A Cry From Beyond (34 page)

It wasn’t
me guv, honest, it was the evil spirit that got inside
me.

Yeah,
right.

But was
the premise really that farfetched, given all that had happened?
Maybe not, and that being so, did it mean I was close to
discovering the fate of the abductees?

Of course
not: because Martin Willis was long dead. He may’ve been
responsible for the disappearances of yesteryear, but what about
the recent incidents involving Terry and the others? Was his demon
ghost responsible? Now there was a thought. What’d happened to
David certainly couldn’t be attributed to natural
phenomenon.

It really
was all down to Martin Willis then, or more correctly, Grimshaw and
Willis. The fused faces that Pixie had described following her
psychic episode, was that symbolic of their deadly
alliance?

Two
corrupt souls fused together for all eternity. Amen.

If I was
right, how would I break the news to a cynical outside world? I
couldn’t. I would be laughed at and ridiculed and then the
white-coated men with the friendly smiles would march me off and
place me in the first available padded cell. It would have to
remain my little secret then. And what of Melinda and Kayla and
Kayla’s stillborn sibling, would their souls finally find
everlasting peace, simply because I had solved the mystery? Hell
no, it would take more than that. I looked back over my shoulder
into the all consuming dark and considered what had to be done in
order for that to occur.

Within
this underground labyrinth lay the answer and I would have to find
it, or else guide others towards it. Then, and only then, would
Melinda and Kayla and all the other victims of High Bank’s resident
evil find peace. But for that to happen, I first had to escape from
my present predicament.

With that
thought in mind, I returned to the task at hand and continued
ascending the cold damp steps on all fours. I counted sixteen
risers in all, before I reached some kind of landing. I stood up
and managed to crack the top of my head painfully against a low
flat ceiling.

For the
second time in as many minutes, I voiced my frustration, only this
time it wasn’t just my pride that was hurt, the ugly bump to the
head I’d received made me feel dizzy and nauseous. I was tempted to
rest up, but knew it was a luxury I could ill afford. I must leave
the tunnel and fast. Ignoring the aches and pains afflicting my
head and body, I raised my hands blindly above my head, hoping and
praying I’d make contact with a trap door, which would ultimately
lead to freedom.

The
ceiling above me was constructed of timber, which was promising,
and when I pushed against it, much to my relief, a section started
to rise. But it was heavy, maybe too heavy...

“Come
on,” I urged, straining to keep the momentum going. It rose another
inch or two, before resistance suddenly occurred. I struggled to
hold it in position.

“Not now,
please God, not now...”

I started
to panic. My mind raced. Say a heavy object rested on top of the
trap door, one that might ultimately prove immovable? What then?
I’d be doomed for sure, just like Terry and all the others.
Moreover, my worst fear would be realised; I’d be buried
alive!

That
thought, combined with a profound sense of dread, had the effect of
spurring me on. Summoning up my remaining strength, I pushed
against the trap door until my arms smarted with the increased
effort. Finally, the stubborn door gave and rose steadily upwards
to its pivotal point. Once there, I gave it one final push. To my
immense relief, it fell back with a resounding thud, to reveal an
opening large enough to climb through. High above the opening,
virtually obliterated by the dark, I spied a solid timber
ceiling.

All I had
to do now was raise myself out of the trap door opening, which was
easier said than done given that the ground was level with the top
of my head. But others must have managed it in the past, I
reasoned, therefore it must be possible. And it was, but only just.
Mustering fresh reserves of strength from God knows where, I bird
winged my arms over the sides of the trap door’s frame and levered
myself slowly and painfully up and out through the opening, until I
finally came to lie gasping on a cold slate floor.

I was in
a darkened room, circular in shape from the little I could make
out. Snow flakes and watery moonshine drifted in through one of two
open arched windows similar in design to those in the chapel. I sat
up and then quickly twisted round with the sudden notion that I
might not be alone. I needn’t have worried. I was very alone. In
fact, at that particular moment in time, I might’ve been the last
person on the face of the planet.

I rose
slowly to my feet, dusted my hands together and that was when I
spotted the flight of stairs over in the far corner of the room,
stairs that looked oddly familiar. Then I happened to glance down
at the floor. Despite the poor light, I was able to detect a large
symbol painted there. That was when I realised where the tunnel had
brought me to. Here was a place I’d visited before and swore never
to visit again.

The
folly.

I was
standing in the folly, staring at a floor that held the sign of the
dreaded pentangle, depicting some kind of mythical winged creature
at its centre. The image was unclear; the detail eroded by the
passage of time, yet despite its lack of clarity I somehow knew it
represented ungodliness and ultimately death. But that wasn’t all.
Less than two feet to my immediate left was something I’d failed to
notice on my original visit. That something was a well. Curious to
gauge its depth, I tested the theory that when dropped, a coin
travels at around one hundred feet per second. Two full seconds
passed before the sound of a splash was heard. Seemed I had my
answer: the hole was deep, frighteningly so...

Recalling
rumours surrounding the folly, of devil worship and human
sacrifice, I couldn’t help but wonder if the primary purpose of the
well was one of disposal. Drop an object down there, anything from
a coin to a human body and it was gone forever.

Suddenly
I was looking skywards, distracted by the restless cawing of a
great many birds. They were up above me, in the observatory, just
like last time, guarding the place, it seemed. Were they the same
birds that had attacked David and me in the chapel earlier? I must
get away. I was in grave danger. So far I’d been lucky, but I
didn’t want to push that luck any farther than I had to. I
abandoned the folly without delay, departing through its open
doorway, heading off in the direction of High Bank.

The wood
through which I travelled in order to get there seemed as dark and
forlorn as the tunnel. From high above came the unnerving sound of
a large number of birds in flight, or was it simply my imagination.
I was suddenly unsure, was finding it hard to distinguish reality
from unreality. I ran languidly along a snow covered path that
dissected the wood, glanced up and glimpsed sight of a pale half
moon peeking down at me through the foliage.

That
momentary glance skywards not only disorientated me, it also cost
me my balance. Next thing I knew I was flying through the air like
a lunatic gymnast. The landing proved incredibly painful. Worse, I
felt something give in my ankle. For what seemed like an eternity,
I lay face down in the wet snow, scared to rise in case my concerns
were realised and I was unable to stand. And then, out of nowhere,
a bird screeched loudly from the treetops. That in itself was
enough to spur me into action and send me on my way again, albeit
in an awkward hobbling fashion.

The route
I travelled from the folly to High Bank led me past the lake where
Michelle and I had spent an enjoyable afternoon during her last
visit. The same lake Pixie had referred to on the night Des
disappeared. I paused briefly, to gaze upon its dark shimmering
surface and wondered, not for the first time, or the last, what
guilty secret it harboured and what on earth it had to do with my
father?

Feeling
like a war casualty, I continued my trek towards the cottage,
deliberately bypassing the chapel, (I really didn’t want to go near
that place ever again), journeying on until I arrived at what I
considered to be the half way point, where I stopped to rest at the
foot of a mature oak. Massaging my injured ankle, I tried to make
sense of all that’d happened following my arrival at High Bank.
Once again, I considered the geographical relationship between the
buildings constructed by Lord Ebenezer Grimshaw and the historical
chain of events that had taken place around them. I pondered on
Norris’s conjecturing and thinly veiled accusations and recalled
the horrific episode that’d occurred earlier that night in the
subterranean tunnel, which had ended so tragically for my friend,
David.

I thought
about Jenny, who’d had such high hopes for their future together
and on the back of that, I recalled Madam Lee’s reading in which
she foretold of a “dramatic shift” in Jenny’s fortunes, which would
see her begin a new life elsewhere. Without David, she might have
added. Perhaps she knew and chose not to say. I took a little time
out to shut my eyes and make my mind a blank, before continuing my
journey.

Crossing
two grazing fields, I eventually arrived at a third, which followed
a gentle slope towards a fence guarding High Bank’s boundary. Home
sweet home, I thought ruefully. I paused briefly at the back gate
to the property, suddenly reluctant to travel any further. My
reticence was short lived however, knowing as I did, that I had
little choice in the matter. The rear garden that had once played
host to a debauched party that ended with the disappearance of a
teenage girl, was presently covered by virginal snow, crystallized
by the moon’s reflected light. The cottage on this particular night
looked magnificent, the perfect country retreat. How looks can
deceive, I mused. The kitchen light was on, just as I’d left it.
Lennon was in there no doubt, either listening to the radio, asleep
or snoozing: a dog’s life for sure.

Retrieving the house key from my trouser pocket, I found
myself once again thinking about Jenny. How the hell was I going to
break the news to her? What exactly was I going to say? I had not
the foggiest idea. But that was for later. Jenny wasn’t around and
wouldn’t be until the weekend. If she phoned me in the meantime
having been unable to contact her husband, I would play dumb. Or
maybe, I would simply blurt out the awful truth and have done with
it. I really wasn’t sure how I’d react.

I
inserted the key into the lock and turned it. By the time I entered
the house, I was in a virtual state of collapse. Lennon welcomed me
of course, enthusiastic as always. He raced around the kitchen
reminding me of the puppy he once was. I fussed him until he
calmed. He sat and insisted upon licking my hands, (my bloodied
hands), as if offering sympathy. My clothing was filthy dirty and
torn in places. I checked my appearance in the hall mirror and was
utterly dismayed by what I saw. Lacerations scarred my face and an
ugly bruise darkened my chin. I pulled off the beanie I wore and
ran a hand through my hair to discover a large tender bump where
I’d earlier cracked my head. I looked and felt like a war casualty.
I drifted into the living room drinking from a can of Coke grabbed
from the fridge, saw the mobile phone lying on the table and
recalled the conversation I’d had with my mother. The one in which
she’d reliably informed me that Ashley was once our home and that
my father had wanted to purchase High Bank, was desperate to
purchase High Bank . As much as he wanted the place, the closest he
ever got was to holiday there. Pixie’s voice suddenly echoed inside
my head.

There’s
something in the lake.

Your
father, he knows.

So what
exactly was it that my father knew?

I
experienced a sudden urge to talk to someone, anyone. Inevitably my
thoughts turned to Michelle. There was one small problem however.
She didn’t want to talk to me. I glanced at the clock on the
mantle, which informed me it was close to midnight. My conscience
told me it was too late to call someone who made a habit of
retiring early to bed during the working week. But it really was a
case of needs must on this occasion. And if she was pissed at me,
it would be too bad. I grabbed the mobile off the table, punched in
her number and waited. It took a dozen rings for her to
answer.

When she
found out it was me on the other end of the line she exploded.
“Christ John, do you have any idea what the time is?”

I
apologised, but she was unappeased.

“Not good
enough mister. I was asleep: you remember what that is, don’t you?
What’s so important that you have to wake me in the middle of the
night?”

“Us,” I
said simply.

She fell
silent.

“Are you
still there?”

A slight
pause, and then: “Of course I’m still here.”

“Listen
to me Michelle: I don’t want us to be enemies. Life’s too short for
fall outs.”

“What’s
brought this on,” she asked, sounding calmer.

“I just
want you to know how I feel.”

“Is that
the only reason?”

“What
other reason could there be?”