The Tide of Terror

by Stuart G. Yates

  “I'm glad to hear it. No bumps in the night, then?”

  “Not any more. Unless, of course, you're a magnet for that sort of thing.”

  She looked serious. “Joking apart, Mark, I actually think I am.”

  He frowned. “I hope not, Jen. I've had enough paranormal experiences to last me…” Mark Burridge shrugged, still looking down at his coffee. “I'd like things to be a bit more settled for a while…give us both a chance to get to know one another better. I wondered if, after the interview today, you'd like to come over to my office, see what it is we do.”

  “I'd love to.”

  “Really?” She nodded. All at once, Mark relaxed and the atmosphere grew less charged. He grinned and finally drank his coffee, but straight away made a face. “No sugar,” he moaned, causing them both to laugh.

  Coming out of the animal rescue centre in Irby, Jenny felt like jumping up and down with joy. She had got on well with May Walsh, and the best part of it was that she could start at the weekend. This was their busiest time, apparently, and they would like Jenny to be involved as soon as possible. Mark was also pleased and, as they both got back into his car and drove along the winding country road that led them towards more built up areas, Jenny felt that she could like this area quite a lot.

  “It's a funny sort of place,” she said, looking out of the window at the passing countryside. “It's so built-up and yet, all of sudden, you come across really quite lovely parts. Unspoilt.”

  “Yes. It used to be quite a difficult place to get out of, before the motorway. Being a peninsula you can always get back to where you started from fairly easily. Each part has its own individual atmosphere, if you like. Some of it not so good, sorry to say. But most of it is fine. You think you might like it here?”

  “I'm willing to give it a good try. I start my day release at college next week as well. Two days there, the rest at the centre. The good thing is, I have Monday off. I've never liked Mondays.”

  “Who does!”

  They swept down through Prenton, towards the outskirts of Birkenhead. Just down behind Hamilton Square, near the docks and the area where the Four Bridges used to stand, Mark had his small office, tucked away down a side street.

  “Not very imposing,” he said, stopping the car in his designated parking space. “We've been under the threat of closure for months, but we keep clinging on.”

  “Who's 'we'?”

  “Donna and me. She's the secretary – well, she's everything really. Don't know where I'd be without her.” He smiled. Jenny could feel him tensing up. Why would that be, she wondered.

  She got a little insight when Mark introduced her to Donna. There was an icy wind swirling around the secretary as she briefly took Jenny's hand and shook it. A look that spoke of resentment and suspicion was set upon her face, a face which was startlingly attractive. Jenny did her best to remain neutral, smiling openly, but inside she knew that this woman viewed her as a rival, not as a friend.

  As for Mark, if he did notice the frost that had immediately developed between the two women, he didn't say anything, moving briskly over to his computer to sift through his e-mails.

  “I'll make tea,” said Donna.

  “No, please,” said Jenny quickly, “please don't bother.”

  Donna stopped, leaning down to log-off her own machine. “Oh, it's no bother.” She gave a thin smile. “No bother at all.”

  “Most of our work consists of recording finds, cataloguing artefacts, keeping in touch with museums and such.” Mark appeared to be talking to himself, his eyes locked on the screen of the computer. He was keeping a discreet distance as the two women shadow-boxed with each another and he hadn't looked up as they exchanged their words. Jenny wondered why he had never mentioned Donna before now. Was he purposely trying to hide something and if so, why? He had never made any big play about his feelings for Jenny. A few walks along the beach, holding hands, a little peck on the cheek. Nothing that would prompt her to think that he felt anything more for her. Could the same be said for Donna, she wondered. Was that what all of this awkwardness was about?

  “It must be very interesting,” Jenny said, sitting down next to him. Donna plonked a mug of tea next to her before returning to her workstation without a word. Jenny noticed there wasn't any tea for Mark.

  “It can be. Most of the time it's just routine stuff, but every now and again something interesting crops up. We had a few enquiries from Timeteam.”

  “The TV people? Wow, I'm impressed.”

  “Yeah, before they went off air. Didn't come to much unfortunately. But we've got quite a colourful history. The Romans, of course. Chester was a massive settlement for them, and then there were the Vikings. Irby, where we've just been, that was a Viking settlement. Across the River Dee, you can still see evidence of an old track-way used by locals to cross over to Wales. And then there's the old priory, which dates back to the Twelfth Century. That really is quite an interesting place.”

  “Priory? There was talk of a priory over on Alderney wasn't there? You mentioned it when we first met, something about your son discovering it?”

  Mark's face drained and for a moment Jenny feared he might break down. Reaching out, she gently laid her hand upon his arm. He looked up, “Sorry. Yes. My son, Robbie, he found what was left of it. That's when it all began, you see; for us anyway.”

  “I didn't mean to churn it all up again.”

  He shook his head. “No, it's all right. Strange how holy places can sometimes hold secrets which are not, particularly, good.” He smiled. “But Birkenhead Priory is rather special. I'll have to take you there – it's a little oasis of quiet amidst all the noise.”

  “I'd like that. Might remind me of home.”

  “Home?” Donna's voice sounded slightly scathing, “So, you'll be going back then?”

  Jenny decided not to answer, just making do with a slight shrug of the shoulders. She drank her tea. It was lukewarm, just like her reception had been.

  Chapter Three

  Lawrence didn't understand why he walked his dog down to the beach on that particular evening. Usually, his route took him through the park and he rarely ventured down to the riverside. Not that Charley complained. Charley was a golden retriever and, as would be expected, he loved nothing more than to run around, the wind throwing back his ears, enjoying the thrill of being out in a world full of exciting smells. Lawrence loved Charley, with all his heart. He'd virtually grown up with him, the little bundle of fun first arriving on his doorstep some five years ago when Lawrence had just turned ten. Not exactly a birthday present, at least that's what Dad had said. But Lawrence knew that Charley would always be his dog; he was the only one who ever took the dog out for walks, who fed him, who hugged him when he came nuzzling up looking for affection in the morning. No, Charley was absolutely his dog; they were inseparable, the best of friends. Lawrence couldn't imagine life without him.

  Save for a couple of little boys with their mother way in the distance, the beach was deserted and Charley was loping off along the water's edge, skipping over the waves as they gently washed ashore. Occasionally he would bite a bigger breaker, but they were in the minority. The tide was going out and it was a calm and mild evening, the sort of evening when nothing very much ever happened.

  Except for this evening.

  It started with Charley suddenly becoming very excited about something he had found buried in the sand. He went down on his forepaws, barking madly, tail a blur. Lawrence came running up and got down beside his best friend. At first he couldn't see anything. “What is it, boy?” Charley, mouth wide open, tongue lolling out, yelped and began pawing frantically at the sodden sand. But Lawrence, no matter how hard he looked, couldn't see anything.

  “Are you all right?”

  Lawrence turned to see the mother, with her two boys, all of them standing there with anxious looks on their faces.

  “Yes, it's just my dog. He thinks he's found something.”

  “Perhaps he h
as.”

  “I can't see anything.” Lawrence took to moving away handfuls of sand.

  Squatting down beside him, the woman said, “My boys will help.” The children had spades and soon they were all making headway in the sand. Charley, tail still swishing, sat back watching their progress, panting loudly.

  The woman seemed serious. Lawrence saw the intense look on her face, as if she were half-expecting to find something sinister buried beneath their feet. Determination was etched in every line as she worked furiously at the sand and then everyone's efforts were rewarded as something at last began to be revealed. Perhaps not sinister, but certainly mysterious.

  A blackened stump first showed itself, jutting out from the damp sand. Made of wood, it appeared well rotted, no doubt having been buried for many, many years. “Probably just some old bit of timber, or driftwood,” said Lawrence, rocking back on his haunches.

  “No,” said the woman, her face a mask of concentration, “keep digging.” And, as if to underline how she was feeling, she took a spade from one of her boys and began to work away with renewed vigour, grunting loudly with her exertions.

  Within ten minutes or so, the outline of something large began to emerge. It was wooden, and it was black. Soon, its shape became more distinct as the prow emerged. A sort of rowing boat, perhaps a lifeboat from an old ship, cast into the river years before. Lawrence screwed up his eyes and ran them over the sides of the boat. A lifeboat should have the name of the parent ship written across the timbers. But, as more minutes passed and the woman worked harder still, it became clear that it was a much older vessel than anything that would have been found onboard a ship which carried lifeboats.

  “It's a coracle,” said the woman, falling backwards at last, her job done. Breathing hard, she dragged a hand over her face to wipe away the streams of sweat.

  “A what?” asked Lawrence, holding back Charley who appeared intent on pressing his nose in amongst the find.

  “A coracle. A one-person boat, made for centuries, since early times. Usually made from animal skins, stretched across a wooden frame. But this, this is a wooden-sided version, probably used in the river.” She shook her head. “It's bigger than usual, too. This could hold three, maybe four people.”

  Charley was proving to be too strong for Lawrence and the dog suddenly freed itself from Lawrence's grip and dived in amongst the remains of the boat. He tugged at what appeared to be a thin chain. Pushing the dog's nose away, Lawrence took hold of the chain and gently eased it free from the sand. It was a pendant, large and purple coloured, with a strange set of inter-twining letters curled around the sides. The letters were made from what looked like gold and although it was dull with age, Lawrence knew instinctively that it was valuable. Charley prodded it with his great, black nose, then licked it. He immediately yelped, as if he had tasted something sour, and backed off. Lawrence laughed, roughing up the dog's neck. “Silly dog,” he said.

  “Let me see that.” The woman very carefully took the pendant between her fingers and gazed at it with a look of wonder in her eyes. “This is beautiful. Early Middle-Ages, I shouldn't wonder.”

  “How do you know all that? And this boat, how do know so much about it?”

  The woman shrugged. “My name's Donna. I work for the local archaeological office. These are my two nephews, Neil and Francis.” She stood up, reaching inside her pocket for her mobile phone with her free hand. “I'm going to tell my boss. He'll be over-the-moon about this.”

  Chapter Four

  Mark Burridge was certainly in awe of the object as he sat at his desk, closely studying the pendant. Protected in a thin, plastic wallet, he could pick it up without fear of contaminating it with the grease from his fingers. He had no idea if it was gold or not; it may have been bronze, copper, some sort of pyrites. He would have to wait for the results of the analysis to come back. Until then, he could only guess. Either way, it was an object of beauty, wonderfully crafted with great care and skill. The letters seemed to form some sort of inscription, and it wasn't Latin, he knew that much.

  “Middle English,” said Donna, coming in with a pile of papers in her hand. “I took a photograph, sent it off to the British Museum. “

  “You're up with the birds this morning.”

  “This is big, Mark. We haven't had a find like this…well, not for ages. It could mean the threat of our closure is lifted. So let's not hang about, yeah.”

  Mark laughed. “Yes sir!” He looked again at the intricate writing. “So, what does it say?”

  “Read it.” It was her turn to laugh as he turned his perplexed face towards her. “Go on, read it out loud.”

  He shrugged and looked again at the twisted letters. Middle English or Ancient Greek, it didn't matter; the letters were difficult to disentangle. Donna sighed and came around the desk, leaning over him to read the inscription, “Trouthe, honour, curtesye.”

  The way she pronounced the words made their meaning instantly clear. “Truth, honour, courtesy,” he echoed. “Like you said – simple.”

  “I told you – you only had to read it.”

  He scratched his head. “Yeah, but what does it mean…”

  “You're the archaeologist, Mark. You work it out.”

  Mark nodded his head, knowing it was up to him to find the answer to the simple question of what was an early Medieval piece of jewellery doing buried in the sand on the banks of the River Mersey?

  He'd already begun his examination of the site and had recruited the help of three students from Liverpool University to help in uncovering the entire area. The police cordoned off the area to deter the curious, but not nature, unfortunately. With the return of the tide, the little boat had become submerged once more. There followed several frustrating hours waiting for the water to retreat again and as soon as it did, the team worked frantically to salvage what they could, take photographs and make sketches. It was the best they could do. Already, by exposing the boat to the air, it was degrading. Mark took some comfort in the knowledge that although the boat was interesting, the main focus was the fascinating pendant, already in safe-keeping.

  Up to his knees in river water, Mark suddenly sensed someone standing close by and he turned to see a small boy, wild black hair flying in the wind, huge, saucer-sized eyes staring as if transfixed towards the boat. At first sight, he seemed quite young, but now, studying him more closely, Mark saw he was a teenager.

  “It's a coracle,” said the boy.

  Mark nodded, “Yes it is. You must be…?”

  “Lawrence.” He held out his hand and Mark shook it. “Charley found it.”

  “Charley?”

  “My dog. We were walking along and he starting acting weird, and that's when we found it. The lady helped, the nice lady who was here.”

  “Donna? Yeah, she told me all about it. The press might want to talk to you; this is an important discovery.”

  “Is it? Why?”

  Mark blinked, a little nonplussed. Didn't everyone believe it was important? The television news seemed to think so. “Well, because it seems to indicate that people were fishing in this area, centuries ago. Coracles were used by fishermen, which I'm sure you knew anyway.”

  “No. I don't know anything about any of it. Why should I?”

  Again, struck by the boy's abrupt, matter-of-fact manner, Mark didn't know how to react. He took a breath, “Well…school. Haven't you learned about this sort of stuff in class?”

  “No. I didn't know what a coracle was until the lady told me. Where have you taken the jewel?”

  “Jewel? The pendant, you mean?” The boy nodded. “It's being analysed. Experts, from the British Museum, they want to study it, make sure it is what I think it is.”

  “And you think it's a pendant?”

  “Er, yes – a pendant from the Middle Ages. Twelfth century maybe.”

  “Like the priory?”

  Narrowing his eyes slightly, Mark looked at Lawrence with much keener interest. “The priory?” He delive
red his words slowly as his mind ran through the possibilities. Why hadn't he seen it himself? The link to the Benedictine Priory that once stood not so very far from where they were standing right now. 'Trouthe, honour, curtesye'. Of course. The Priory was the oldest remaining building on the Wirral peninsula. Built by Benedictine monks in the early half of the Twelfth-Century, it served not only as a centre for worship, but also as a resting place for travellers. The monks would offer visitors shelter and food before rowing them across the river, maybe even in coracles.

  “You think that pendant belonged to a monk?”

  Mark didn't know, hadn't even begun to make the connection. Not until now, not until Lawrence had mentioned it. “You're a clever lad,” he said, patting him on the shoulder. “You should get a job working for us.”

  “No thanks. I want to be a footballer.”

  “Yeah. I might have guessed!” He pointed down to where the little group of students were continuing to carefully sift through the sand, lifting out pieces of timber. “I have to say a big 'thank you' for finding this.”

  “I told you, it wasn't me – it was Charley.”

  “Ah, yes…your dog.” Mark looked around. “Where is he, this four-legged archaeologist?”

  “You mean my dog?” Mark nodded, feeling a little self-conscious, his humour having fallen on deaf ears. “He's not very well. Been sick a few times. He just lies there, feeling really sorry for himself. I want to take him to the vet, but Mum says we can't afford it.”

  Mark looked into those big, round eyes and smiled. “Well, Lawrence my young friend, I know just the person who can help.”

  Chapter Five

  Stepping back from the table, Jenny rubbed her chin, lost in thought. Charley looked up, his big brown eyes seeming to plead with her, begging her to stop his pain. Jenny had run her hands across his distended belly, pulled back his lips and observed how pale his gums were. The signs suggested a form of poisoning, but without a full medical examination she couldn't be sure. She went over to the sink and washed her hands vigorously under the tap. “There's not much we can do, I'm afraid,” she said, taking a nearby towel to dry herself. “If it's poison we're going to have wait and see. It might work its way through his system naturally, if you understand my meaning…but then, you can never be sure. Has he eaten anything unusual that you know of?” As she turned, putting the towel back, Lawrence went and bent over his dog, gently stroking Charley's head. Jenny caught her breath when she saw the single tear rolling down the boy's cheek. She wanted to go over to him, reassure him, but felt a little awkward, not knowing what to do next. She briefly touched him on the shoulder. He whirled, his eyes wide, brimming with anger.