by WR Armstrong
Once again: so many darned questions.
CHAPTER FIVE
Following the party, I shut myself away to concentrate on song writing. I had a deadline after all. By the end of the week however, I was in desperate need of social contact so I got in touch with David to invite him and Jenny over for drinks. Jenny couldn’t make it: she was away visiting her mother. David on the other hand was keen
“I’ll see if the others are free,” he suggested, referring to H and the gang.
“Good idea,” I said. “And tell ‘em to bring their instruments. We can have a sing song if they feel up to it.”
He rang back within the hour.
“It’s all arranged. See you in a while, matey.”
Later that day a battered Ford transit van came to a grinding halt on the driveway. It contained David, Irish, Terry, Rick and H. They’d come armed with a collection of musical instruments and a dangerous amount of booze. I led them into the kitchen and set about organising drinks, while Lennon did his own version of meet n greet. With everyone was served, I led them upstairs to the attic room.
“Cold as fuck up here,” H commented upon entering.
“I’ll switch on the heater,” I said and went and did so.
I allocated musical instruments to those who could play—or rather, claimed they could play—(Irish was not one of them and elected to observe from the sidelines), and cranked up the volume on the PA. Following a quick tune up we let rip with a couple of old Zeppelin numbers. Rick surprised me by turning out to be a competent harmonica player: having brought along his own Hohner Blues Harp, promising tongue in cheek to update to a Chrometta 12 if we hit the big time. With his help we managed a half decent rendition of “When the Levee Break’s”. David, who fancied himself on bass, managed to keep a steady rhythm going, while H did his own thing on a set of bongos. Meantime, Terry strummed along using an old Ashton student acoustic that carried a sticker with the proclamation: My other guitar is a Gibson.
The booze flowed freely. Before too long we were all in high spirits. The odd reefer made an appearance down the line. As the light outside began to fade, and the birds screeched their eerie presence to the early evening, I decided to test the gangs reaction to my new material. I played two numbers I intended submitting to Mike in demo form, prior to them being handed over to the record company. One was a folksy ballad titled, “Since the Dawn of Time,” while the other was a catchy little tune called, “Am I the one?”
Everyone listened politely and complemented me afterwards. Rick prophesied the songs would guarantee me a successful comeback, which was good to hear, although I did suspect he was being slightly over optimistic. I knew better than to expect two miserable songs, no matter how good, would guarantee a lasting comeback. In my experience the music business is fickle with zero guarantees. “Talent and hard work doesn’t necessarily equal success,” Mike once told me. Cynical as it sounded, it happened to be true: an awful lot depended on sheer luck, knowing the right people, and being in the right place at the right time.
The conversation briefly turned to other topics, before, inevitably, the disappearance of Mary-Louise cropped up. The mention of her name created tension and unease, the effect of which was sobering. Irish had his own theory to explain away her vanishing act, claiming she’d been kidnapped by the greasers who caused trouble at the party.
“It’s just the kind of thing those bastards would do,” he maintained. “I know them from old. They’re arseholes with no morals. They wouldn’t have a problem taking a girl against her will to satisfy their own twisted needs. If she refused to play ball, she might’ve found herself in danger.”
“You think those two men could’ve harmed her?” Rick asked incredulously.
“Look what they went and did to one other,” Irish pointed out. “They’re rough as they come, and don’t play by the rules.”
“What about her boyfriend,” David said.
“What about him?” I asked.
“We don’t know for certain that he wasn’t responsible, do we?”
“He seemed pretty genuine when he was talking to us,” I said.
“He and Mary-Louise might’ve argued,” David persisted, “causing him to overreact. It does happen.”
“Don’t think so, somehow,” H said.
“Mark my words, the gree-bows are behind it,” Irish maintained.
No one passed comment. There was no point. Irish was adamant. Besides, no one was able to disprove or better his theory.
Terry, who’d been unusually quiet, suddenly announced that he felt unwell. “Bad cider most probably,” he said before visiting the bathroom.
“I heard a strange thing the night the chick went missing,” Rick said while he was gone, “I overheard someone say that it had started again. What did they mean, I wonder?”
“Have no idea,” said Irish.
David spoke. “I think I know. When I was a kid, there was a spate of disappearances round here. A number of girls went missing. I don’t think they were ever found.”
“The bogeyman returns,” Rick commented.
“Let’s hope not,” David said. He vacated his seat and wandered over to the window which overlooked the road and the derelict cottage on the other side. With his back to us he lit a cigarette.
“If Irish is right, and she was abducted,” he said, “She might have got taken across the road.”
We considered the implication of his words, knowing that that kind of thing happened all too often: abductions, rape, murder, heaven forbid. You had only to read the newspapers, or watch television to know that occasionally an innocent situation can turn into a nightmarish one. H disagreed, however.
“What I don’t understand is how she could’ve been kidnapped right under everyone’s nose. There must’ve been thirty plus people at the party at any given time. Someone would’ve seen or heard something, surely?”
“Not if she went willingly,” I pointed out. “If she got friendly with some other guy at the party, and was desperate to be alone with him; what better, more convenient and discreet place could there be, than the derelict house across the road. If of course you weren’t that fussed about where you got your kicks. And say that having gone there, she came to her senses and was overcome by guilt for two timing her boyfriend, and tried to walk away, only her new found Romeo had other ideas and turned nasty.”
“It’s possible,” David agreed, but H was sceptical.
“What girl in her right mind would seek a romantic interlude in a rat infested derelict house?” he asked.
“Lust combined with alcohol can make a person do some pretty reckless things,” I pointed out.
Terry returned from the bathroom, looking pale and unhappy.
“How are you feeling mate,” Rick asked him.
“Like shit,” he said dropping down into his seat. “Just thrown up. Got really bad stomach ache.” He stared at his glass of cider as if it contained poison.
“Can’t take your drink, that’s all,” said Irish before knocking back the remainder of his own drink, as if to prove a point. Wiping a hand across his mouth, he announced in thick Irish brogue, “Gentlemen, I tink we owe it to ourselves, and to Mary-Louise, to take a look across the road.” With that, he stood up. “Come on: what are you all waiting for?” he asked when the rest of us hesitated.
“Let’s get it over with,” H said uneasily and left his seat.
“At least it’ll put our minds at ease,” I said, whilst hoping our efforts would prove fruitless. I joined David at the window.
“Are you okay?” he asked me confidentially.
“It’s not a good situation to be involved in is it,” I said.
“She’ll turn up John.”
“Let’s hope so.”
I peered thoughtfully through the glass. The sight of the derelict cottage standing on the other side of the road made me think about the kid who once lived there, fated to be mown down by a truck, and about the whole visionary episode I’d experi
enced on the day I arrived at High Bank.
“John?”
I pulled myself back to the present to find David observing me.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said.
I managed to force a smile. “I’m okay.” We turned to face the others. H stared morosely at the floor while Rick and Irish looked at us expectantly. As for Terry, he announced he was going to lie down for a while.
“Use the guest room,” I instructed. “It’s on the right as you hit the lower landing.”
“Well,” I said to the others once he’d gone, “are we all game?”
Everyone nodded.
Irish said, “Let’s do it.”
We left the attic room and descended the two flights of creaking stairs into the dimly lit hall. In silence we struggled into our topcoats knowing it would be freezing cold outside. I grabbed the torch out of the kitchen, and in dismal silence we left the house heading for the derelict crofter’s cottage, leaving Terry behind with Lennon.
There was no moon that night, making it as dark as hell. One solitary car passed by as we reached the roadside. We watched it disappear around the bend as if we thought its presence was somehow significant. Then we crossed the deserted road. Pausing briefly on the other side, I turned to the others and said, “I’ll ask the question again: are we all up for this?”
“I don’t see we have any choice,” Rick said.
David was reflective. “I agree. If there’s the remotest chance she’s in there we have a duty to investigate.”
“Then what the fuck are we waiting for?” It was Irish.
We looked towards the dark uninviting derelict shell that was once a crofter’s cottage, home to a family fated to losing their son in a terrible road accident, and then we trudged up the weed infested path to the front door. Only there was no front door. As some point in time it’d been ripped from its hinges, and now lay flat against the ground, alongside the security grille that had protected it, making access a simple affair. The downstairs windows were boarded while those on the upper level were left unprotected: the glass panes broken and jagged edged.
We wandered inside to be greeted by thick depressing darkness, and an atmosphere that reeked of neglect and decay. I played the torch’s yellow tinged beam along a dirty wooden floor, and badly damaged plaster and lathe walls. The room was small and cramped. It was also entirely empty. I tried to imagine what it was like as a home but it was difficult. The passing of time combined with dereliction had reduced this house to a characterless husk. It reminded me morbidly of a forgotten grave. Quite suddenly, and for no apparent reason, I spun, directing the torchlight at the open door way, and to my amazement saw a number of large birds congregating on the path outside. David saw them too. We glanced at each other, mystified by their unannounced appearance, and then, as suddenly as they’d arrived, they departed, flying off into the night en masse.
“What the hell was that about?” I said, thinking aloud. “It’s as if they’d come along to see what we were up to.”
“Well, at least they weren’t bats,” David said trying to make light of it.
“Bats I would’ve preferred,” I replied in all seriousness. “At least they’re nocturnal and wouldn’t be out of place.”
“Where are the others?” David asked, changing the subject.
“Taking a look around upstairs I think.”
We crossed the room to an open doorway, the other side of which a narrow flight of stairs ascended steeply. From above, I could hear footfalls sounding upon floorboards, combined with that of muffled voices. We climbed the stairs. On the landing we were greeted by Irish, whose rugged features were illuminated spectrally by the flame from the lighter he held in front of him.
“There’s nothing up here but cobwebs and bad fucking air,” he announced sullenly.
The news was welcome. After all, we’d gone there afraid we would discover a corpse. Relieved, we trooped back to the cottage, but the relief was short lived. We returned to find the place in total darkness with Lennon in an agitated state, and with no sign of Terry. I tried switching on the lights, but without success. We called Terry’s name, but got nothing back. Panic started to break out with everyone speaking at once.
“Where the hell is he?”
“He’s gone! Something’s taken him!”
“Not again. Please, not again.”
David’s voice suddenly rose above the others, pleading for calm to be restored.
Everyone fell silent, and listened for some tell tale sound suggesting Terry was still in the house.
“He’s not here,” Rick finally declared from the darkness.
“He has to be.” Irish argued back.
Suddenly H shouted Terry’s name, his booming voice shaking with frustration.
Once again, nothing...
In the corner of the kitchen Lennon’s silhouette gave out a distressed whine. I tried the lights again. Still they refused to work.
“Check the fuse box,” someone said, I think it was David.
“Where is it?” H asked.
“Just inside the cellar,” I said, training the torch beam in that direction.
Irish went over and opened the door. “Jesus fucking Christ!” he said recoiling. “Stinks like a fucking bitch in here.” He fumbled about for a moment, flicked a switch, and the lights suddenly sparked to life.
“Fucking Hallelujah!” he declared, voicing everyone’s sense of relief.
All we had to do now was find Terry.
We turned on every single light in the place and searched high and low, but he was nowhere to be found. Either he was playing a joke at our expense—and a pretty poor one at that—or he’d gone the same way as the ill-fated Mary-Louise, and simply vanished off the face of the earth.
“He’s got to be somewhere,” David said as we drifted into the living room, deeply bewildered by events. In the brief time we’d been absent from the cottage, it seemed Terry had ceased to exist. Nothing in the house was disturbed, and nothing had been taken. For a short while we sat around feeling numb, whilst discussing the situation in hushed tones, trying to find some kind of logical explanation for what had happened.
“It’s almost as if the cottage has started feeding on people,” Rick said thinking aloud. H turned on him, accused him of crazy talk, but he was unrepentant. “Got any better ideas Sherlock?”
“The house that ate people,” David said picking up on the theme. “Nice.”
“Sounds like a movie title,” Rick said.
“Pack it in, Irish growled, “Terry’s missing so stop making light of it.”
“I wasn’t,” Rick argued, but Irish wasn’t finished.
“Unless you’ve got something useful to say, keep it shut. Got it?”
“So what do we do now?” H asked, following a tense silence.
“We make a further search,” I suggested, “This time to include the cottage grounds. Go even further if we’re of a mind.”
So that’s what we did, venturing as far as the abandoned farmhouse, but there was still no sign of him. As the night bore on we grew increasingly concerned. High Bank was suddenly as mysterious, and as sinister, as the Bermuda triangle. Finally, and with great reluctance, I suggested we call the police.
“And tell ‘em what exactly?” H asked.
“The truth I guess,” I said.
“You mean report him as a missing person, like Mary Louise,” David asked.
Just then a large and extremely ugly beetle scuttled from beneath the potbelly. It was promptly flattened by Irish’s boot.
Suddenly two more of the creatures emerged, almost identical in size and appearance to the first. Irish got them too.
“Jesus; did you have to do that,” Rick asked grimacing.
Irish was indignant. “What do you suggest I do, take the fuckers for a walk?”
I stared at my feet, unable to look. Those beetles made me uncomfortable. A few had been in evidence scuttling around in the hall on the night Mary
-Louise disappeared. I said nothing of this to the others however; primarily because it didn’t seem that important. They were just beetles, after all.
Once the excitement of the kill had died down, and the resulting mess was cleared up, I tentatively checked beneath the potbelly for others, but found none. The incident, unpleasant though it was, had supplied a welcome distraction from the real issue of Terry’s disappearance. In the end however, like it or not, we were forced to return to the unpalatable subject. H started the ball rolling by pointing out that Terry lived at home with his parents
“Let’s call them first, before we call the police” he suggested, “Why don’t we contact them in the morning, see if he made it home sometime during the night?
“Why not call them now,” I asked.
“I’ve got his parents number in my mobile,” Rick informed us.
“Call them,” I said, so he did.
Terry’s father answered, and informed us that his son was absent.
“Is there a problem?” he asked.
“No problem,” Rick said. “But would you mind calling me back if he turns up.”
Terry’s father said he would, and Rick ended the call.
While this was going on, I was studying Lennon, who roamed the room like a caged animal. Evidently something had upset him while he’d been alone with Terry. If only he could tell us what he had seen.
The unsettling turn of events made conversation difficult, so we called it a night. The gang collected their belongings together and piled outside into the van, minus one, to drive off into the foggy darkness. After they’d gone, I wandered aimlessly about the house, trying to figure out what was going on, but failed to come up with any answers, for what had happened defied explanation.
CHAPTER SIX