Wychwood

by George Mann

  “I hope so.” She wandered along the row of shelving units. “So what’s in all these boxes?” They were long and thin, and lidded, and there were dozens of them slotted neatly into individual cubby holes, like a massive rectangular beehive. She’d never seen anything like it. “Case files?”

  Peter looked a little sheepish. “No, not case files,” he said. “Nothing, really.”

  “They take up a lot of space for nothing,” said Elspeth. She narrowed her eyes. “What is it? What are you trying to hide?”

  Peter sighed. “Comic books. The boxes are full of American comic books. I collect them.”

  “What, all of these boxes?”

  “Yes.”

  Elspeth laughed.

  “See, I knew you’d laugh. You probably think they’re childish.”

  “No, it’s not that,” she said. “It’s the look on your face, the fact you felt you had to keep them from me.” She smiled. “You don’t have to worry about trying to impress me, you know.”

  “Now you’re just patronising me,” he said. He looked a little crestfallen.

  “So, which do you prefer – Gail Simone’s darker, sexier Batgirl, or Batgirl of Burnside?”

  He stared at her. “Really? You’ve read those?”

  Elspeth shrugged. “I’m not a complete heathen, you know. Books are books, irrespective of whether they’ve got pictures in them. Do you still like poetry?”

  He pointed at the bookshelves beside the TV. There, above the serried ranks of crime novels, was a shelf of thin poetry books. “Pride of place,” he said.

  “And do you still write it, too?”

  “Oh, God, you remember that, do you? No, I haven’t done anything like that for years.”

  “You should. You were good.”

  “I was a teenager, and preoccupied with teenage things: life, death, and wanting to impress girls, mostly. It was all very immature.”

  “Maturity is overrated,” said Elspeth. “Like most things.” She held out her empty glass. “Another drink?”

  “I’ll fetch them,” he said. He jumped up from the sofa and took her glass. Their eyes met, and he lingered there for just a few seconds too long. She wondered for a moment if he might try to kiss her. Then the moment passed, and he was heading for the kitchen, mumbling something about finding some crockery.

  It was probably for the best, thought Elspeth. It would only complicate things. She had enough on her plate to deal with, both practically and emotionally. And besides, she had to focus on the story.

  The pizza came and went, and they sat together on the sofa, laughing – only a little ironically – at reruns of old episodes of Friends, which appeared to be showing non-stop on one of the satellite channels.

  The bottle of gin soon disappeared, and around eleven the soporific effects began to manifest, and Elspeth decided it was time to head home. She placed her empty glass on the coffee table and fetched her boots.

  “You off?” said Peter.

  She nodded. “I think you’ve had the best of me tonight. Time to sleep.” She slipped her boots on. “Thanks, though. I needed it.”

  “Well at least I made you laugh, and after everything that’s been going on recently, that’s not a bad result, is it?”

  “Not at all. I still can’t get over what the pathologist said about Patricia Graves, though.”

  Peter leaned his head back against the lip of the sofa. “They’re releasing the body. The funeral’s on Monday afternoon, I believe.”

  “It still feels as if a piece of the puzzle is missing. Does that make sense?”

  “Of course. But that’s how deaths like this always feel, especially if there’s no obvious reason for it. You and I spend our lives trying to unpick other people’s stories, and it’s the not knowing that’s the hardest part.”

  “Perhaps. But it’s not too late to understand. The thing is, Peter, this is what I do. This is who I am. It’s like you were saying earlier, about being a policeman, about not being able to stop. I’ve tried. But I need to understand. I pick and pick until the scab comes off and I can get to the story underneath. Sometimes it’s not pretty, and sometimes I’m the only one who cares, but it doesn’t change anything. I know that doesn’t make much sense, but it’s how I feel.”

  She tied her laces, fumbling drunkenly. “Some reporters are there to do a job. They turn up every day and write the news, or they sit at their desk and write what they’re told to write, and then when five thirty rolls around, they go home, kiss their partners and get on with their lives. I don’t work like that. I’ve never been able to work like that. Half the time it gets me into terrible trouble, but I won’t engage with that sort of corporate bull. I want to get to the truth.”

  Peter was grinning, clearly enjoying her inebriated rant.

  “So yes, you’re right, it’s too late to help Patricia Graves. And I’m not sure I ever would have been able to help her anyway. But I do want to understand why she did what she did. I want to know why I found her like that on her bedroom floor.”

  “But how? Where do you even start?”

  “I start by paying a visit to the Graves’s old social worker to see if she can shed any light.”

  “The police interviewed her extensively at the time,” said Peter. “I saw that in the file.”

  “Yes,” said Elspeth, “but I’ll be asking different sorts of questions. When you’re working on a ‘story’ and not a ‘case’,” she smiled pointedly, eliciting a grin from Peter, “you’re interested in different things. Sometimes you can find out more about what went on, just by taking a more personal approach.”

  Peter laughed. “Consider me thoroughly schooled,” he said. “And by the way – you’re drunk.”

  She got to her feet. “You’re right, and I’m going. Goodnight.”

  “Hang on.” He prised himself out of the pit of the sofa. “I’ll walk you home.”

  She waved him back to his seat. “Don’t be daft. It’s only over the road.”

  He shook his head. “No. I’m coming.” He walked out into the hall, jammed his feet into a pair of shoes, and opened the door. The cold breeze hit her like a slap in the face. He ushered her out into the still night. Somewhere in the distance, a car rolled by. “Come on.”

  She took his arm as they crossed the road and ambled along the pavement to the cul-de-sac. “I have two tickets to see the opening night of Corvus tomorrow, if you fancy it?”

  “I think it would be churlish not to,” said Peter, with a smile.

  “Alright. You can pick me up at six. I’m going to get my head down tomorrow, reading through that file and putting feelers out for more work.”

  “Great,” he said. “I’ll be here.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The theatre was packed.

  As Elspeth took her seat on the front row – reserved for her by Rose – she felt a sudden stab of guilt for not bringing her mother along to see the performance. Dorothy had hinted, too, telling Elspeth that she’d met David Keel a few times, that he only lived a few doors down from them at the end of the road. Elspeth had told herself it was a work thing; that it was important for Peter to see the play, for the background it might offer on the Carrion King myths. Now, though, she was wondering if all that had just been a way of rationalising it to herself.

  She’d spent the day firing off more enquiries about freelance work, and had even had a quick look online at rental property for Heighton and the surrounding area. She’d told herself she was just looking – just getting a measure of her options – but increasingly, she was wondering about whether the best thing to do would be to relocate more permanently back here, near home. Or perhaps that just meant she’d be running away. There was so much swirling around in her head.

  Whatever the case, she definitely wasn’t ready to start seeing anyone again. And yet, despite all of that, there was something there, with Peter. Perhaps it was just the spark of an old friendship reignited. Perhaps it was simply due to their proximity, w
orking together on the Carrion King case. Or perhaps she should just stop worrying about it and try to enjoy the show.

  She leaned back in her seat, glancing at Peter as he settled in beside her. He was studying the stage area, and looking suitably impressed. She had to admit, they’d done a great job. The stage furniture was minimal – just the stump of a tree and a pretty effective bonfire made with streamers, fans and electric lights. Lamps had been placed strategically amongst the trees on the outer edges of the copse, creating an atmospheric glow, seemingly emanating from deep within the Wychwood. Sinister music was tinkling somewhere in the background, and smoke curled around the edges of the stage like creeping mist.

  “Have you ever been to one of these?” she said, leaning forward again as people bustled past on the row behind, laughing as they made their way to their seats.

  “No. Never.” Peter looked sheepish. “It’s terrible to admit this, especially here, but I’ve always had the impression that am-dram was something to be avoided. I think Mum and Dad were the same. They never mentioned this place. But it doesn’t look as if there’s very much amateur about it.”

  Elspeth grinned. “Yeah. It’s a far cry from the village hall on a Sunday afternoon.”

  She had to admit, she was surprised the show was still going ahead, after everything that had come out regarding Vanessa Eglington and Oscar Waring. John Adams had apparently decided not to press charges over the missing petty cash – so Peter had told her – and although Rose had mentioned that tensions were running high between the cast and crew, they were all intent on putting on a good show.

  The atmosphere amongst the audience was subdued and expectant. It was near enough a full house, with just a few empty seats, and as the latecomers made their apologies and the lights dipped, she caught sight of Michael Williams, sitting two rows back on the other side of the steps. Rebecca Williams sat beside him, looking decidedly unhappy to be there.

  All eyes turned to the stage, and a hush settled over the gathered crowd. A figure was emerging from amongst the trees, backlit by the ethereal glow. As they approached the back of the stage area, they stopped perfectly still for a moment in stark silhouette. The music had grown in intensity and volume, until it was nothing but the tribal beating of drums, louder and louder, faster and faster. And then they stopped, dead, and the figure raised its arms, revealing stunning feathery wings. It threw back its head, and then the stage was plunged into darkness.

  Elspeth sat forward, enraptured. She sensed movement in the dark as the players took their positions for the first scene.

  Slowly, the light returned, softer this time, to reveal a small boy, sitting at a roughly hewn wooden table, staring at a dead crow. He poked it with the end of his finger. A man came in, dressed in the garb of a Saxon peasant – she knew from the programme that this was Graham Furnham, doubling up his roles – and began to berate the boy, bellowing so loudly that the entire auditorium rang with the sound of his voice. The boy cringed, dashing off into the woods to escape the brutal backhanded swipes of his father.

  From here the play followed the journey of the Carrion King, from his roots as a peasant boy in the late ninth century, to a young man cast out by the ealdorman of his village, to whom his family was in service. From there it explored the creation of his ‘kingdom’ in the wilds of the mysterious Wychwood, and the slow gathering of his apostles.

  The play seemed to follow the progression of the stories told by Byron Miller almost exactly, which had been reinforced by the material she’d gleaned from the Internet and the books she’d been able to skim in the last few days. David Keel had done an impressive job of drawing the Carrion King as a sympathetic character, however – tragically flawed, damaged, and betrayed by those who loved him. And she had to hand it to Oscar – for all of his otherworldliness in real life, it was a subtle, well-considered performance. She’d found herself rooting for him, right up until the point he plunged the knife into the Consort’s chest, and the lights went out for the interval.

  She turned to Peter, trying to read his expression. “Well, what do you think?”

  “They’re good, aren’t they? It makes it seem so much more real, seeing the stories brought to life like that. Although, that last scene was a little too close for comfort.” He frowned. “Anyway, I need a drink. You want anything?”

  “I’ll come with you,” she said. “I could do with stretching my legs.” He held out his hand and pulled her up.

  The rest of the audience had clearly had the same idea, and while Peter queued for teas at the catering tent, she made a beeline for the portable toilets, mentally making notes for her review while she stood in line. Nearby, Vanessa was doing the rounds, dressed in a glamorous blue dress, weaving amongst the theatregoers and merrily basking in their compliments. She was clearly very good at her job – both in terms of the quality of the production and in the way in which she was able to schmooze so effortlessly.

  Nearby, she saw David Keel standing with Byron Miller, both of them holding champagne flutes. Keel was dressed in a dinner suit, and was furiously bending Miller’s ear, no doubt fawning over him again. Miller’s input to the play would be obvious to anyone who’d heard him speak about the Carrion King, but despite that, he’d barely received a mention in the programme – just a small ‘with thanks to’ in the acknowledgements at the end. She suspected Keel wouldn’t have been happy with anything more. Although she recognised his talent, Elspeth didn’t much like the man. He was all too happy to talk about Miller’s mentorship in person, but when it came to taking the glory, she couldn’t see him giving any ground.

  Michael Williams was roaming about on the lawn, looking tired, while Rebecca was nowhere to be seen. It seemed all of the great and the good had turned out for opening night. She even caught the eye of Philip Cowper, who smiled and looked as if he were about to come over, until he realised where she was, and gave her a little wave instead, before turning his attention back to the two old gents he was standing with.

  Vaguely embarrassed, she ducked into the next available loo and closed the door.

  * * *

  She couldn’t scream.

  If only she could scream, she could alert someone to the horror, the nightmare that was taking place right there, so close to where they were milling about, sipping champagne. She could hear their chatter, although it was growing distant now, as the rope tightened around her throat, and she gasped desperately for air that wouldn’t come. Her hands were bound behind her back, and she fought ineffectually at the twine, bloodying her wrists. It was no use. She was going to die, here in the woods, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Tears coursed down her face. Her cheeks burned. Her lungs felt as if they were going to burst.

  “It’s alright,” said the voice, so close that she could feel his warm breath against her ear. “Just let go. It’s easier when you don’t fight.” He stroked her hair tenderly. “Just slip away. You haven’t done anything wrong. I’m not here to punish you. You’re giving me a gift, is all. A precious gift.”

  He’d been whispering to her like this as he’d trussed her up, telling her about his plans, his sick scheme to recreate the work of the Carrion King, to transcend ‘beyond the veil’ so that he might rescue the soul of his long dead friend. She’d known then he was utterly insane, and also that it made him dangerous. She’d only half listened as she’d fought frantically to get away, but then he had looped the rope around her neck and drawn it taut, and she knew all hope was lost.

  “Time to say goodbye,” he said, and gave the noose one final tug, so that it constricted violently around her throat. The last thing she felt as the blackness swarmed in was something sharp and painful piercing her lips.

  * * *

  Peter was already back at their seats by the time Elspeth returned to the auditorium, and he handed her a Styrofoam cup as she settled in for the second half, wrapping herself in a woollen throw. The temperature had dropped considerably with the fading light, and the audience were huddl
ing together against the chill. She leaned against Peter, and he pulled the edges of the throw over his lap, too, sipping quietly at his tea.

  The stage had been re-dressed during the interval, and now two enormous mirrors had been brought out, placed at either end of the stage. This, she presumed, was the scene in which the Carrion King enacted his revenge against the ealdorman that had cast him out, using an arcane ritual to seize control of the other man’s reflection.

  In the stories, the Carrion King had reserved this torturous death for those who had wronged him in his previous life. The murder of his apostles had been a morose affair, a matter of necessity from which he derived little pleasure, whereas the death of the ealdorman represented the setting right of old wrongs and the Carrion King’s terrible vengeance.

  A hush settled over the audience. Two figures emerged from the trees – Oscar, in his role as the Carrion King, and a man named Ash Farley as the ealdorman. Elspeth had been introduced to him briefly at the pub, but hadn’t had chance to talk to him. He was also portraying The Fool, the last of the apostles to die.

  The two actors took up their positions before the mirrors. The ealdorman stripped to his waist and leaned close to the mirror, trimming his beard with a dagger. Meanwhile, the Carrion King used the end of his staff to mark out a circle upon the ground, and then within the circle scraped a series of symbols or runes with a stick, which might or might not have been intended to represent some form of magical wand.

  Following this, the Carrion King appeared to study his mirror for a few moments, as if watching something unfolding deep within the reflection. Music drifted in, choral and otherworldly, as he lifted his arm – and to a gasp of surprise from the audience, the ealdorman mirrored his action.

  With a cry of consternation, the ealdorman continued to mirror the actions of the Carrion King as the Carrion King toyed with him, puppeting him, laughing obscenely as the ealdorman fought this strange, arcane influence from which he could not break free.

  Then, in a move that caused Elspeth to draw a sharp intake of breath, despite knowing what was coming, the Carrion King made a series of violent, juddering gestures, and the ealdorman followed suit, thrusting his dagger repeatedly into his chest. Fake blood spurted, and the ealdorman reached out and touched the mirror, before collapsing in a bloodied heap upon the ground.