Denied to all but Ghosts (21 page)

All he knew was that Emily agreed to meet
them in Chesterfield the next day, all being well with the train
connections and such like. Cavendish did offer to give her a lift
but she obviously declined the offer, graciously or not. Either she
did not want to appear too friendly or, the more likely option, she
wanted to travel with the journalist. Either way Cavendish was
happy.

Cavendish had booked two rooms at the
Holmcourt hotel already, which was no mean achievement, what with
the climax of the Spring Fayre coinciding with their planned visit.
Beckett wondered how far ahead Cavendish had planned. Was he
working to some timetable? Had he designed their moves like a chess
Grand Master?

Beckett began to feel somewhat claustrophobic
driving in the dark Gloucestershire countryside. He regretted now
not taking the motorway back to Bristol. Cavendish had drifted off
into his own world of reverie and Beckett did not like the silence.
He had left his CD and MP3 collection in his suitcase, playing his
CD again would only annoy Cavendish, and the radio held little
amusement for him.

He tried to think of the coming days ahead
but he had little to focus on. He knew nothing of Cavendish’s
plans, such as what he intended to do with the sword. All he knew
was that the sword was being sent to Flash Seminary in Derbyshire.
It was all very well going with the flow but it was good to know of
any impending rapids or waterfalls.

Beckett was a relieved man when the bright
lights of the city appeared before them. He finally parked the car
in the hotel car park at gone eleven o’clock. For some reason he
felt unusually tired, lonely and disconsolate.

“Fancy a night cap?” asked Cavendish as they
entered the hotel foyer.

“No thanks, Marsh, I think I’ll have an early
night if it’s all the same.”

“Thomas,” said Cavendish as he put his hand
on Beckett's shoulder to stop him walking off towards the lift.

“Yes?” Beckett replied without looking at
Cavendish.

“Thank you for your help today, I know it was
a little rushed, but I truly am grateful. I realise I’m not the
easiest person to get along with.”

“That’s okay; I’ll see you in the morning.”
Typically, Thomas Beckett felt guilty as the lift doors closed,
guilty that he had left Marchel Cavendish alone to fester alone in
the bar.

Sunday was a day to be revered or loathed. As
a boy, Beckett detested Sundays, for Sundays in the 1960’s, despite
the mythology of ‘the swinging sixties’, were deadly dull for a
child. He still considered the 1960’s as the last throw of the dice
for the austere years of post-war Britain.

No shops were open and TV was nonexistent,
except for black and white matinee films, and what was considered
classic drama, usually Dickens, which the young Beckett found
depressing and frightening in equal measure.

The radio presented a lunchtime forces
request show, ‘Family Favourites’, which made many references to an
organisation called the ‘Naafi’ and inexplicable place names such
as Akrotiri and other such exotic sounding locations. Radio, or
‘wireless’ as his adopted parents preferred to call it, also
offered comedy, yet being of the TV generation, he found words
without pictures anything but amusing.

Teatime, when Battenberg cake was ritually
consumed, was accompanied by the harmonious tones of a choir
supplemented by an accordion in ‘Sing Something Simple’. The theme
tune of this broadcast was synonymous with the weekly bath ritual,
signifying the end of another boring Sunday. It was as if Sunday
was a conspiracy he was not part of. Thank God for warm summer days
when he could play outside and for the great man, whomever he was,
who invented the 1970’s.

“Are you alright, Thomas, you seem remarkably
quiet?” Beckett returned from his time travels to the reality of
coasting up the M5 motorway at nine o’clock in the morning on a
lovely spring morning. They had risen early, grabbed a swift light
breakfast and were on the road just after eight o’clock.

“Sorry, I was just reliving my lovely
childhood. The best days of your life, apparently.”

“Do you think so?” asked Cavendish, “I hated
mine.”

“Somehow, that statement doesn’t surprise
me.” After a pause, Beckett asked a more pertinent question. “So
tell me about Chesterfield, do you know the place well?”

“Not well, I have visited the market town
once. King John granted its first charter, I believe. With the
coming of the railway, it increasingly industrialised with heavy
engineering and the Derbyshire coalfields. However, like many such
places, the heavy industry and the mines have gone. It has
undergone substantial redevelopment and fortunately, the heart of
the town survived intact. I feel the place has an honest soul.”

“‘An honest soul’?” Beckett repeated. “Do
towns have a soul?”

“You know very well they do. You’ll like
Chesterfield.”

“You seem very certain about the people and
places I might like.”

“You’ll like the Medieval Spring Fayre,”
added Cavendish.

“What happens, sword fights and jousting,
eh?”

“No, it’s more like a festival for New Age
hippies and their like. Actually, that is a very poor description.
The festival, which morphed into a family-friendly ‘ye olde fayre’,
started some ten years ago by a group of folk musicians. They
thought it would be fun to celebrate the spring rites by borrowing
from Celtic and pagan lore. So they combined Imbolc and Beltane and
various other things to form a festival.”

“What the hell are Imbolc and Beltane? It
sounds to me like something from a black mass,” asked an intrigued
Beckett.

“I don’t know exactly, I was raised a
Catholic, and that has enough mumbo jumbo, as you put it, to keep
me engaged. As I understand it, Beltane is to do with the cleansing
flame, so is observed with bonfires and Imbolc has something to do
with the fertility of sheep. Forgive me for being so vague, I’m
only going by what someone at Flash Seminary told me.”

“So it’s all good clean fun,” suggested
Beckett.

“Well it is, but it has been apparently
usurped in part by modern pagans and occultists. Apart from the
main events, there are shadowy sideshows; I'm told it has its dark
side. I suppose it’s a bit like the Edinburgh Fringe for hippies
and witches. It reminds me of Walprugisnacht in Germany, which is
observed at the end of April and is celebrated with dancing and
bonfires. There is the tradition in the Harz Mountains of witches
and warlocks. In southern Germany, it’s the time when kids get up
to pranks, much like Halloween in your country and the USA.”

“So I wasn’t too far off the mark with black
masses? Sounds to me like something from ‘The Wicker Man’.”

“I’m sure there are some devilish things
taking place but on the whole it’s a family event spread over the
weekend. What exactly is ‘The Wicker Man’?”

"Let me explain..."

They made good time on the journey, and it
was prior to eleven o’clock when Beckett caught his first glimpse
of the Crooked Spire. Even in this century, the church of St Mary
and all Saints still dominated the town’s skyline.

“That really is an incredible sight,”
exclaimed Beckett, “how the hell did the spire corkscrew like
that?”

“It is generally ascribed to the use of green
unseasoned timbers. I prefer the story that the spire twisted in
shock when a virgin was married in the church.”

“That’s very good, Marchel. You’re becoming
almost human; the Derbyshire air must be good for you.”

“We will register at the Holmcourt,” stated
Cavendish, “and then I’ll have to leave you to entertain yourself
for a few hours. I have a couple of errands to run in preparation
for Dr Spelman’s visit.”

“Where is she staying, at the same
hotel?”

“No, I had a devil of a job securing our
rooms for the night. I don’t know where she is staying.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” asked
Beckett.

“Enjoy the town’s hospitality; I’ll give you
some pocket money to spend.” Cavendish grinned at his partner.

“Gee, thanks Dad,” said Beckett shaking his
head.

The hotel car park was at the rear of the
building. The hotel appeared to be of a half-timber construction of
painted black beams and white panelling. An elderly man in a white
coat was marshalling the small car park, ensuring room for guest
parking but also charging non-residents to park their cars.
Everyone in Chesterfield was out to make a few pence during the
weekend fayre.

A back staircase took them up to the red
carpeted reception area, that the carpet was well worn in certain
places did not escape Beckett’s attention. Yet the dark wooden
panelled walls, the ornate staircase with a tall stained-glass
window as its backdrop afforded the old railway hotel a distinct
warmth and charm. Behind the reception desk, a young woman in a
smart blue uniform with red trim took their details.

“Can you take my luggage to my room, Thomas?”
asked Cavendish. Beckett grunted his compliance. Cavendish looked
thoughtfully at Beckett before saying, “leave the bags there for a
moment, Thomas, come with me, I want to give you something.”

Cavendish led Beckett off into one of the
side wings of the hotel, home to the extensive lounge bar. Beckett
felt at home already. The bar was busy with festivalgoers but
Beckett hardly had chance to take in his surroundings before
Cavendish handed him a mobile phone. It was the same model as
Cavendish used.

“Here, take this, I think you deserve it. It
has unlimited credit; my number and important other numbers are in
it. It has a few hidden extras that I’ll show you later. It’s fully
charged so you don’t have to worry about that for a few days. I’ll
ring you later to sort out what is happening with Dr Spelman. Are
you alright?” Cavendish observed that Beckett appeared
overwhelmed.

Beckett looked down at the hi-tech phone,
comparing it to his own pay-as-you-go model. The memories of
childhood again came flooding back to him, he recalled how he
always wanted a ‘Johnny Seven’, an all singing, all dancing toy
rifle. A boy down the street had one and he too desperately desired
the toy rifle but was realistic enough to know that his
foster-parents could not afford such a gift. Marchel Cavendish had
suddenly given him his ‘Johnny Seven’.

“Thank you, Marchel,” was all he could meekly
say.

“Excellent, then I’ll see you later. Enjoy
the day! Oh, car keys, in case I need them.” Cavendish took the
keys and exited quickly through the main entrance doors.

The hotel had no lift requiring Beckett to
make two trips up the sweeping staircase and a smaller set of
stairs to reach the second floor and their allocated rooms. He
dropped off Cavendish’s large holdall and then collected his own
over-large case and sought his own room at the far end of a narrow
corridor.

It was not a spacious room but it had a
decent en-suite bathroom. He drew aside the net curtains that
fronted the bedroom windows to peer outside in an attempt to gain
his bearings. Having arrived via the rear of the hotel he had not
realised how close they were to the town centre as he looked down
onto a teeming market square.

It was the smaller of the two squares;
originally, the town had one large market square that had been
unequally bisected by the building of the red-bricked market hall.
The market stalls that made up this section of the town’s
thrice-weekly market stood brightly garbed and bedecked in a modern
day interpretation of how a medieval market ought to appear, plumes
of smoke rose slowly in the still air from the many stalls offering
take-away food. He eagerly opened the window to allow the sounds
and smells of the square to pervade his room and instantly he
recognised the smell of burning charcoal and the sickly reek of
combined food odours.

The fayre bustled with people, many dressed
in period costume, others more conventionally attired, as they
meandered enquiringly around Chesterfield. He caught the disparate
sound of music, an intermingling of competing sounds from various
parts of the town that fought for his attention. The scene brought
a smile to his face; his eyes flitted from stall to stall as he
soaked up the sensory cornucopia.

The day was mild so he dispensed with his
heavy coat and wore his cord jacket, which just managed to
accommodate his new phone in one of the two breast pockets.
Carrying his digital SLR around his neck, he descended into the
street-world he had just been observing and he snapped away at the
carnival scenes around him without conscious planning, hoping to
capture the atmosphere of the day by serendipity alone.

His wanderings took him up the slope to the
top of the square where he was drawn by the heady perfume of ale as
he approached a pub. Good-natured drinkers spilled out onto the
street as it filled with weekend revellers yet Beckett's temptation
for a beer was kept at bay by his curiosity to explore all that the
fayre had to offer. His walk took him along the street that passed
the indoor market hall and onward towards the main square. He
dodged the crowds and the kaleidoscope of stalls as he went,
casting furtive glances at what the traders’ proffered wares.

At the main square, he found stalls only
around the periphery, the central area having been railed off,
which naturally funnelled his attention to what stood at its
cobbled heart. The scene made him stop dead in his tracks. He had
earlier joked about the film ‘The Wicker Man’ yet what he witnessed
before him would not have looked out of place in that cult
movie.

Dominating his view was a three-dimensional
effigy of a blatantly satanic image, standing twenty feet or more
high. As he studied the structure, he distinguished the broad
pattern of fireworks covering its surface and the charred nature of
the figure was evidence of its previous use. Circling the giant
effigy stood a dozen large braziers stacked full of wood. He
pictured in his mind’s eye the nighttime scene of the burning
braziers and fireworks erupting from Beelzebub, lighting up the
whole square in a panoply of colour. He shook his head in quiet
disbelief. How had he never heard of this surreal festival
before?