The Tide of Terror

by Stuart G. Yates

  “What does that mean?”

  “It could mean any number of things. Medieval records aren't all that reliable. You have to fill in the gaps yourself; use a bit of detective work.” He pulled up another roll and ran his finger over it. “Here, it mentions the same farm. But it appears derelict. I can only assume that De la Croix bought it and within a year or two had completely overhauled it.”

  “A sort of Middle-Ages do-it-yourself man?”

  “Hardly.” He ran a hand through his hair. “But he was no monk, that's for sure.”

  “All right. So he was just someone who had come into a lot of money, all of a sudden?”

  “Possibly. Although making money in those days wasn't anything like it is now. He would more than likely have inherited something, something of value. Used it as a source of guarantee.”

  “Against what? A loan? That property?”

  “That's more than likely what happened, although obviously we can't prove any of it.”

  “What about if we talked to his descendants?”

  He gave a little laugh. “Well, yeah…that might help. But we're hardly likely to be able to find one of them.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because…” he shook his head, letting out an exasperated sigh, “This all happened eight hundred years ago, Jenny. Ordinary people, people like De la Croix, they haven't left any records. Unless he was aristocracy or royalty, it's virtually impossible to trace his line down the years to the present.”

  “But what if we traced his line back, from today to then. Wouldn't that be easier?”

  “Yes. If the records existed – but they don't. Henry the Eighth was the one who passed laws so that parishes registered births. But there are so many gaps. Regulation was very haphazard and many priests simply didn't have the time to do it. Or the desire.”

  Jenny stepped back from the table and folded her arms. “I met someone. A man.”

  “Good for you.”

  She clicked her tongue and chose to ignore his sarcasm, “He told me his name was Anthony Cross. The French for cross is croix.”

  He laughed again, only this time it sounded dismissive. “Jenny, that is just…no, that couldn't be. Why would you bump into a man who just happened to have the same—”

  “I didn't bump into him, Mark. We were on the beach, he was the stranger who was watching Lawrence and me, after the pendant had been found.”

  The smile froze on Mark's lips. “How do you know that?”

  “Because I met him, spoke to him. Don't ask me how it happened, but before you found me I had been on the beach, with Anthony Cross. We have to find him and we have to do it quickly.”

  “I don't…” Mark shook his head, “None of this makes any sense, Jenny. Find him quickly? Why?”

  “Because he was coming, Mark. He was coming for his revenge, rowing across the river in a coracle.”

  “Revenge…Who was coming for revenge?”

  She reached forward and seized him by the arms, shaking him, “The monk, Mark. The monk that Richard De la Croix murdered, he has come back.”

  It didn't take long to find him. First stop was the telephone directory, but no names matched the one Jenny had provided. Mark then looked to the electoral register, a list of names and addresses of everyone who was registered to vote in the area.

  “There he is,” said Mark, tapping the name. “Anthony Cross. Lives with his wife, Maureen.”

  “Is that up-to-date?”

  “Pretty much. What do we do now?”

  “I go and visit him.”

  “You mean we?”

  “No, Mark, I don't. He's going to freak out as it is when he sees me. He may think you are the avenging monk come to slit his throat.”

  “And what about his wife?”

  “I'm not sure. She may not have a clue about any of this. I'll let you know as soon as I find out something.” She crossed the office to Donna's desk and picked up the telephone. “I'll call a taxi.”

  “I'll drive you.”

  She looked at him. The mood between them had changed again. Now that the air had cleared and Jenny knew the truth, she felt a good deal more in control of things. As soon as all of this was out of the way, she would be making a booking on the next available flight back to Alderney. That much was settled. She would go back to her old life and forget that she had ever met Mark Burridge. “All right,” she said at last. “But you drop me off at the end of the street. I don't want him seeing you.”

  “Fair enough.”

  They both sat in the car, staring down the quiet street. “It's number forty-two,” said Mark without looking at her. Jenny went to get out. He held her arm. “You be careful. Anything happens, anything at all, you 'phone me straight away.”

  She pressed her lips into a thin line. “I'll be fine,” she said and stepped outside.

  Without a backward glance, Jenny walked down the street towards Cross's house. She was still working out what she could say and wondered what his reaction would be. Would he even recognise her? If he had experienced the same things as she had, then he was bound to. But if it had all been in her imagination…

  She pressed the doorbell and waited. There was no sound from inside and she pressed her ear against the door as she rang the bell for a second time. She could make out the faint sound of movement from deep within the house, so she stepped back and waited.

  The minutes dragged by. She reached out to press the bell for the third time just as the front door opened.

  Maureen Cross was a small, spritely woman, hair dragged back from her face and held in place by a large, evil looking clip. So tightly was the hair pulled back that her face had a look of startled fury about it. And when she spoke, her voice matched her features. Sharp, unfriendly. “Yes?”

  Jenny tried a smile. There was no reaction from Mrs Cross. “I'm sorry to disturb you, but—”

  “I'm not interested,” she said quickly and went to close the door.

  Jenny put out her hand, pressing on the door, preventing it from closing, “Mrs Cross, I've come to speak to your husband.”

  The woman stopped. Her face took on an even more sour expression, if that were possible. “What did you say? My husband? Are you—” Suddenly, without any warning at all, the woman stepped forward and struck Jenny hard across the face with the flat of her hand. It was much more than a slap, and Jenny staggered back, losing her balance, falling down on one knee. One hand came instinctively up to her face, whilst her other stretched outwards to ward off another blow. Mrs Cross loomed forward, red-faced, eyes wild with rage. “I always wondered what you looked like, you little tart. You tell him that he can come and get his things whilst I'm out. Until then, you tell him to keep away. And if I ever see your face again…”

  “Mrs Cross, please.”

  “Couldn't even be man enough to do his own dirty work.”

  She was about to turn to go inside when the sound of quickly approaching footsteps made her stop.

  It was Mark and he was down by Jenny's side, helping her to her feet. He turned on Mrs Cross, his voice trembling with rage, “I'll have you arrested for this.”

  Mrs Cross gaped and Jenny, still clutching her face, leaned against him, shaken, still not sure of what had happened, “No, Mark,” she said, voice very small, “no, it's all right.”

  Mrs Cross stood glaring but slowly something began to flicker across her eyes. A little question, a tiny glint of concern. “Who are you?” she asked.

  “Don't you think you should have found that out before you went crazy?” Mark was beside himself.

  “Mark…”Jenny shook her head, the strength coming back to her legs now. “Mrs Cross…whatever is going on here, between you and your husband, it has nothing to do with me. I don't even know him. But I have some news for him, about the pendant.” She moved away from Mark and reached inside her coat. She pulled out a card and passed it over to Mrs Cross. “Just tell him it's about the pendant and to ring me whenever he gets a chance.”

&
nbsp; Mrs Cross looked down at the card and frowned. “I…I don't understand…” The tears came then, running down her cheeks and she hurriedly searched through her pockets for something. Her hand came up with a tissue and she dabbed it over her eyes quickly, face red now not with anger, but with embarrassment. “I'm sorry…I thought…Oh God, what have I done?” Any remnants of anger drained away and as the sobs wracked through her body, Jenny stepped up close and put her arm around her whilst Mark stood a little way off, shaking his head, aghast.

  “Let's go inside,” said Jenny. “I'll make you a nice cup of tea.” She looked back at Mark. “I'm all right now. You can go back to the car.”

  Mark put his hands on his hips and scowled.

  Jenny smiled. “Honestly.” He went to go. “Oh, Mark.” He stopped, glanced back at her. “Thanks,” she said and then went inside with Mrs Cross, pushing the door shut with the sole of her foot.

  Setting the teacup gently down on the table, Jenny sat across from Mrs Cross, watching her closely. The woman drank the tea, her breathing unsteady.

  “Where is he?” asked Jenny.

  “I don't know,” said Mrs Cross, every now and then pressing the sodden bit of tissue into the corner of first one eye, then the other. “He didn't come home and I just…God, this is such a mess. He's been acting so strangely, stomping around, snapping at me. Things haven't been very good between us, you see. Last year, I found some letters. He assured me it was nothing, that it was just someone from work. But I knew…I could tell.” She drank more tea. “I'm sorry for hitting you like that, it's just…I'm sorry.”

  “It's all right. It's as much my fault – I shouldn't have just come round like this, unannounced.”

  Mrs Cross put the teacup down and pressed her fingers over her forehead. “Such a mess…I was sure he was seeing her again, when he started acting strangely. Guilt, you see. That's what it was last time. This was the same, but more so.”

  “More so? What do you mean?”

  “Well, he started writing things down, all the time. In the middle of the night I'd wake up and he wouldn't be there. At first I just thought he was under strain from work, but then one night I got up, found him downstairs, scribbling away like someone possessed.”

  “Possessed?”

  “Yes. That's the only word I can think off. He was changed you see. It wasn't him anymore.”

  “These notes, you know where they are?”

  “Yes. I read them. I thought they were letters, to her…but they weren't. They're just rantings, on and on about family treasure and injustice, betrayal, all that sort of thing. That night, when I caught him, he flew into a rage, accused me of 'being one of them', whatever that means. He frightened me. Then, the next day, he left. I haven't heard from him since.”

  “Didn't you 'phone the police?”

  “No, I rang her. Very cool she was, self-assured and arrogant. She laughed when I broke down.”

  “Did she know where he was?”

  Mrs Cross looked up for the first time, straight into Jenny's eyes. “Oh yes, she knew all right. He was there, with her.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Walking slowly back to the car, Jenny could help thinking that things just weren't adding up. Mrs Cross, a complicated character, seemed capable of turning on the charm - or the tears – whenever the fancy took her. “Did you believe her?”

  Mark looked up as he put the key in the door. “Mrs Cross? Why not, she seemed genuine enough.”

  “But…the way she hit me, then changed to a quivering wreck…” Jenny shook her head. “I'm not convinced.”

  “You seemed to be.”

  “I know.” Jenny looked back towards the house. “I'm not such a bad actress myself.”

  She went to open the door and suddenly froze. From out of the corner of her eye she saw it, bounding across the street, its great tail trailing behind it. Mouth open, tongue lolling out, those teeth looking huge and deadly sharp. Great trails of drool hung from its lips, and when it s eyes locked on Jenny, it surged forward, ever faster, clearly intent on attack.

  Jenny screamed. Mark, reacting faster, clambered behind the wheel as the massive animal took a final surge. He gunned the engine, slammed the car into first gear, and drove towards the animal.

  Jenny, rooted to the spot, watched as Mark steered the car straight ahead. But the dog seemed to know exactly what to do. At the last moment before impact, it leapt high into the air, cleared the front of the speeding vehicle and rolled across the ground. Pausing whilst the car sped past, its wild, red eyes locked on Jenny, it slowly crept forward, belly low, a guttural growl emanating from deep within.

  Seized by terror, Jenny watched its inexorable advance, steadying herself for the inevitable.

  Nothing happened.

  The dog stopped, ears pricked up, as if hearing some silent command. Raising itself, it sniffed the air, then bounded off, passing Mark just as he got out of the car. He crouched down behind the driver's door as the dog galloped past. Watching it disappear, he turned back to Jenny and ran up to her and threw his arms around her.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Not a scratch.”

  He led her back to the car and helped her into the passenger seat. Closing and locking the doors, he gripped the steering wheel and stared into the distance. Shaking his head, he looked at her.

  Jenny ballooned her cheeks. “What the hell just happened?”

  “I think…” He pointed across the street. “Look.”

  She turned to follow his finger. She could see the dog disappearing inside Mrs Cross's house. “Oh my God…She sent it, as some sort of warning.”

  “I think I've worked it out,” he said very quietly. “That dog…did you hear anything when you were with that woman?”

  “Hear anything? Like what?”

  “A dog. I didn't hear or see any hint that she had a dog when I came up to you. After what she did, you'd think her dog would be going ballistic.”

  “Now you come to mention it … There was nothing. No dinner bowl, no basket, no … But, Mark, it's just gone inside her house…”

  “Exactly.”

  They exchanged a look, both of them realizing all at once the enormity of Mark's words. Without another moment's hesitation, both of them were scrambling out of the car again, pounding down the road, back to Maureen Cross's home.

  Mark got there first, with Jenny coming up close behind. The front door was open. Jenny, heart hammering, wondered if they had left it like that.

  “Come on,” whispered Mark and slowly moved down the hall, Jenny following. Stairs to the right, and two doors on the left. A lounge and dining room. Typical British terrace. No surprises. Kitchen straight ahead.

  But no noise.

  No dog barking, letting the whole world know that this was its home and intruders had best beware.

  No noise.

  Mark turned to look at Jenny, pressing his finger against his lips. He pointed to the lounge door, then jabbed his thumb towards his chest and nodded to the dining room door. He crept towards it.

  Jenny pushed open the lounge door and took a look inside.

  It was empty. Sofa, chairs, television in the corner, gas fire unlit. Nothing unusual. All very normal.

  As she stepped back into the hall, Mark returned, shaking his head. He pointed to the kitchen and went through the open doorway.

  The kitchen was small, cooker needing a good clean, small table rammed up against the right hand wall. A door led to the back garden.

  The door was open.

  In front of it, blocking the way, was an over-turned, hard-backed chair, and next to it a broken cup, smashed where it had fallen, its contents spread out across the tiled floor.

  They both stared before cautiously moving into the back-garden.

  Jenny almost screamed at what she saw and turned away, hand instinctively coming up to her mouth.

  “Oh my God…” Mark's voice, a mere whisper, shocked to the core.

  She dared to look ag
ain. Mark stood, trembling.

  What remained of Mrs Cross was strewn across the tiny lawn. Her throat had been torn out, with such violence the head was almost entirely severed from the neck, held on by a few bloodied strands of tendon. More blood had erupted over her chest, soaking all of her upper body. Her arms, frozen in the act of defending herself, were torn and ripped to the bone, no part of her hands remaining. The dog's massive, sharp teeth had sliced through flesh and muscle, devouring great chunks in a mad fury.

  Only one thought managed to grapple its way through Jenny's horror-stricken mind – where was the beast now?

  Chapter Eighteen

  Mark's mobile went off as he and Jenny sat in Mrs Cross's kitchen. They both jumped, the noise bringing them out of their dark thoughts and shocked state. As he answered it, Jenny stared into the distance, trying to make some sense of what had happened. Who could send such an animal to carry out such a despicable attack – and what level of training was required to make a dog react in that way?

  In the distance, she couldn't help but hear Mark's voice quivering as he muttered, “What…? But when…” Slowly, he switched the 'phone off and stood looking at it for a long time before he sat down, put his head in his hand and let out a long, juddering sigh. “That was Donna…” He looked at her, but Jenny showed no reaction, her face turned away. “Don't you want to know what she said?”

  She shrugged. Non-committal.

  “I have a visitor, waiting at the office.”

  She turned to him at last, arching a single eyebrow. “Someone important?”

  He nodded. “It's Anthony Cross.”

  The police took a lot of notes whilst, in the back garden, a team of forensic investigators picked through what was left of Maureen Cross. Jenny and Mark remained in the kitchen as the police detective across from them traced a stubby finger down the handwritten scrawl in a notebook, given to him by the first constable on the scene.