A Cry From Beyond (29 page)

Close up,
the chapel was intimidating, mainly due to its dark choppy
stonework and narrow arched windows. I studied the building more
closely and suddenly thought of the child, Kayla. I was finally
forced to face up to the fact that I had, at an earlier point in
time, developed an affinity with her. We had shared experiences and
we’d played together for Chrissakes! Once upon a time we were
children and we had committed to the act of playing together. Yet
we were of different generations, an unbridgeable divide lay
between us, so how on earth was it possible?

The wind
blew relentlessly. Standing beside me Lennon looked forlorn. He
gazed up at me, appearing to cock an eyebrow, glanced towards the
age-old solid oak door that was the gateway to the chapel, then at
me again.

“Shall
we,” that look seemed to say, to which I silently replied, “Why
not.”

My hand
grasped the cold metal doorknob and turned it, but the door refused
to give.

I cursed
beneath my breath.

I tried
again, employing my shoulder to add leverage, until finally, the
big heavy door swung slowly inwards, creaking in protest as it
went.

Lennon
was first in and headed straight up the central aisle towards the
derelict altar, where a stone pulpit stood. He was so quick off the
mark he failed to spot what I had seen. Hundreds of birds occupied
the chapel’s thick timber rafters. They observed us in complete,
unnerving silence. Like sentinels guarding forbidden treasure, I
thought. Above them was the old slate roof. Tiles were missing here
and there, allowing minimal daylight, together with spots of rain,
to enter the building’s interior. I stood and observed the birds as
they observed me. Despite my growing unease, I felt compelled to
follow Lennon over to the altar, convinced further investigation
was required. Jumbled memories filled my mind, of a time long past,
of events that affected the present and would continue to dictate
the future of High Bank and the surrounding area, unless they were
dragged out into the open and confronted.

If there
was danger here I would have to deal with it. At least I had Lennon
to offer protection.

I walked
into the main body of the building, keeping central to the aisle,
passing row upon row of redundant wooden pews that’d once borne
witness to a healthy congregation. A steady breeze blowing in
through the open slit windows spanning the chapel walls either side
of me, disturbed a thin carpet of autumnal leaves and a few ragged
bits of paper.

Close to
the main altar was a walled stairwell, leading down into what I
surmised might be an anti-chamber of some kind.

Lennon,
who’d waited patiently until I caught up with him, was first to
descend.

“What’s
down there, boy?” I wanted to ask as he reached the bottom, some
ten or twelve feet down. I took one final look at the birds
inhabiting the building, wondering vaguely if their presence bore
any real significance and then followed, deeply apprehensive, yet
somehow knowing this had to be done.

It was
dark down there, which meant I was forced to wait until my eyes
grew accustomed to the change of light. I gazed around, eyes
narrowed against the dusty gloom filled interior. Here was a small
empty room. Within it Lennon skulked around, sniffing the stone
floor with avid interest. The floor like the walls was constructed
of thick stone. No doorway led off from this strange little vault.
I cast my eyes upon the cold uneven floor and for the first time
noticed the great iron ring at its centre, designed to provide
leverage to open what appeared to be a solid trap door.

Lennon
had come to stand directly over it and would, I sensed, have raised
it himself was he able. I took a deep breath, inhaling a lung full
of stale musty air and then stepped forward. Easing Lennon aside, I
hunkered down in order to grasp the rusty old circular handle, my
intention being to raise the trap door and inspect whatever lay
beneath. I did this without hesitation, for that familiar déjà vu
feeling was back, insisting I’d been here before, in this very
building, in this very anti-chamber.

Previously however, I was a child, escorted here by Kayla.
We’d played a game, daring each other to open the trap door and
enter the subterranean world below. But something had prevented it
from happening. Did we merely lack the strength to open the door?
Did adults put a stop to our little game? Or did the birds
intervene and frighten us away? I could hear them quite clearly
now. They had grown restless, cawing noisily from the rafters in
the main part of the chapel.

Moments
later I heard an ominous flapping of wings as the creatures took
flight. I did my best to ignore the growing din and concentrated on
the task at hand, but the door was stuck fast. Despite my best
efforts, it refused to give. In the end, exhausted from the sheer
effort, I released the clanking iron ring in defeat and slumped
cross-legged to the floor, where I rested.

Lennon
came to sit at my side, nudging me with his broad snout, as if
trying to encourage me to persevere. One more try, I decided, one
last attempt and if it failed to work, I would...

Return

It was a
foregone conclusion. Of course I would return. Like the cottage,
the chapel was part of the puzzle, I now realised, whose pieces not
only begged to be interlocked, but had in the first instance to be
discovered. I rose to my feet, whilst trying to ignore the
worsening cacophony of sound, that insane chorus of birdsong
reverberating from above. Grabbing hold of the cold metal ring I
pulled upwards as hard as I could, until finally, the heavy stone
trap door moved. It was but a fraction of an inch but it’d moved,
its resistance having been weakened by my efforts. Lennon barked,
was it approval or concern? I heaved with all my might, gradually
succeeding in forcing the slab upwards. Stone scraped against
stone. My leg and arm muscles grew tense, began to ache and then
burn from the exertion. I stubbornly persevered until at last, the
slab rose more freely, still resistant, but to a far lesser
degree.

Lennon
padded around excitedly, whilst in the chapel above, the birds
continued with their devilish noise. I could hear them clearly now,
flying around crazily as if angered by our presence and my success
in removing the stone door. Once that door reached a pivotal
position, I was able to ease it back so it came to rest against the
wall farthest away from the spiral staircase. I looked down into
the exposed hole, only to have my gaze met by impenetrable
darkness. There was little else I could do other than withdraw, for
I’d neglected to bring along a torch. Then again, the last thing
I’d expected to discover was a secret chamber.

I would
have to return, better equipped to explore further. Why I felt
compelled to do this I didn’t know, not then. I only knew it had to
be done. Something in my past beckoned me into an uncertain and
foreboding future. This was more than déjà vu. It was about
suppressed memories, borne of real events.

Above me
the birds had grown unsettlingly quiet. I climbed the stairs to the
main chapel to find they’d once again taken up residence on the
rafters, where they observed me in the same manner as before: in
complete, unnerving silence.

I decided
to leave them to it.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

It was
almost dark by the time we got back to the cottage. We were making
our way along the shingle driveway when all of a sudden we paused
as one, listening. The sound of a branch snapping had caught our
attention. It had come from the bushes off to our left. Lennon
began to growl...

“What is
it boy, what’s the matter? Is someone there?”

I had no
real need to ask. It was patently obvious someone or something
lurked out of sight in the bushes. Lennon barked, his hackles
rising.

“Who’s
there?” I called trying to mask my anxiety. “Come out now. Show
yourself!”

Show
yourself: where the hell did that come from; The Sweeny...Life on
Mars...Taggart?

Just when
I thought nothing was going to happen, the bushes moved and out
stepped the figure of a man. He looked to be in his sixties and was
tall and stocky. His clothing, which consisted of a light overcoat,
trousers and trainers, was dishevelled. He looked unkempt, a
candidate for the homeless brigade. I was immediately on my
guard.

“You’ve
been watching me haven’t you,” I said, convinced he was my illusive
stalker.

I took
his silence as confirmation. He smiled and raised his hands in the
air in a kind of don’t shoot me, I come in piece
gesture.

“Who are
you?” I asked. “What do you want?”

“Mr
O’Shea; Mr Johnny O’Shea?” he enquired, his manner polite and
unthreatening, at complete odds with his appearance.

“Who
wants to know?”

“My name
is Ridgecroft. I would like to talk to you.”

“Are you
a reporter?”

“A
detective: correction, ex detective.” He took a tentative step
forward, closing the gap between us. Again Lennon barked; unsure of
the man.

I stood
my ground and waited for him to explain himself further. The porch
light partially illuminated his face, which was haggard and drawn.
Here was an individual who had burned the candle at both ends and
was now paying a hefty price for the privilege. Given my own
history, I could easily relate.

“Can we
talk Mr O’Shea?” he asked presently.

I
hesitated. “What is it you wish to discuss?”

He raised
his eyebrows. “Can’t you guess?” He nodded towards the front door
indicating we go inside, but I wasn’t ready. I was mistrustful.
Yes, I had Lennon to protect me, but why take chances when there
was no need. Besides, there was something about the man’s demeanour
that made me uneasy. Body language, yeah, that was it, his body
language just wasn’t right.

Perhaps
sensing my reluctance, he expanded: “I led the investigation into
the disappearance of Jane Rice, Rosie Dixon and Thelma Wilcox
amongst others, during the eighties. I was also involved in the
case of the suicide of Martin Willis.”

“That was
all before my time,” I pointed out.

“But it’s
happening again Mr O’Shea.”

“And you
think there’s a link?”

“I don’t
think, I know so...”

I was
curious to learn more despite my misgivings. Here was someone who
might be able to shed light on the reason for the recent spate of
disappearances, and in doing so, provide me with the breakthrough I
needed to exorcise my demons. On the other hand, he might just as
easily be an imposter, some kind of crazy. I thought hard about
what to do. In the end, I decided to stick with my gut instincts
and air on the side of caution.

“We can
talk out here,” I told him flatly.

He
shrugged and sighed. “As you wish...”

“So tell
me about it,” I said, “the investigation you headed.”

With his
eyes fixed firmly on the cottage, he replied, “What is there to
say, other than it was horrific. You can’t imagine. Five
disappearances and a suicide to deal with: all in the space of
eighteen months. My bosses were on my back 24/7. And the Press,
they were merciless.” He paused to gather his thoughts. “Those
girls,” he went on, “the ones that disappeared, they were all so
lovely and the mother and daughter: my God, how could anybody do it
to such beautiful young women?” He looked at me, then back at the
cottage. “My marriage collapsed because of what happened. I haven’t
seen my wife and kids in years. They disowned me. Not that it
matters much anymore. I stopped caring a long time ago.” He turned
his attention back to me and stepped closer. Lennon barked a
warning at him.

“Best
stay where you are,” I advised.

He looked
over at the cottage again, appearing momentarily mesmerised by it.
“The episode didn’t just affect me,” he continued. “It got to the
whole community. Ashley relies heavily on tourism. Business was
badly affected. The village became stigmatised because of the
adverse publicity. People even moved away.”

“But
where was the evidence to support murder,” I asked.

“There
wasn’t any,” he admitted, “but it didn’t seem to matter. The public
had decided it was murder, and that was that.”

“Did you
believe it was the case?”

“Yes, I
did, and I still do.” Shaking his head as if finding the reality of
it all too hard to accept, he added, “And now it’s happening again.
Only this time I’m determined to stop it before it goes any
further.”

“And how
do you propose to do that?”

He
ignored the question and grew thoughtful. A gust of wind suddenly
whipped leaves up from the ground and ruffled Lennon’s fur. I
shivered involuntarily. It seemed to be getting colder by the
minute. I mentally urged Ridgecroft to hurry up and finish what he
had to say and then go.

“
It was an unholy mess,” he eventually went on. “What with the
press clamouring for interviews and information: as I said, they
were relentless. And then there were the families of the missing
people, demanding to know what we were doing to solve the case. It
would’ve been better for all concerned if bodies had been found. At
least it would’ve meant closure for the families. As it was, it
never happened. Relatives had nothing to mourn, which made it even
worse.