map lying on the coffee table in the front room.
2.
It was cold and bleak when I set off. The threat of fog and deteriorating weather was very real, but I wasn’t going to let that deter me. I was here to live a clean, healthy life, after all. So I got rugged up, and off I set with Lennon padding along happily at my side.
Leaving the cottage behind we bypassed the chapel, having cut through the yard occupied by the derelict farmhouse. We then wound our way through a copse that was dark and depressing. The weather was already turning, and I began to have doubts about proceeding further. Then I caught sight of Lennon prancing about in the undergrowth like an overgrown puppy, and decided to press on.
The deeper into the woods we travelled the colder it got. At some point the threat of fog finally materialised, reducing visibility drastically. I trudged onwards with stubborn determination, crossed a rickety stile, before climbing a steep muddy bank that well and truly christened my brand new hiking boots.
Eventually, after about half a mile or so, I came to a rise, from the top of which, through the intensifying fog, a large towering shape could be observed. Seemed I’d found the folly. It was far larger than I’d expected, around sixty feet high with a girth of perhaps forty feet. A vertical row of turret windows was built into one side. Three spirelets crowned its roof. It resembled a huge bell tower. Its brickwork was old and choked with creeping ivy. Thick vines crawled from the narrow windows, twisting towards the ground like arthritic limbs. I scrambled down the other side of the bank, and through a thorny thicket before arriving at the entrance, the door to which was off its hinges and leaning precariously to one side.
I walked through into a vestibule within which was a flight of steps spiralling upwards. The shadows fell heavily in here. I pulled the torch I’d brought along from my coat pocket, and switched it on. Straight ahead was a second door that was partly ajar. When opened fully a windowless anti-chamber was revealed, containing what looked suspiciously like an altar. On closer inspection I saw that the slate floor was decorated with weird symbols, faded to the point of being virtually illegible, although one looked ominously like a pentangle, with a large gruesome looking bird at its centre. To my right was another door, this one having a metal grille, through which I shone the torch. Revealed was a tiny room, reminiscent of a prison cell.
It was then that I heard the voices, speaking words that were faint
and distorted, like those on a radio channel affected by poor reception. Despite my misgivings I decided to investigate further, and called out, “Anyone up there?” The voices fell silent. I waited for them to resume their curious banter, and sure enough, they eventually did so. Far off, seemingly in another dimension, I thought I heard sounds of immense distress.
“Who’s there?” I called. Once again, the voices stopped. I glanced over at Lennon, who sat quietly at the foot of the spiral staircase, ears cocked, gazing steadfastly upwards.
“Can you hear ‘em too, boy?” I asked. He paid me scant attention, keeping his focus on the ascending stairs. I joined him, and together we climbed the series of iron steps to the upper level, where I found...no one.
The place was deserted.
“Where are you?” I whispered, whilst gripping the torch tightly.
Fading daylight and deepening fog meant visibility was down to a few yards. I glanced up, and was able to make out what appeared to be the remains of a glass dome, ingeniously designed to open like an observatory roof. In days gone by it would have provided protection against the elements, and when opened would have given an uninterrupted view of the heavens. The building’s architect must have been a keen astronomer or astrologer, I thought, for it appeared that the folly’s uppermost level was indeed a purpose built observatory.
I turned to leave, but was stopped by Lennon, who suddenly reared up on his hind legs, barking fiercely. Glancing skywards I saw shapes appear out of the fog, in the form of birds. They were big brutish creatures that swooped dramatically, before coming to land on the narrow ridge just beneath the dome.
And there they stayed, observing me in complete and utter silence. And while they did that, I started to back towards the staircase, at the same time trying desperately to coax Lennon away, fearing he may come under attack, as the child had.
All of a sudden, and for no apparent reason, the birds took flight, cawing for all their worth. I watched as they soared and swooped, before flying off into the fog. Moments later I found myself bolting for the staircase, scared witless.