by Shaun Hutson
In that split second Wallace fell back, dropping the torch, stumbling in the darkness.
He heard a thick, throaty gurgle and realized that it was Swanson’s death rattle.
‘Shit,’ muttered the policeman, his heart thudding madly against his ribs. He wiped his face with one shaking hand, gradually regaining his composure.
Somehow Swanson had clung to life for over an hour while skewered on the stake.
Wallace didn’t even attempt to imagine the suffering he’d gone through. The inspector regained his torch and shone it on the archaeologist’s face once more, seeing that the eyes were now staring wide, the pupils hugely dilated. The soft rustling sound had stopped.
‘Wallace, are you all right?’
He recognized Cooper’s voice and found his radio.
‘Terrific,’ he said, wearily. ‘Dayton, can you hear me? Clear everybody away from the pit, then get a stretcher down here.’
‘On its way, guv,’ the sergeant told him.
Wallace shone his torch around the base of the shaft, looking at the objects which were scattered in all directions. Coins, weapons, jewellery.
And bones. So many bones.
As the beam fell on Swanson again he quickly moved it away, playing it over the walls. He reached for the two-way, his eyes fixed ahead.
‘Cooper, you still there?’ he said.
A crackle of static, then the archaeologist answered.
‘What is it?’
‘When the body’s removed you’d better come down here,’ the policeman said, the torch wavering slightly as he shone it ahead. The beam flickered for a second.
‘There’s something I think you should see.’
Six
He didn’t time it, but Wallace guessed that it took him and the ambulanceman almost twenty minutes to remove Phillip Swanson’s body from the wooden stake. As the body was finally pulled free, the left arm came loose and fell with a dull thud. The ambulanceman laid it alongside the body, then carefully wrapped the remains in a thick blanket and secured the whole grisly package to a stretcher with rope. On Wallace’s order the corpse was winched up, along with the ambulanceman.
The two of them had spoken little during their vile task. The ambulanceman in particular seemed glad to be away from the cloying blackness of the pit and, as he was winched up towards the light again, he did not look down.
Now the policeman stood alone wishing he had a cigarette, partly to calm his nerves, but also to mask the rancid stench which filled the shaft. He rummaged in his trouser pockets and found half a stick of chewing gum. It would have to do for now. He shone the torch over the floor of the pit, realizing at last how many strange objects lay around him. To his untrained eye it reminded him of some ancient rubbish tip. Articles of all shapes and sizes were scattered in all directions around the base of the stake.
The roving beam illuminated a skull, the jaws open in a soundless scream. There was a large hole in it just above the crown. Another lay beside it. And another. All bore jagged cracks or hollows.
But it was beyond the mounds of bones and relics that Wallace finally allowed the torch beam to rest.
What would Cooper and the others make of this?
He chewed his gum thoughtfully and glanced up. The pit’s depth prevented any natural light from reaching the bottom and it also cut out any sounds from above. The combination of deathly silence and unyielding darkness was a formidable one. And there was the ever-present smell, too. An odour of decay which clutched at Wallace’s throat like an invisible spectre.
A few feet above him he heard something move. He aimed his torch up into the gloom.
Cooper was descending on the winch and with him was the young woman Wallace knew as Kim Nichols.
She had a firm hold on the rope and looked unperturbed by the sight which faced her. Even when she glanced at the bloodied wooden stake she didn’t flinch. Wallace watched her for a moment, offering his hand as she stepped out of the harness. There was a warmth in her touch which contrasted sharply with the bone-numbing cold in the shaft.
‘You don’t need an explanation, do you?’ said Wallace, motioning towards the stake.
Cooper shook his head.
Kim shuddered and looked away, thinking how easily she could have been the one to suffer Swanson’s agonizing death. But that thought was pushed aside as she saw the piles of artifacts before her. Cooper too was staring in awe at the array which faced him. He bent and picked up a short sword, the blade dulled but still remarkably well preserved considering its age. Flecks of rust had formed around the tip, but apart from that the weapon looked surprisingly sturdy.
Kim found a number of large bowls, some gold, some iron. But she was more interested in the bones. Skulls, femurs, tibias, pelvic bones, and here and there complete skeletons. The place was carpeted with them.
‘It’s a sacrificial well,’ said Cooper excitedly.
Wallace continued chewing slowly, watching the two archaeologists.
‘That would explain the bones,’ Kim added.
‘I don’t get it,’ Wallace said.
‘This shaft and the wooden stake were put here by a Celtic tribe thousands of years ago,’ explained Cooper.
Offerings like these coins and weapons,’ added Kim, ‘were thrown in to please their gods. So were human beings. Prisoners of war, lunatics and sacrificial victims from the tribe were all thrown down here in the hope of gaining favour with whichever deity was being worshipped.’
‘I’m sure Phillip Swanson would have been pleased to hear that,’ Wallace said acidly.
‘You don’t understand the importance of this find, Wallace,’ Cooper snapped. ‘It’s unfortunate that Swanson is dead but it was an accident. What do you expect us to do? Close the site as a mark of respect?’ There was scorn in his voice.
Wallace turned away, pointing the torch at the far wall of the pit.
‘What do you make of that?’
Cooper, who had been crouching close to the wooden stake, looked up. His jaw dropped open. He got slowly to his feet and wandered across to join the policeman, closely followed by Kim.
The three of them stood mesmerized by the sight that faced them.
Two large, almost perfectly circular stones were propped against the smooth wall of the shaft. Spreadeagled on each one was a skeleton. Iron spikes fully ten inches long had been driven through the wrists and feet of each one. The mouths were open as if the skeletons were still screaming. More of the iron spikes had been driven through the eye sockets of each one, nailing the head to the stone behind it.
‘Were they thrown in here like that?’ Wallace asked. ‘Because if they weren’t, then whoever nailed them up died down here with them.’
‘Criminals,’ said Cooper, quietly. ‘To have suffered punishment like that they must have transgressed against the tribe itself.’
‘These stones,’ Kim said, poking one finger behind the rock closest to her. ‘They’re like gates. There’s something behind them.’ She peered through the narrow gap into the odorous gloom beyond. ‘It looks like a tunnel of some kind.’
‘I’m going to leave you to it,’ said Wallace. ‘After all, I’m a copper, not an archaeologist. I’ve done my bit.’
Cooper nodded perfunctorily, more interested in the finds.
‘Thank you,’ Kim said as Wallace gripped the harness.
‘I may need a statement from you, Miss Nichols,’ he said. ‘When you’ve finished.’
She nodded and smiled.
The rope, and Wallace, began to rise.
Seven
Frank King double-checked that the handbrake of the Land Rover would hold on the sharp incline, and then he and John Kirkland clambered out.
From where they stood the building site was clearly visible away to the west.
The wood stood defiantly before them, its trees jammed tightly together as if to form a barrier to any who might wish to enter. As the two men pushed their way through the chest-high bushes which grew on the per
imeter, Kirkland cursed the brambles that cut his flesh. One particularly long hawthorn spike dug deeply into the back of his right hand, drawing blood, and he winced in pain.
‘Why the bloody hell couldn’t Cutler have come up here himself?’ he said, wiping the crimson droplets away with his handkerchief. ‘I mean, if he wants the wood levelled, fair enough. All we have to do is send a dozen blokes up here with chainsaws, then bulldoze the whole lot when they’ve finished.’
‘It seems like such a waste, doesn’t it?’ said King, looking around at the ancient trees which towered over them like sentinels. ‘Flattening this lot.’
‘Come on, Frank, don’t have a fit of environmental conscience now,’ Kirkland said, tugging himself free of a clinging gorse bush.
The foreman smiled.
‘There should be a few thousand quids’ worth of paper here,’ he said, tapping the trunk of one tree.
As the men moved deeper into the wood King noticed how dark it was becoming. Despite the scarcity of leaves on the branches, the trees still seemed to be blocking out a great deal of natural light. King wondered how any of the mosses and lichens which carpeted the floor of the wood managed to grow. He kicked a rotted tree stump aside, stepping back in revulsion as he saw dozens of wood lice spilling from the hulk like maggots from a festering wound. Two or three extremely large ground spiders also scuttled into view. Kirkland crushed one beneath his foot.
Ahead of them was a clearing, perhaps twenty or thirty yards in diameter, and here the ground was covered by a blanket of brown leaves. They crackled noisily as the two men walked over them.
King stopped in the centre of the treeless area, relieved to be free of the dark confines of the dense wood. He was beginning to feel quite claustrophobic.
High above them, the sky was the colour of wet concrete and a gathering of black clouds to the north promised rain.
Kirkland kicked away some of the dead leaves and dug the toe of his boot into the earth, kicking up a large clod.
‘The foundations are going to have to be laid deep if Cutler wants us to build here,’ he said, sucking at the small cut on his hand. He bent down and picked up a handful of the moist topsoil, turning it over in his hand, prodding the dark matter and then finally dropping it.
His palms were stained a deep, rusty red.
The colour of dried blood.
Kirkland rubbed his hands together, trying to wipe away the stain. He smelt a musty odour and coughed. The ground around his feet was also tinged dark red.
The trees rattled noisily in the wind as the two men turned to make their way back.
‘The sooner this lot’s flattened the better,’ said Kirkland, rubbing his hands on his overalls.
As they left the clearing, the gloom closed around them again.
Eight
‘What sort of rock is it?’ Kim asked, watching as George Perry used a chisel to shave off a piece of the slab.
Perry held the lantern over it and prodded the powdery rock with one finger.
‘It looks like limestone,’ he said. ‘It would have to be reasonably soft to take those nails.’ He motioned to the circles of stone with the skeletons spreadeagled on them.
‘Then they shouldn’t be too difficult to move,’ Cooper said excitedly.
The gas lamps cast a dull yellow glow around the base of the pit, illuminating the host of artifacts and bones that littered the sacrificial well. Many of the objects had already been removed for analysis. Three or four of the team were packing them carefully into the back of the Land Rover which would transport them into Longfield.
As yet none of the bones had been touched.
Cooper stepped forward, dug his fingers into the soil behind the edge of one of the circular rocks, grasped the rock and braced his shoulder against it. George Perry added his considerable bulk to the effort and they were joined by a third man, whom Kim recognized as Ian Russell. Perry was a grey-haired individual and despite the chill inside the subterranean chamber, dark rings of sweat were visible beneath his armpits. Kim directed the beam of her powerful torch at the rock and watched as the trio of men braced themselves. At a signal from Cooper they began to tug on the stone.
Gritting his teeth, Cooper pulled as hard as he could, feeling a slight movement.
The other two men also noticed that the stone was beginning to shift and they re-doubled their efforts.
An inch.
Two inches.
The concerted effort was working.
Three inches.
Several small fragments of the rock broke off and fell to the ground, and Perry found that he was losing his handhold. He swiftly dug his hands in behind the stone once more, scraping his palms as he did so.
Six inches.
Kim stepped forward, aiming the torch beam into the blackness behind the monolith.
Eight inches.
Russell grunted in pain as his finger slipped and part of his nail was torn away as far as the cuticle. A dark globule of blood welled up and dripped from the end of the digit.
One foot and still they heaved, trying to clear a gap large enough to squeeze through.
The skeleton suspended on the rock shuddered slightly as the great stone was moved. Two of the fingers broke off and dropped to the ground.
Cooper, his face sheathed in sweat, was finding it difficult to get his breath. The effort of moving the rock was over-exerting his strength and the cloying atmosphere inside the shaft wasn’t helping.
‘Stop,’ he grunted and the other two men carefully released their hold on the stone.
Reaching into his pocket, Russell pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at the blood from his injured finger, but he seemed more concerned with what lay behind the rock than with his own discomfort.
Cooper took the torch from Kim and stood by the entrance they had unblocked. The gap was large enough to admit him now but he hesitated, shining the torch beam through the blackness to what lay beyond.
It was a tunnel.
As Cooper stood there he felt the beads of perspiration on his forehead turning cold, as if the icy breeze were freezing them into dozens of crystal beads.
He didn’t move.
Kim looked at him and frowned, wondering why the archaeologist did not advance into the tunnel. He had been so eager to discover its secrets that she could not understand why he should hesitate now.
She sucked in a startled breath as the muscles in her body suddenly seemed to spasm, as if some powerful electric current were being pumped through her for long seconds. The feeling passed and then she was aware of a rancid stench, much more powerful than that in the shaft, but it was carried on no breeze; it simply hung in the air like a noxious invisible blanket.
Perry coughed and covered his face with one hand.
For what seemed like an eternity no one moved. Finally, as if suddenly galvanized into action, Cooper eased his way through the gap into the waiting tunnel.
The ground was surprisingly soft beneath his feet, and clay-like in consistency. The walls, too, were porous, almost clammy to the touch.
‘There must be a lot of moisture in the soil,’ said Kim, following him inside, touching the wall with her fingers.
‘It’s amazing,’ said Perry. ‘There don’t appear to be any stantions to support the tunnel roof and yet it seems solid.’
‘The Celts were very skilled builders and architects,’ Cooper reminded him. ‘You only have to look at the broch of Midhowe to realize that.’
‘The broch?’ Russell said.
‘It’s a stone tower in the Orkneys,’ Kim told him, ‘said to have been built by the Celts over 2,000 years ago.’
Ahead of her, Cooper found that the tunnel was curving to the right. Less than four feet wide in places, its narrowness forced the archaeologists to walk in single file. Kim touched the wall closest to her and found that in places droplets of moisture were forming and running like dirty tears down the wall.
Cooper stopped.
There was another tunne
l leading off to the left.
‘Which one do we take?’ asked Perry.
‘We could split up,’ Russell suggested.
‘No,’ Cooper said. ‘There’s no telling how deep these networks go or how complex they become. We’ll stay together for the time being.’
They moved on.
Kim saw her breath clouding in the air and she shuddered as the numbing cold seemed to penetrate her bones, freezing the marrow until her whole body felt as if it were stiffening. She found it an effort to lift her feet. Ahead of her, she saw that Cooper too was slowing his pace. It was as if they were walking into a high wind, battling against the force of some powerful blast of air. But there was no movement in the air. The atmosphere remained still and as stagnant as filthy pond water. The stench and the cold closed around them like a reeking glove, squeezing more tightly until each of them was gasping for breath.
Cooper stopped and pulled a box of matches from his pocket. He lit one and held it up.
The flame did not move.
Not a flicker either way:
In seconds the match burned out, as if there wasn’t enough oxygen in the foul atmosphere to sustain it.
‘Shouldn’t one of us go back and tell the others what’s happening?’ Russell suggested.
Cooper agreed.
‘We’ll push on and see if we can find the end of the tunnel,’ he said. ‘You go back.’
Russell nodded, flicked on his torch and retreated down the narrow tunnel. Within seconds the light was enveloped by the blackness and he became invisible to his three colleagues.
‘Come on,’ Cooper said, noticing that the tunnel turned to the right again, more sharply this time. Kim sensed that it was also getting narrower. She put out her hands and touched both sides with ease, recoiling slightly from the clammy, moist feel of the walls.
‘How much further?’ Perry murmured wearily. ‘We must have come five or six hundred yards already.’
‘The Celts didn’t usually build labyrinths like this, did they?’ said Kim, not sure whether it was a question or a statement.