A Cry From Beyond (16 page)

“Sounds
like you’ve had personal experience,” Jenny said.

“Would
you like to tell us about it?” I asked.

He
thought about it; then said, “When I was a kid I accidentally got
locked in a disused coal bunker while I was visiting my
grandfather’s scrap yard. It was dark as fuck down there. Something
ran over my hand, a spider I think. It freaked me out. I very
nearly screamed the place down.” The comment attracted looks of
surprise. Irish frowned. “I was only five for Christ’s sake. By the
time my grandfather came to my rescue, I’d managed to convince
myself that the deadliest fucking spiders in creation were sharing
that bunker with me! I hate spiders to this very day, but I hate
the dark even more.”

“I’m with
you,” Michelle agreed. “Not knowing is the worst part. The dark can
hide anything and everything.”

“Rats is
my biggest phobia,” Rick admitted.

“Talking
of being scared,” H said. “I’ve got an idea.

We all
looked and he grinned. “It’s Halloween, right? Tonight’s the night
when witches fly around on their broomsticks and the dead walk the
land. So why don’t we go out to the folly later on. See if it
really is haunted like people say.”

I cocked
an ear. “Haunted, did you say the folly is haunted?”

“Sure
did.”

“What’s
wrong,” Jenny asked me.

I waved a
dismissive hand. “Nothing, it’s nothing.”

But that
was a lie. The revelation that the folly was thought to be haunted
left me reeling. Was it really possible I’d experienced a dose of
the paranormal during my visit there after all? While I still found
the idea hard to grasp, paradoxically I found it increasingly
difficult to dismiss.

The pub
landlady, collecting empty glasses off the table, interrupted
us.

“Is there
any more news on Mary and Terry?” she asked.

Looks
were exchanged. No one said anything.

It fell
to me to break the silence.

“No,” I
said. “The cops are asking questions, taking statements and
searching the area, but that’s about it at the moment.”

“The
police have questioned just about everyone who was at the party,”
Jenny added.

“I
understand they took a look around the derelict cottage and the
farmhouse,” the landlady said. “Is it true that they’re treating
the disappearances as suspicious?”

I nodded
reluctantly. “Why wouldn’t they. Two adults have vanished without
trace.”

Everyone
paused for thought. The statement struck a nerve. The fact that
Mary Louise and Terry had simply vanished was in many ways the
worst part of it. Maybe H had a valid point, I thought. The dark
essentially represented the unknown, and it was the unknown that
was the scariest thing of all. A visible adversary is one thing, an
unidentifiable one is quite another.

The band
cranked up the music, making it difficult to hold a serious
conversation. The majority of revellers had taken to an expansive
tiled area on the other side of the pub reserved for dancing, while
the remainder of the gathering were content to drink and
chat.

I ordered
fresh drinks from the bar and was served by a fairly convincing Mr.
Hyde. In reality he was the pub landlord. Back at the table, David
discretely pointed out a tall middle aged individual who stood
alone at the far end of the bar. He was one of the few customers
not in fancy dress, preferring to wear trousers held up by a silver
buckled belt, and a scruffy tweed jacket. His hair was steely grey
and greasy, his complexion of a rugged swarthy appearance. His dark
eyes were hooded and close set, his nose slightly misshapen. In one
ear he wore a gold earring.

“That’s
Bill Willis, the father of the late Martin Willis,” David quietly
explained.

“You mean
the ex-bare knuckle fighter?”

David
nodded, “The very same.”

“He looks
none too friendly.”

“He’s
okay, so long as you don’t get on the wrong side of him. But a word
to the wise, he read the article about High Bank in the newspaper.
The story goes that he was seriously pissed about the
publicity.”

“He’s not
the only one,” I said meaning it.

“You must
remember,” David went on, “that as you yourself so rightly pointed
out, his son died suspected of having murdered a number of females,
including his own wife and daughter. He also blew his own brains
out. Suicide is a cardinal sin as far as the Romany fraternity is
concerned. Bill Willis has to wear his son’s shame every day of his
life. The last thing in the world he wants is for the whole sorry
business to be dragged into the public arena again. To make matters
worse, his son’s grave was desecrated the day that story hit the
headlines. It’s obviously opened up old wounds.” David paused for
thought before adding, “I’m not trying to scare you John, but I
would keep a wide berth if I were you.”

I
suddenly felt extremely uneasy about being in the same building as
the ex prize fighter. At the same time I was growing increasingly
curious about the man’s son and the dark history of the area in
which he lived.

“Is there
any truth in the rumour Martin Willis was unstable before he
died?”

“My
father knew him in his youth and always maintained he was an
accident waiting to happen,” David said. “He was a tad strange,
see. It’s rumoured that he got mixed up in the occult. Towards the
end, he spent a great deal of time at the folly doing God only
knows what. Some say he pursued extra marital affairs there, but no
one knows for sure. Affairs aside, most people are of the opinion
that whatever he dabbled in affected his mind. His own people, the
Romany’s, started referring to him as the Hug-a-Day. The word is
Romany for scarecrow. Apparently Martin Willis developed a fixation
with birds shortly before his death. He grew convinced certain
species were the reincarnated souls of a satanic coven that
allegedly used to operate from the folly under the guidance of the
late Ebenezer Grimshaw. Martin Willis has become part of local
folklore. Everyone round here knows about him. I guess he’s the
local bogeymen. It used to be Grimshaw, but his alleged crimes and
misdemeanours took place a long time ago. People tend to associate
with the present, or the not too distant past, much more
readily.”

The
information prompted me to make known my visit to the folly and
what happened as a consequence.

“That’s
seriously weird,” David said when I finished. He nudged Jenny. “You
should listen to this,” he told her.

I
repeated my story verbatim.

“My God,”
was all she could say at the end.

“How do
you explain it?” David asked me.

“I
can’t,” I replied. To Jenny I said, “Tell me what you know about
Willis in relation to what I’ve said.”

She
gathered her thoughts. “He thought of himself as some kind of
guardian to the spirits of those who practiced black magic at the
folly. It’s a well-known fact that he thought those individuals had
returned as birds possessing magical powers. Given that birds are
allegedly guided by ley lines and this area is renowned for being
synonymous with them, he couldn’t really be blamed for believing
such a thing was possible, especially if he was a little bit
unhinged.”

I found
myself missing the point, mainly because I was unsure what ley
lines were. Like most people I’d heard of them but I was ignorant
of their purpose. Jenny explained.

“Ley
lines are magnetic energy fields, John, or so the theory goes.
They’re purported to be straight interconnecting alignments that
harmonise with nature. They are best charted from the air. Many
believe birds follow them: hence the expression, “straight as the
crow flies”. Ashley village is built on ley lines, as its name
suggests. It’s believed in some circles that ley lines can empower
those who understand how to harness their energy. It seems Grimshaw
and then Martin Willis both believed this to be true. Whether
either of them succeeded in their quest to gain empowerment through
ley lines is, I suppose, anyone’s guess.”

The music
got still louder, making it virtually impossible to talk. I sat
back with a fresh beer in my hand and surveyed the bar, happy to
observe the proceedings with an air of detachment. Alcohol
continued to fuel the occasion. In certain quarters excitement was
giving way to low level rowdiness. In a dark corner Dracula could
be observed cuddling Morticia, while in a dimly lit alcove Lurch of
the Adam’s Family frolicked with a black haired cadaver dressed in
a mini skirt and open topped blouse. It looked like it was going to
be an enjoyable night.

And then,
quite suddenly, the trouble started.

A male,
possibly of Romany descent, entered the bar with another man, one I
recalled having seen at the fair. He had broken up the fight
involving a couple of youths. A group of skinheads clocked him and
his friend. Insults were exchanged. A standoff resulted. It
appeared the skins saw the fairground workers as a challenge;
scalps to be had. Whatever the reason, the skins did their best to
goad the men into a fight. Inevitably it got ugly and a nasty
scuffle ensued. And then one of the skins took a wild swing at the
bigger of the two newcomers, who retaliated instinctively with a
counter punch. The skin ended up on the floor stunned, minus his
dignity and with blood spouting from his nose. His mates took it as
a signal to jump in with kicks and punches. Their would-be victims
were more than a match for them however, quickly gaining the upper
hand.

“The
little bastards picked on the wrong buggers there,” Irish said into
my ear, referring to the newcomers.

“You know
them?” I asked.

“Know
‘em, I’m fucking related to ‘em!”

A second
scuffle suddenly broke out on the far side of the room, this one
involving the devil and a rotund corpse with ear piercings dressed
in an ill fitting tuxedo. Things were threatening to get seriously
out of hand. A couple of young guns dressed in civvies, had
targeted a couple of innocent bystanders, who immediately beat a
hasty exit through the front door, knocking glasses from a table as
they went.

Meanwhile, the two Romany’s continued to get the better of
their young adversaries. Others, fuelled by alcohol joined in,
appearing to relish the challenge violent confrontation brought
with it. A girl screamed as a man fell on her, toppled by a wild
punch to the head. The landlord, aka Mr Hyde, and his staff
promptly tried to restore order to this outlandish wild-west scene,
but for a while at least it was a difficult situation to deal
with.

A man
dressed in a theatrical cape and leggings approached our table, his
face painted up to look like a skull. Irish rose to his feet
sensing trouble, but the man wasn’t interested in us. Instead he
targeted one of the young guns, felling him with a single
punch.

By now it
was mayhem. Somewhere in the confusion a bottle was heard to smash
and a woman screamed. David was of a mind to leave, but Irish
insisted we all stay and enjoy the fun, promising to lay his life
on the line to protect us from any wrongdoing.

“I agree
with Dave: we should go,” Michelle insisted, rising from her
seat.

I found
myself in two minds. Pub fights usually end quickly: a fact that
was confirmed when the landlord emerged from behind the counter
holding a baseball bat, demanding the fighting stop. His staff
meanwhile continued to serve customers as normal.

The
bizarre spectacle of the lurch attacking Uncle Fester caught my
attention. Dracula stumbled across my line of vision, a hand cupped
over his bloodied mouth, the sight of blood adding an air of
authenticity to his appearance. And then Michelle spoke again, this
time voicing her disapproval with the situation, “This is not my
idea of fun, John,” she complained, “I think we should leave, right
now.” When I failed to answer she grabbed my arm. “John, are you
listening to me? For God’s sake: John, what’s wrong with
you!”

The
answer was simple: I’d just spotted Kayla’s mother standing on the
other side of the room. She stood there looking as pretty as a
picture. And she was focusing her attention on me. What’s more, she
was smiling.

Suddenly
desperate to re-establish contact, I abandoned Michelle and the
others and fought my way over to join her. By the time I got there
however, she was gone. To my surprise, Kayla stood in her place,
still cradling the thick weighty looking blanket. For the first
time I managed to get a good look at that blanket and saw to my
dismay that it was ripped and soiled. Why, I wondered, was a child
so obviously well cared for carrying such a thing?

“Kayla,”
I said, peering closer, “what exactly do you have
there?”

At that
point a large powerful hand fell on my shoulder. I spun
automatically and found myself gazing up into the stoic features of
the formidable Bill Willis. He had a message for me and he wasn’t
about to waste time with pleasantries.

“Keep
your nose out of Martin’s business,” he warned, referring to the
newspaper article in which his late son and I were mentioned. “If
you don’t, be prepared to take the consequences.” He leaned in
closer so our noses almost touched. “Take my advice young ‘un, by
all means enjoy your time at High Bank, but don’t go stirring
things up. Do you understand what I’m saying or do I have to spell
it out for you?” His hand, which had inflicted more than its fare
share of pain in its time, was back on my shoulder, and squeezing
hard.