by WR Armstrong
It wasn’t the birds that had finally caused me to flee, but the terrible sounds of suffering that suddenly filled the folly: women and children screaming, the tortured cries of a dying baby.
From the rise I looked back, once, mentally recording the place for posterity, for I had no intention of ever returning.
CHAPTER FOUR
David from the village store educated me on the subject of the folly’s history. We bumped into each other in The Ship Inn one evening, and ended up sharing a few beers.
“Legend has it,” he said,” that the folly was built in the seventeen hundreds by a man called Grimshaw, Lord Ebenezer Grimshaw.”
“Is he the one responsible for the other buildings neighbouring High Bank,” I asked, recalling what Mrs Corbett had said about the farm house, the crofter’s cottage, and the chapel.
“The very same,” David acknowledged. “He owned most of the land in these parts at the time. In fact, with the exception of High Bank Cottage, the buildings on the farm house land have remained in the family to this very day. Anyway, Grimshaw was by all accounts an extremely unpleasant character. There are stories of employees and locals being flogged, and much worse. The local community was petrified of him.”
“But didn’t he gift the chapel to the locals?”
“Yes, he did. But he did it for a rather perverse reason. He wanted to deplete the main church at Ashley of its congregation.”
“Why, for what reason?”
David leaned forward resting his elbows on the table top and said, “Allegedly Lord Grimshaw was into the Occult in a major way. His accusers maintained he wanted to split the church, cause a schism by creating an unorthodox religion hereabouts, but there were also those who said his reasons were even more perverse, and that he took twisted delight in tricking Christian worshippers into worshipping in the Devil’s sanctum, disguised as a conventional church.”
I raised an eyebrow recalling the observatory, the pentangle I’d seen, and the tortured sounds I’d heard (thought I’d heard) during my visit to the folly.
“It’s said that he and his acolytes carried out black magic ceremonies there, involving human sacrifice. Of course, it’s never been proved. Dare say there’s probably no real truth in any of it. Things tend to get exaggerated with the passing of time, and this is probably no exception.”
“You’re probably right,” I said deciding I’d heard enough. I purchased fresh pints at the bar. The conversation drifted onto other topics, namely music and relationships. David and his wife, Jenny, were childhood sweethearts who married whilst still in their teens. David described their marriage as being rock solid. When it came to relationships he and I were like chalk and cheese.
“You must meet her sometime,” he suggested.
“I’ll look forward to it,” I said. Jenny, a primary school teacher who studied astrology and liked to write prose, sounded interesting.
“How about a meal at our place one evening,” David proposed.
I agreed immediately, suspecting invites in this neck of the woods would prove rare.
A group of men entered the bar moments later, pals of David. He introduced me as his “good” friend, John. Seemed I’d made a favourable impression.
“Pleased to meet you,” said the first, a bearded man, about twenty five known simply as H. He shook my hand as did his three companions, Rick, the youngest of the troop, Terry, a quiet spoken stocky individual, and finally there was Irish who, as his nick name suggested, was of Irish descent. Solidly built with rugged features, he came across as tough but likeable.
“Welcome to the dead zone,” he announced in a heavy Irish drawl.
I glanced over at David who smiled and said, “Irish don’t go a bundle on Ashley. He’s an outsider; thinks it’s a dump.”
“No “think” about it,” Irish corrected, “it’s a graveyard; the arsehole of the world!”
“Nothing wrong with Ashley,” H argued back. “Lived here all my life; never did me any harm. Third generation of Ashley-ites, I am.”
“Shows too,” Irish countered. “You all look the same round here; a case of incest keeping the family together.”
H muttered an obscenity. Irish turned his attention to me.
“Take my advice, Johnny boy. Leave Ashley before you grow into a hick like the rest of them.”
“But you’re here,” I pointed out.
“Aye, though not by choice...”
“I don’t understand?”
“Irish is with the fair,” David explained.
Irish nodded. “I work the dodgems.”
“And the women,” Rick added.
“Anybody for a refill?” Terry asked.
At the bar, David delighted in telling his friends that I was Johnny O’Shea, the pop star.”
“I thought I recognised your face,” Rick said.
“Me too,” H agreed. “I’ve heard some of your stuff. It’s okay; a bit middle of the road for my liking, but okay all the same. What do you say Terry?”
Terry shrugged awkwardly. “Sorry guys; never heard of Johnny O’Shea.”
“Lots haven’t,” I said.
Rick celebrated my celebrity by buying me a beer. It was to be the first of many. At some point, I forget exactly when, (the beers kept coming and I kept sinking them), I was handed an acoustic guitar and gave an impromptu performance that, according to David, got me drinks on the house for the rest of the evening. I was well and truly off the wagon and failed to make it home, having to spend the night at David’s place. Consequently, I became acquainted with Jenny sooner than expected. She was just as David had described her; tall and slender, with an easy going nature. If she was put out by my unannounced arrival, she hid it well.
“Lovely to meet you, hope to see you again, soon,” she said the following morning, as I was about to leave.
“Likewise,” I said, with a bleary eyed smile.
“Sure I can’t tempt you to more coffee or toast?”
“I have to get back to Lennon.”
“And who might Lennon be?”
“My dog, Lennon is my dog.”
“As in John Lennon,” David said for her benefit. To me, he said, “I’ll run you home if you want.”
In the car he gave me the low down on his drinking partners, H, Rick, Terry and Irish. Rick had just turned twenty one and worked in the local abattoir. Terry was an IT worker, H was a kitchen fitter and Irish, well; it appeared he was a law unto himself.
“He’s a bit of a free spirit,” David explained, “Does seasonal work mainly, it allows him to travel.” I frowned. David elaborated. “Although he’s related to the owner’s of the fair he don’t always travel with them. Likes to do his own thing, does Irish. Last year we didn’t even see him in this neck of the woods. He was travelling around France and Spain picking up labouring work as he went.”
“Is he related to the clairvoyant, Madam Lee?” I asked, still debating whether to consult her or not.
“Not sure,” said David, “Jenny would know.”
David slowed the car to a respectable twenty miles per hour as we neared High Bank. “It’s ironical really, how he reckons people in these parts are incestuous when the whole fairground troop is probably interrelated.” David turned the car into the drive leading past the old farm house, beyond which stood High Bank. “Irish is good to know if there’s trouble. He’s also a good contact if you need some gear.” David shot me a knowing look.
“Those days are long gone,” I lied.
We arrived at High Bank.
“I won’t come in,” David said. “Some of us have got work to do.”
And off he drove, leaving me to contemplate my hangover.
Old habits die hard. The following night was pub night again. This time I got a taxi outward bound, pre-booking it for the return journey. I met up with the lads, getting hammered for the second time in as many nights.
I rolled out of the pub into the taxi having invited half the pub over to High Bank that comin
g weekend. Whilst I forgot all about it—alcohol is a great amnesiac—a large number of those invited had far better memories, including David, who was quick to remind me of my commitment. I therefore prepared myself to party at the appointed time.
There was one little snag. It was also the weekend Michelle was due to stay, and she was expecting to have me all to herself.
It was also when the bad times truly kicked in.
2.
She arrived on the Saturday afternoon dressed in a sheepskin jacket, figure hugging jeans and cute little pixie boots. Her dark hair was cut in a fashionable bob. She looked delightful and incredibly sexy. Once again, I regretted treating her so badly in the past, and promised myself that I would make amends. If of course she would allow me to. Seeing her in the flesh again, after almost a month, was like a breath of fresh air. I had exactly the same feelings for her as I always had. And while I wanted us to spend time talking frankly to one another, I also wanted to re-establish the physical side of our relationship.
We drove from Ashley train station, directly to the cottage. She fell in love with the place as soon as she saw it, although her reaction to the cellar upon inspection was predictable.
“It stinks,” she said. “You should tell your landlady to do something about it sooner rather than later. For all you know there could be a sewerage problem somewhere down there, it could be a health hazard.”
Oddly enough, it no longer really bothered me. Lennon however, was in agreement with Michelle, giving the room a wide berth since his initial exploratory visit.
Unsure where I stood with her romantically, I deposited her luggage in the guestroom. Then I showed her around, starting with the master bedroom, and ending up in the attic, now my work studio. She was impressed. She also appeared to be in a forgiving mood. I took my chance, slipped my arms around her waist and told her I’d missed her.
She looked sceptical, but in a playful sort of way. I pulled her close. “I mean it,” I said.
“Prove it to me,” she replied. I made to kiss her but before I could she broke our embrace. “Later, okay,” she said. “We’ll have dinner and then, who knows, you may get lucky.” She smiled and winked an eye at me.
I hadn’t told her about the party yet. The coward in me I guess. I did it now. I had no other choice. The first of the guests were due in a relatively short time.
Her response was predictable. “Well, isn’t that just great,” she stormed. “Bloody hell John, why did you bother to invite me all the way up here, when you’ve obviously got such a healthy social life already?”
“It’s not like that,” I said. “It was a spur of the moment thing.”
“Same old Johnny O’Shea,” she huffed, her anger rising. “You’ve always been the same: act first, think later. Was it the drink that made you do it?”
When I failed to answer, her anger turned to pity. “I thought you’d given it up.”
“I have.” My voiced lacked conviction.
The pity turned to mild disgust. “Yeah: right. I think I just saw a pig fly overhead!”
“I’ll make it up to you,” I promised.
“I doubt it,” she replied. “I think it might be better if I returned to London.”
“Please don’t do that,” I pleaded. “Come on, Michelle, I said I’m sorry. Give it another chance: I was thoughtless. I’ll make it up to you I promise.”
“Ye gods, yet another promise,” she said shaking her head. There was no angst in her voice, only a terrible sense of resignation. It made me feel worse than ever. I was selfish, self-obsessed, always had been. I was always putting myself first; never thinking about anyone except John ruddy O’Shea. I desperately wanted that to change, but the willpower was lacking. I’d been kidding myself about giving up my past life of over indulgence. The first half opportunity that came my way saw me willingly derail, and drink myself into a stupor. Yet again I was in danger of blowing it with someone who really did care for me: someone who would be good for me if only I’d grow up, but that was too much of a tall order, it seemed. It was simply asking too much. I felt ashamed that it was so, but felt helpless to change things.
We stood facing each other. Michelle continued to look annoyed but I sensed she was calming down. Always quick to rile, she was equally quick to forgive and forget. I begged her to stay.
She finally relented. “Very well, but I’m warning you John.”
“How about a drink to celebrate,” I suggested.
She frowned disapprovingly.
“Coffee, I mean coffee.”
We drank the coffee in the front room with Michelle curled up on the sofa, me in the armchair opposite, all very civilised. Michelle wanted to know how many guests I was expecting that evening. I told her I didn’t know.
“But it’s your party,” she pointed out. “Have you organised food and drink?”
“It’s a BYO,” I said, hoping it was the case.
Michelle sighed. “You’re hopeless, John, absolutely hopeless. We’ll order in some pizzas. It’s the least we can do for our guests. Drinks, what about drinks, do you have anything in? ”
I nodded. “In the fridge: and in the cellar: beer and wine mainly.”
Around us the cottage groaned in response to a sudden adverse weather change. The room grew dark as rain clouds gathered overhead, and the sun began to set. The table lamps, when switched on, flickered uncertainly. Michelle and I exchanged a look and then Michelle said, “I’m cold,” to which I replied, “So am I,” and I went and sat down beside her.
“It’s good to have you here,” I said, taking her hand in mine.
She smiled. “It’s good to be here.”
The guests started to arrive around seven and didn’t stop arriving all night. Most were complete strangers. Word of mouth had swelled the numbers to alarming proportions. David and Jenny turned up early and helped try to keep the revellers in line, although it was always going to be a losing battle. Pizza was delivered and eagerly consumed, and further supplies were sent for. Music blared and everyone was in good spirits, at least to start with.
By the time the party was in full swing as many party comers occupied the gardens as they did the house itself. Seemingly oblivious to the cold unsettled weather, more than one couple retreated to the outlying areas of the cottage grounds, prepared to run the risk of catching pneumonia in order to gain intimacy.
David’s pals rolled up just before midnight, standing up, falling down drunk, and ready to party till the end of time. They had with them a collection of heavy metal CD’s they insisted playing at full volume.
“Smashing party,” Irish slurred as he drank beer from a can and smoked an unfiltered cigarette. “Who’s the chick in the skin tight pants?” he asked. I looked round and realised he was referring to Michelle. She stood by the window, looking like a million dollars, chatting to Jenny and another girl.
“Hands off Irish,” H warned, “That particular chick belongs to John.”
“Pity,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “You’re a lucky man, Mr O’Shea.”
“A truer word never said,” H remarked before wandering off to talk to a group of men standing at the bar. Still haunted by the tipper truck incident and curious to know its significance, I finally sought Irish’s opinion of Madam Lee.
“Why do you want to know about her?” he asked.
“People speak highly of her clairvoyant skills,” I said. “Perhaps she can provide me with good news. God knows I could do with some.”
“Don’t count on it,” he said, “She’s just as likely to scare the living daylights out of you.”
“Are you serious?”
He shrugged. “Go see the old witch if you want. See what she says. What harm can it do?”
Terry joined us, a good guitarist according to David.
“Let’s jam together sometime,” I suggested, alcohol clouding my professional judgement. I was there to work, after all, not mess around with the locals.
“Name the day and I’ll
be there,” Terry said, genuinely interested.
“What about me,” Rick said, joining us.
“What do you play,” I asked.
“The fucking idiot,” Irish interjected.
He ignored the comment. “Harmonica, I play harmonica.” He nodded over at H. “Get the bearded one on the drums, and you’ll have a readymade backing band.”
And let’s not forget PC Morgan, I thought, sensing things were getting out of hand.
We’ll take the two B’s as payment,” Terry said.
I frowned, “The two B’s?”
“Beer and birds,” he said and laughed.
At some point, I can’t remember when exactly, I wandered outside to get some fresh air. I’d sunk a bucket full of ale and was feeling lightheaded. Moreover, I’d succumbed to the gear stashed in my car. I staggered round to the back of the house happily swigging from a bottle of tepid lager, a half smoked cigarette tucked behind one ear. The security light lent partial illumination to the back yard, enabling me to make out a hairy biker known as “the tank”. He stood behind a towering laurel with his arms wrapped around a leather-clad female. Nearby, a skin known locally as Bonehead was flat out on his back gazing up at the stars, virtually comatose. A young couple introduced to me earlier that evening as Ant and Becky, who swore blind they were fans of mine, but who would be unable to recall my name later that night, danced drunkenly to the muffled sound of the music coming from inside the house.
“Hey: John!” Ant shouted when he spotted me stumbling around, “fantastic gig!”
It was at that point that things grew a little hazy. The white stuff I’d snorted minutes before was starting to have an effect. I recall smiling and giving Ant the thumbs up before stupidly colliding with the rotary clothesline. The impact disorientated me. I swayed on the spot briefly, whilst suffering from double vision. I tried to refocus by concentrating my attention on the gazebo located at the foot of the garden. It was then that I spotted the woman standing alone in the shadows, an exquisite blonde dressed in blue denim. She was searching for somebody named Kayla and called the name repeatedly. I wandered over to offer assistance.