Triskellion (22 page)

An aerial shot showed the chalk circle from above, then Adam winced as horribly familiar music was heard; as the picture changed and he watched clips of the morris dancers, jigging round the circle, looking perfectly harmless.

The camera cut back to Dalton, live, who proceeded to build the tension, showing some of the swords and shields that had so far been dug up during the excavation.

“It’s all very exciting,” he said. “Very exciting…”

Then the camera moved inside the shaft where, by torchlight, Laura Sullivan and her fellow archaeologists
worked away at the heavy oak beams that were blocking their way.

“We’re making good headway, Chris,” Laura said, her voice muffled and her muddy face close to the camera. “These beams, which seem to be protecting some kind of burial chamber are beginning to shift a little. We’re replacing them with expanding steel scaffolding props as we go. Hopefully we’ll have some good news for you when we come back at eight…”

“Thanks, Laura,” Dalton said. He turned back to his camera. “So, make sure you join us back here at Triskellion at eight o’clock when we may be able to show you just what lies behind those mysterious oak beams. See you then.” He grinned at the camera and gave a small salute.

“OK, Chris, they’re off us,” Amanda said.

Dalton pulled off the small microphone attached to his jacket. “Right, I’m busting for a Jimmy Riddle,” he said. “I’ll just find a bush.”

Amanda nodded, not that she was the least bit interested in where her boss attended the call of nature, and Dalton walked off into the darkness behind the arc-lights, doing his best not to get his expensive hiking boots too dirty.

He found a gorse hedge, just beyond the location van, and had just started to unzip his jeans when he became aware of someone near by. He rapidly did up his trousers and turned to see a boy standing directly behind him. Staring.

Dalton sighed. He was used to being gawped at by
members of the public. Schoolchildren would regularly shout, “Found any treasure, Chris?” as he walked down the street, or tried to do his shopping.

But this kid was different;
looked
different. He just stood and stared, until Dalton felt as though the boy’s wide green eyes were looking straight through him.

“What do you want?” Dalton asked. “An autograph?”

The boy said nothing and continued to stare at Dalton.

“Well?” Dalton said. He was starting to get a little annoyed.

Five seconds passed … ten … and then the boy held out his hand, palm up.

“Oh, I see,” Dalton said. “‘Spare some change for the poor country boy.’ That it?”

The boy waited.

Dalton shook his head and tutted, rummaging in his pocket. “Same everywhere you go,” he said. “Touch the rich bloke off the telly for a few quid. Well, here you go.” He took his hand from his pocket and placed a pound coin on the boy’s upturned palm. “Now, buzz off and let a man have a piss in peace, will you?”

A look of what might have almost been anger passed over the boy’s face, and he continued to hold Dalton’s gaze, his own not flickering.

“Well?” Dalton made a “shooing” motion with his hand, but the boy didn’t move. He simply looked down at what had been placed in his palm. Then, as he did so, the pound coin
burst spontaneously into flames, spluttering and glowing white like a firework.

Dalton staggered back. “Jesus…”

The boy looked up then, and smiled.

Dalton did his best to smile back. “Nice trick,” he stammered, before turning, tripping over his feet as he hurried back towards the lights.

Gabriel watched him lurch away, then tossed the burning coin into the air. Followed its bright arc as it spun high across the distant bank of trees, like a shooting star.

It was becoming darker, and the rain was getting heavier. It hissed and steamed against the hot arc-lights surrounding the dig. Granny Root began to shiver.

“I’m frightfully cold, Gerry,” she said, in a squeaky voice that made Adam snigger.

The commodore coughed, oblivious to the rain. “I’ll wheel you back to The Star. We’ll get a whisky or two and warm up there for an hour.”

“That sounds perfect,” Granny Root said. “I’m sure the children won’t mind us old buffers leaving them on their own…”

Rachel and Adam said that they didn’t, and the commodore pushed the wheelchair away towards the road.

Celia Root waited until she was sure they were out of earshot. “Do you think they will put two and two together, Gerry?” she asked in a frail voice.

“I’m not sure it matters any more. This is not just our secret any longer.”

The old woman sighed and pulled the blanket a little tighter round her shoulders.

“This is
everyone’s
past they’re digging up back there, and nothing in Triskellion will ever be the same again.”

In the darkness, Commodore Wing bent down and gently kissed Celia Root on the top of her head.

“W
elcome back to this very special edition of
Treasure Hunters
…”

Chris Dalton spoke earnestly, leaning in close to the camera lens, his hair plastered down by the rain. It was unlike him to allow his hair to get wet, but he felt it made him look rather heroic, as if reporting from the front line.

“There has been an amazing development here at Triskellion,” he said. “Just fifteen minutes ago, Doctor Laura Sullivan and our team of archaeologists made a major breakthrough. They have managed to remove some of the timber props that were barring the way, and have opened up what looks very much like a burial chamber. We’re hoping to go over to Laura now and see just what’s happening ‘down under’, as it were. Laura…?”

The camera cut off Dalton and an image of Laura Sullivan appeared on the plasma screen next to him, her features bleached out by the spotlight on her face.

“Hi, Chris,” Laura said breathlessly. “Yes, this is really amazing. We’re about three metres below the chalk circle and have opened up a cavity, which you can just about see behind me.” Laura gestured over her shoulder and shone a strong torch into the gap they had made between the wooden props. Her two fellow archaeologists were removing another wooden support and the torchlight drifted on into the space beyond them. “And the most exciting part is that we can already see a sarcophagus or large coffin of some kind just a little way into the chamber. Looks almost like a tree trunk that’s been hollowed out.” The camera pushed past Laura, until, filling the screen and lit solely by the torch, the outline of a large wooden mass was visible.

Dalton talked to Laura on the screen. “So, how soon do you think it will be before we can see it properly?”

“Well, once the main beam came away, the other props were pretty easy to pull out. They fit together like a puzzle.” Laura pointed the camera towards the end of one of the beams and traced her muddy finger along a notch that had been cut into it. “So, we’re bringing them up to the surface to reconstruct them, which will be interesting in its own right. The wood’s in amazing condition and seems to have been preserved by the marshy wetness of the moor and the acidity of the soil.”

“That’s incredible,” Dalton said.

From his position near the plasma screen, Adam could see the beam. He had seen one very like it before. It was just like
the prop that had been supporting the tunnel underneath Hilary Wing’s cellar.

Could that tunnel have been made by the same person, or people, who had constructed this underground tomb?

“Then we’re going to get some airbags under the sarcophagus to see if we can move it,” Laura continued. “Hopefully in the next hour or so…”

“Great stuff, Laura,” Dalton said. He turned back to the camera. “We’ll be back with more exciting updates throughout the evening. So join us back here on
Treasure Hunters
, after the National Lottery and the news…”

He held a fixed smile at the camera while Amanda counted down the five seconds until he was off-air.

Probably the only person in Triskellion who was not watching
Treasure Hunters
stood in the nave of the darkened church. The stained glass window above him was barely illuminated by a cloud-covered moon.

He dragged the heavy oak lectern across the stone floor in front of the altar, then, summoning every ounce of strength, he heaved it beneath his arm and, using it as a battering ram, smashed open the door to the side room.

There, in the display case, where it had lain for a hundred years or more, the first golden blade glowed in the weak light from a dirty overhead bulb. He reached into his bag for a claw hammer, which he brought down sharply on the glass, shattering it into hundreds of shards which tinkled like tiny
bells on the stone floor of the silent room.

Then, with a gloved hand, he lifted out the blade and studied it; breathless for a second, before wrapping it in a cloth and placing it in his bag.

In The Star, each member of the dominos team peered at their National Lottery ticket as they sat beneath the television screen mounted high above the bar.

“Not a blinking sausage so far,” one said. The syndicate had won fifty pounds six months ago and all still lived in hope of the big win, although when Tom Hatcham had asked what they would do with £17 million, they claimed that it would not change their lives in any way.

The door swung open suddenly and Hilary Wing strode in, shaking the rain off a wide-brimmed hat and shoving it into his shoulder bag. The pub fell silent for a second, then everyone went back to their drinks or turned again to look at the TV.

Everyone except Commodore Wing and Celia Root, sitting by the fire and looking distinctly uncomfortable as Hilary strode over to the bar. Hilary gave his father a barely perceptible nod before turning to Hatcham and ordering a drink.

Rachel and Adam began to shiver.

The rain had stopped, but the damp had begun to penetrate their clothes. It felt as if it had got through to their
bones, but wild horses could not have dragged them away from the scene that was unfolding in front of them.

Laura Sullivan’s team had made astonishing progress.

As soon as they had raised the sarcophagus on airbags, it had almost seemed to roll
itself
back along the shaft they had dug, like an underground train, slowly emerging from a tunnel and arriving at the platform as it reached its destination. Rachel and Adam watched, open-mouthed, as the trunk-like shape was eased out of the entrance to the shaft, a team of four rolling it gently on the airbags, guided by Laura Sullivan.

Chris Dalton paced up and down in excitement, waving his arms about, directing the cameraman to get dramatic shots of the sarcophagus emerging so that they could broadcast it in the next update.

“That’s great,” Dalton barked. “Now, get down and do a low angle…”

The cameraman crouched low and tracked along the ground, groaning a little as he went. His head, as well as his back, was beginning to ache from all Chris Dalton’s directions.

“Now tilt up to Laura,” Dalton instructed. “Laura, take the hard hat off and wipe your brow for dramatic effect. That’s great. Maybe you could toss your hair back…”

Laura, exhausted from five hours digging below ground, was in no mood to toss her hair about like a shampoo model. She continued to guide her team as they brought the sarcophagus to the surface. And for the moment, her
hard hat remained on.

“Cut!” Dalton shouted. “Laura, what are you playing at? I’m trying to make this dramatic.”

Laura had heard enough. She threw her hard hat on to the muddy ground and marched over to Chris Dalton.

“What am I
playing
at? I am playing at digging up probably the most significant Bronze Age burial this country has ever seen … and I am not going to be told to ditz around like some bimbo by a guy who is frightened of getting his boots dirty or his hair wet. Get it?”

From their position just behind the tape near by, Rachel and Adam could hear every word of the exchange; could see the anger in Laura’s body language.

“Go, Laura,” Rachel whispered under her breath.

Dalton had begun to whine. “But, Laura, like I said, I’m just trying to make it dramatic.”

“So, digging under a mysterious chalk circle, finding swords and shields and jewellery and arrowheads and then unearthing what appears to be a huge coffin made from a tree trunk thousands of years old isn’t dramatic enough for you?” Laura spoke very close to Dalton’s face.

Dalton paused a moment, considering his answer, wondering how far he dare push her, a wry smile growing across his face. “Well, actually, no. It isn’t. It’s not dramatic enough. It’s fine for you anoraks, but I want something that’s really going to blow away our audience.” Then, realizing that the eyes of the near by crowd, and especially those of Rachel and
Adam were on him, he leant in close to Laura and whispered into her ear.

Watching the expression on Laura’s face, Rachel was sure she was going to hit him. But Laura just nodded, deflated, then watched as Dalton strolled away.

Laura looked round, and seeing Rachel’s look of concern, walked over to her. “Hey, how are you guys doing?” she asked.

“Oh, don’t worry about us,” Rachel said. “What about you?”