A Cry From Beyond

by WR Armstrong

  His name was indeed Roy. He was an affable bloke with an easygoing manner. He apologised for being late, “Bloody van broke down,” he explained miserably. He bemoaned the cold weather, whilst rubbing his hands together for effect, before finally turning his attention to the matter in hand. He briefly returned outside to give the exterior of the cottage the quick once over.

  “Do you think you can get rid of the beetles?” I asked.

  “No problem,” he replied confidently. “Beetles is easy compared to say wasps. Wasps are nasty little bastards. If you don’t know what you’re doing, you can be in serious trouble. Years ago I knew a bloke who accidentally disturbed a big nest up in the attic of a terraced house. He was a bit inexperienced and hadn’t bothered with protective gear. By the time the wasps had finished with him his face was swollen to the size of a bloody beach ball. He’d been stung so many times he looked like an oversized pincushion. If that wasn’t bad enough, he suffered an allergic reaction. He was in dock for a long time, very nearly died at one point. He gave up pest control after that.”

  “You don’t say.”

  Up on the roof the birds grew noisy and restless, as if irritated by Roy’s presence.

  “Never heard birds that loud before,” he remarked glancing up at the creatures. He handed me a grubby business card and formally introduced himself as Roy Brown, proprietor of Roy’s Pest Control Service. “Established since 1978 and still going strong,” he proudly announced.

  Inside the house, Lennon greeted him with mild suspicion, growling in a perfunctory manner. Now it was my turn to offer reassurance. Roy inspected the living room, checking beneath the windowsills and shelves and poking his head around corners and into nooks and crannies.

  “They come mainly from beneath the potbelly and in the cellar,” I said as I headed into the kitchen to put on the kettle, leaving him to investigate further. I made tea and took a mug out to him.

  “What do these beetles look like exactly?” he asked, raising the mug to his lips.

  “Like beetles,” I said, stating the obvious, “What else would they look like?”

  “Are they big or small, black or brown?”

  “I can do better than describe them to you,” I said, remembering I’d thrown a dead one into the trashcan that morning. I showed it to Roy, who explained with authority that it was a Sexton beetle.

  “Technically known as Necrophorus mortuorum,” he announced with authority.

  “Is the fact that it’s a Sexton beetle significant?” I asked.

  “No idea. Sexton beetles are normally associated with graveyards. Nature’s little undertaker, they are.” He cleared his throat. “You see, they are rather partial to the dead.” He looked at me curiously. “By the way, did they find those missing people yet?”

  By now, the disappearances were common knowledge across the nation. Mike had phoned to warn me that the big players belonging to the national press were showing serious interest in events at the cottage, and that I should prepare myself for further visits from reporters representing major tabloids and television and radio stations. The police continued to come and go and the structural engineer had returned a couple of days back to carry out further tests on the property’s foundations. There was even talk of possible excavation.

  “Strange business, don’t you think,” Roy said gravely.

  “I’m sure they’ll turn up sooner or later,” I replied, the words belying my true feelings.

  “Let’s hope so.” He re-examined the dead beetle he held. “‘Orrible little bleeders, Sexton beetles, they like to feed on corpses. It’s odd that they should be hanging around a house.” He changed the subject, apologising for his unkempt appearance. “We’ve just done a rush job: rat problem in a block of flats.”

  “We?”

  “My apprentice, Jamie; he’s asleep in the back of the van: didn’t see any reason to wake the poor beggar. Just had a tetanus jab at the hospital in town, he has. Rat bit his finger, almost nipped the bloody end off. Little bleeders, they are. Jamie needed three stitches. He’s only been with me a week. Don’t like blood or needles. Don’t like rats much now, either.” Roy chuckled to himself before finishing the tea and placing the mug on the table. Then, with sudden gusto he clapped his hands together, signalling he was ready to start work in earnest.

  “Right, let’s get the little bastards,” he announced as he began the process by checking beneath the potbelly.

  “If you can find an opening, you’re a better man than me,” I said as he knelt to peer underneath. “Can’t see nothing,” he wheezed after a few moments. “Doesn’t mean there isn’t a place they can get in, though.”

  He ran his fingers along the uneven brick wall, pressing against the mortar searching for cracks and weak points. He repeated the procedure on the other side, before finally straightening up with a loud groan.

  Clambering to his feet, his knee joints popping like gunshots, he asked to see the cellar. I followed him out into the hall and motioned to the cellar door. Upon opening it he immediately commented on the rank smell. “You haven’t got any dead bodies down here, have you? Whoops, sorry mate, bad joke. It’s just that it would explain the Sexton beetle’s, that’s all I meant.”

  I flicked the light switch and together we descended the cellar steps. He proceeded to take a long hard look around the subterranean room, checking corners and any cavities, before finally raising his eyes to the ceiling and scratching his balding head, seemingly at a loss. Turning to me, he said, “I’m gonna take a look around the rest of the cottage if you don’t mind and then I’ll check outside again. Maybe they’re coming in through the chimney, or through a subsidence crack in the outside wall.”

  I left him to inspect the rest of the house, including the attic room. He re-appeared a few minutes later with nothing significant to report.

  “All I can think is, there might be a void between the cellar and living room floor. But it would have to be a nest or colony of them from what you’ve told me.” He pursed his lips, deliberating. “I’ll be honest with you: I don’t have a clue what the problem is. I’ve been in the business for over thirty years and never come across this kind of situation. The best I can do is to spray the place. I can of course tear up the living room carpet and the floorboards to see what’s underneath. But that would be expensive. If there is infestation, the former should cure the problem. If not, you know where we are.”

  I gave Roy the go ahead to start spraying.

  “Don’t go into the cellar for twenty four hours afterwards,” he warned. “The stuff we use isn’t exactly good for your health and there’s no ventilation down there. As for upstairs, that’ll be safe enough, but I suggest you open the windows as a precaution.”

  He went out to his van, returning a few minutes later with a green cylinder strapped to his back that resembled a diver’s oxygen tank, attached to which was a hose with a spray gun. On his face he wore what looked uncannily like a gas mask. He resembled a character out of an old Ealing comedy.

  “Stay out the way,” he said, his voice muffled. “This canister contains Tetramethrin, Bioallethrin and Bioresmetrin, making it inadvisable to be in an enclosed confined space without the necessary protection.”

  He did the cellar first, careful to close the door. In the living room I stared at the heavily patterned floral carpet, wondering if the problem really did lie in between the floorboards and the cellar roof. I only hoped he was correct about the pesticide being strong enough to cure the problem. When he returned upstairs from the cellar, I took Lennon for a walk so as to keep out of harm’s way while he sprayed the remainder of the house.

  He was upstairs finishing off upon my return. While he was doing that, I made a sandwich I intended eating after he had gone and then sat idly at the dining room table, trying my best to ignore the unpleasant smell of chemicals. I soon grew bored waiting and made a fresh pot of tea. Right on cue, Roy walked into the kitchen still wearing the ridiculous mask.

  “All done up
there,” he announced through his visor. He sounded as if he’d been partially gagged. “Now for the fireplace,” he went on, but then noticed the tea pot. “Wouldn’t mind one of them once I’m done,” he said.

  “Cure my little problem and I’ll throw in a biscuit too,” I promised.

  Roy smiled, “Fair enough, Mr O’Shea.” Instructing me to open the windows in the living room he made his way over to the hearth, which he sprayed diligently and with appropriate restraint.

  When he was finished, he removed the protective mask and sat down, blowing out his cheeks for effect.

  “Phew, gets warm with this thing on,” he remarked. He was perspiring heavily. The pressure of the mask against his face had left thin circular indentations around his eyes. “All done,” he announced. He dropped the mask onto the kitchen worktop and gratefully took the proffered mug of tea. Gathering his breath, he said, “Leave the windows open as long as possible. Go for a walk or something. I understand I’ve gotta send my bill to the agent.” He finished up his tea and grabbed the mask. “I’ll see if Billy’s still alive,” he said and headed for the door. “And don’t forget,” he added, “any problems, just call.”

  As soon as he was gone, I settled down to eat the sandwich I had earlier prepared. I spent the remainder of the afternoon working in the attic room. By the time I was finished, it was getting dark. Downstairs Lennon was restless. Deciding we both needed to stretch our legs, I collected his lead from behind the kitchen door, donned a heavy overcoat and together we ventured out into the chill early evening air.

  We’d just reached the end of the drive that led onto the main road when Lennon suddenly strained at his leash and began barking.

  “What is it, boy?” I said, glancing back over my shoulder. I was just in time to see the figure of a man dart into the bushes.

  Who the hell...

  I immediately went in pursuit, having to constantly bring Lennon to heel, but we were too late. The stranger was gone. I recalled my watcher in the woods and wondered if they were one and the same? With no idea who my stalker was, or what he wanted, I tried to put him out of my mind. After all, I had enough to deal with, without worrying about someone who was either too shy, or too afraid to approach me directly.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The following Thursday Norris turned up at the appointed time, bringing with him a photographer called Russ. I told Russ, who was tall and gangly, that he was to wait outside until his boss and I had had a chance to chat.

  “He’s not my boss,” Russ said haughtily, “he’s just a reporter.”

  “Whatever,” I said, “you don’t come in until he and I have talked.”

  With that I shut the door in his face.

  “Not exactly sociable are you?” Norris said as we entered the living room.

  “Don’t push it,” I said, pointing a finger.

  The reporter smirked.

  “I mean it Mr Norris. You’re skating on thin ice as it is. Don’t give me cause to throw you out.” I took a deep breath in an attempt to rein in my temper. “Now do we understand each other, or do I show you the door?”

  “We understand each other,” he said raising a placating hand.

  I motioned for him to take a seat by the window.

  “You’ve got company,” he said, gazing out through the glass.

  A bird was perched on the outside sill. As we watched, it started to tap its beak against the windowpane. When I banged on the glass, it flew off only to return moments later to repeat the action.

  “Why the hell do birds do that?” I said more to myself.

  Norris gave a disinterested shrug. “I haven’t got a clue, Mr O’Shea, speaking of which, O’Shea isn’t your real name is it?”

  I smiled a little, unfazed by the question. “It’s no secret that I took it as my stage name. Johnny O’Shea sounds a little more original and exciting than plain old John Smith. What’s your point anyway?”

  “Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?” he asked, with that ever present smug look on his face. Grudgingly I asked him for his choice of poison. He chose lager.

  “I’ll get Russ to drive back,” he said grinning. I fetched him his drink and then sat down at the dining table. He continued to grin inanely. “Not having one yourself Mr O’Shea, or should that be, Smith?”

  “O’Shea is fine,” I said, “Now will you please get to the point.”

  “All in good time,” he replied and sipped lager from the glass. “First I require the interview.”

  “What makes you think you can dictate terms?”

  “I have information that you will be very interested to hear,” he said. “I might not be a lot of things Mr O’Shea but I am a good reporter, even though I say so myself. And if you truly believe you have no previous association with this area, and in particular this cottage, you must be suffering from a severe case of amnesia.”

  I did my best not to react, but it was difficult to control my emotions. His remarks made me fearful and uncertain. I had no idea what he was talking about, yet I sensed strongly that he wasn’t bluffing. He had me right where he wanted me and he bloody well knew it.

  So I gave him the exclusive he demanded. I told him about the highs and lows of my career, the drug problem that had plagued me and the rehabilitation I was presently undergoing, or attempting to undergo. I told him about my plans for the future and gave him the low down on the song writing I’d been doing since arriving at High Bank. Yet he remained unsatisfied and pressed me for details surrounding the disappearances of Mary-Louise, Terry and Des. He didn’t ask about Coogan because no one outside of those present at the séance knew about him. I gave him the basics, no more and no less. I allowed Russ in to take his snap shots. He shot film of me in the attic room, posing with my guitar and on the keyboards, and insisted on getting a couple of me standing outside the cottage looking mean and moody.

  While we were out there, two police vans were seen to enter the grounds of Manor Farm. Uniformed police emptied from the vehicles, along with sniffer dogs, and began making yet another search of the area surrounding the Farm and High Bank.

  Yesterday they’d concentrated their efforts on the crofter’s cottage across the road. Now it was the turn of the abandoned farm house. High Bank itself had been the focus of a search twice, once with dogs, with the cellar coming under closest scrutiny. And then of course there was the structural engineer who’d visited on two separate occasions to examine the cellar, with a view to excavating.

  Last night Mrs Corbett phoned to voice her concern regarding the situation, adding that she hoped I was coping and that the stress wouldn’t force me to cut short my stay. I assured her I had no intention of leaving High Bank, as I considered it to be my home. In a sense that much was true. However, the real reasons I remained were far more complex. Well before Norris informed me I had a long standing connection with the cottage, I myself had sensed it was the case. Combine that with the disappearances and the fact that the police were now showing more than a passing interest in me personally, it would be virtually impossible to leave. Besides, where would I go? I had little money and Mike aside, (staying with my mother was out of the question); I had no one I could turn to. Then of course, there was Madam Lee’s insistent notion that I would be forced to return to High Bank, no matter how determined I was to leave permanently.

  Once the photographic session with Russ had finished, we returned inside the cottage. Now it was my turn to gather information.

  “I’ve kept to my side of the bargain,” I told Norris, who by this time was on his third lager, “now, what do you have to tell me?”

  The reporter glanced at his photographer, who was poised to take more shots, I might not have been a part of the media fraternity, but I wasn’t stupid. Norris was hoping to get a strong reaction captured on film.

  He put down his glass, placed his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepled his fingers. He offered a faint smile, which I took to be more of a self satisfied grin and proceeded
to inform me that my first contact with the area of Ashley on the Hill had been in the early eighties during which time I’d settled here as an infant with my parents. We’d moved here from Bristol so my father could take up the offer of a job, selling farm machinery. We lived in Ashley for two years said Norris, before moving away in the wake of the disappearances of the “Ashley three” as the three missing girls became known in the Press. I was completely thrown by the revelations, and when I spoke, my voice was unsteady.

  “How did you come by this information?”

  At that point Russ sneaked a shot of me. I raised a hand instructing him to stop.

  Norris said, “It’s a reporter’s job to uncover facts. I’m only too surprised that the police haven’t yet made a connection between you and the cottage.”

  “Why should they?” I asked.

  “If nothing else, it’s a lead,” Norris casually replied.

  “But it doesn’t have any bearing on what’s happening now,” I said.

  Norris raised his eyebrows and glanced at Russ. To me he said, “You’re still not getting the picture are you? You are still unable to remember.”

  I was starting to feel increasingly angry and frustrated. He was toying with me. “Remember what exactly, Mr. Norris?”

  “In the summer of nineteen eighty four you and your parents holidayed here at High Bank.”