A Cry From Beyond (5 page)

Leaving
the cottage behind we bypassed the chapel, having cut through the
yard occupied by the derelict farmhouse. We then wound our way
through a copse that was dark and depressing. The weather was
already turning, and I began to have doubts about proceeding
further. Then I caught sight of Lennon prancing about in the
undergrowth like an overgrown puppy, and decided to press
on.

The
deeper into the woods we travelled the colder it got. At some point
the threat of fog finally materialised, reducing visibility
drastically. I trudged onwards with stubborn determination, crossed
a rickety stile, before climbing a steep muddy bank that well and
truly christened my brand new hiking boots.

Eventually, after about half a mile or so, I came to a rise,
from the top of which, through the intensifying fog, a large
towering shape could be observed. Seemed I’d found the folly. It
was far larger than I’d expected, around sixty feet high with a
girth of perhaps forty feet. A vertical row of turret windows was
built into one side. Three spirelets crowned its roof. It resembled
a huge bell tower. Its brickwork was old and choked with creeping
ivy. Thick vines crawled from the narrow windows, twisting towards
the ground like arthritic limbs. I scrambled down the other side of
the bank, and through a thorny thicket before arriving at the
entrance, the door to which was off its hinges and leaning
precariously to one side.

I walked
through into a vestibule within which was a flight of steps
spiralling upwards. The shadows fell heavily in here. I pulled the
torch I’d brought along from my coat pocket, and switched it on.
Straight ahead was a second door that was partly ajar. When opened
fully a windowless anti-chamber was revealed, containing what
looked suspiciously like an altar. On closer inspection I saw that
the slate floor was decorated with weird symbols, faded to the
point of being virtually illegible, although one looked ominously
like a pentangle, with a large gruesome looking bird at its centre.
To my right was another door, this one having a metal grille,
through which I shone the torch. Revealed was a tiny room,
reminiscent of a prison cell.

It was
then that I heard the voices, speaking words that were faint and
distorted, like those on a radio channel affected by poor
reception. Despite my misgivings I decided to investigate further,
and called out, “Anyone up there?” The voices fell silent. I waited
for them to resume their curious banter, and sure enough, they
eventually did so. Far off, seemingly in another dimension, I
thought I heard sounds of immense distress.

“Who’s
there?” I called. Once again, the voices stopped. I glanced over at
Lennon, who sat quietly at the foot of the spiral staircase, ears
cocked, gazing steadfastly upwards.

“Can you
hear ‘em too, boy?” I asked. He paid me scant attention, keeping
his focus on the ascending stairs. I joined him, and together we
climbed the series of iron steps to the upper level, where I
found...no one.

The place
was deserted.

“Where
are you?” I whispered, whilst gripping the torch
tightly.

Fading
daylight and deepening fog meant visibility was down to a few
yards. I glanced up, and was able to make out what appeared to be
the remains of a glass dome, ingeniously designed to open like an
observatory roof. In days gone by it would have provided protection
against the elements, and when opened would have given an
uninterrupted view of the heavens. The building’s architect must
have been a keen astronomer or astrologer, I thought, for it
appeared that the folly’s uppermost level was indeed a purpose
built observatory.

I turned
to leave, but was stopped by Lennon, who suddenly reared up on his
hind legs, barking fiercely. Glancing skywards I saw shapes appear
out of the fog, in the form of birds. They were big brutish
creatures that swooped dramatically, before coming to land on the
narrow ridge just beneath the dome.

And there
they stayed, observing me in complete and utter silence. And while
they did that, I started to back towards the staircase, at the same
time trying desperately to coax Lennon away, fearing he may come
under attack, as the child had.

All of a
sudden, and for no apparent reason, the birds took flight, cawing
for all their worth. I watched as they soared and swooped, before
flying off into the fog. Moments later I found myself bolting for
the staircase, scared witless.

It wasn’t
the birds that had finally caused me to flee, but the terrible
sounds of suffering that suddenly filled the folly: women and
children screaming, the tortured cries of a dying baby.

From the
rise I looked back, once, mentally recording the place for
posterity, for I had no intention of ever returning.

CHAPTER FOUR

David
from the village store educated me on the subject of the folly’s
history. We bumped into each other in The Ship Inn one evening, and
ended up sharing a few beers.

“Legend
has it,” he said,” that the folly was built in the seventeen
hundreds by a man called Grimshaw, Lord Ebenezer
Grimshaw.”

“Is he
the one responsible for the other buildings neighbouring High
Bank,” I asked, recalling what Mrs Corbett had said about the farm
house, the crofter’s cottage, and the chapel.

“The very
same,” David acknowledged. “He owned most of the land in these
parts at the time. In fact, with the exception of High Bank
Cottage, the buildings on the farm house land have remained in the
family to this very day. Anyway, Grimshaw was by all accounts an
extremely unpleasant character. There are stories of employees and
locals being flogged, and much worse. The local community was
petrified of him.”

“But
didn’t he gift the chapel to the locals?”

“Yes, he
did. But he did it for a rather perverse reason. He wanted to
deplete the main church at Ashley of its congregation.”

“Why, for
what reason?”

David
leaned forward resting his elbows on the table top and said,
“Allegedly Lord Grimshaw was into the Occult in a major way. His
accusers maintained he wanted to split the church, cause a schism
by creating an unorthodox religion hereabouts, but there were also
those who said his reasons were even more perverse, and that he
took twisted delight in tricking Christian worshippers into
worshipping in the Devil’s sanctum, disguised as a conventional
church.”

I raised
an eyebrow recalling the observatory, the pentangle I’d seen, and
the tortured sounds I’d heard (thought I’d heard) during my visit
to the folly.

“It’s
said that he and his acolytes carried out black magic ceremonies
there, involving human sacrifice. Of course, it’s never been
proved. Dare say there’s probably no real truth in any of it.
Things tend to get exaggerated with the passing of time, and this
is probably no exception.”

“You’re
probably right,” I said deciding I’d heard enough. I purchased
fresh pints at the bar. The conversation drifted onto other topics,
namely music and relationships. David and his wife, Jenny, were
childhood sweethearts who married whilst still in their teens.
David described their marriage as being rock solid. When it came to
relationships he and I were like chalk and cheese.

“You must
meet her sometime,” he suggested.

“I’ll
look forward to it,” I said. Jenny, a primary school teacher who
studied astrology and liked to write prose, sounded
interesting.

“How
about a meal at our place one evening,” David proposed.

I agreed
immediately, suspecting invites in this neck of the woods would
prove rare.

A group
of men entered the bar moments later, pals of David. He introduced
me as his “good” friend, John. Seemed I’d made a favourable
impression.

“Pleased
to meet you,” said the first, a bearded man, about twenty five
known simply as H. He shook my hand as did his three companions,
Rick, the youngest of the troop, Terry, a quiet spoken stocky
individual, and finally there was Irish who, as his nick name
suggested, was of Irish descent. Solidly built with rugged
features, he came across as tough but likeable.

“Welcome
to the dead zone,” he announced in a heavy Irish drawl.

I glanced
over at David who smiled and said, “Irish don’t go a bundle on
Ashley. He’s an outsider; thinks it’s a dump.”

“No
“think” about it,” Irish corrected, “it’s a graveyard; the arsehole
of the world!”

“Nothing
wrong with Ashley,” H argued back. “Lived here all my life; never
did me any harm. Third generation of Ashley-ites, I am.”

“Shows
too,” Irish countered. “You all look the same round here; a case of
incest keeping the family together.”

H
muttered an obscenity. Irish turned his attention to me.

“Take my
advice, Johnny boy. Leave Ashley before you grow into a hick like
the rest of them.”

“But
you’re here,” I pointed out.

“Aye,
though not by choice...”

“I don’t
understand?”

“Irish is
with the fair,” David explained.

Irish
nodded. “I work the dodgems.”

“And the
women,” Rick added.

“Anybody
for a refill?” Terry asked.

At the
bar, David delighted in telling his friends that I was Johnny
O’Shea, the pop star.”

“I
thought I recognised your face,” Rick said.

“Me too,”
H agreed. “I’ve heard some of your stuff. It’s okay; a bit middle
of the road for my liking, but okay all the same. What do you say
Terry?”

Terry
shrugged awkwardly. “Sorry guys; never heard of Johnny
O’Shea.”

“Lots
haven’t,” I said.

Rick
celebrated my celebrity by buying me a beer. It was to be the first
of many. At some point, I forget exactly when, (the beers kept
coming and I kept sinking them), I was handed an acoustic guitar
and gave an impromptu performance that, according to David, got me
drinks on the house for the rest of the evening. I was well and
truly off the wagon and failed to make it home, having to spend the
night at David’s place. Consequently, I became acquainted with
Jenny sooner than expected. She was just as David had described
her; tall and slender, with an easy going nature. If she was put
out by my unannounced arrival, she hid it well.

“Lovely
to meet you, hope to see you again, soon,” she said the following
morning, as I was about to leave.

“Likewise,” I said, with a bleary eyed smile.

“Sure I
can’t tempt you to more coffee or toast?”

“I have
to get back to Lennon.”

“And who
might Lennon be?”

“My dog,
Lennon is my dog.”

“As in
John Lennon,” David said for her benefit. To me, he said, “I’ll run
you home if you want.”

In the
car he gave me the low down on his drinking partners, H, Rick,
Terry and Irish. Rick had just turned twenty one and worked in the
local abattoir. Terry was an IT worker, H was a kitchen fitter and
Irish, well; it appeared he was a law unto himself.

“He’s a
bit of a free spirit,” David explained, “Does seasonal work mainly,
it allows him to travel.” I frowned. David elaborated. “Although
he’s related to the owner’s of the fair he don’t always travel with
them. Likes to do his own thing, does Irish. Last year we didn’t
even see him in this neck of the woods. He was travelling around
France and Spain picking up labouring work as he went.”

“Is he
related to the clairvoyant, Madam Lee?” I asked, still debating
whether to consult her or not.

“Not
sure,” said David, “Jenny would know.”

David
slowed the car to a respectable twenty miles per hour as we neared
High Bank. “It’s ironical really, how he reckons people in these
parts are incestuous when the whole fairground troop is probably
interrelated.” David turned the car into the drive leading past the
old farm house, beyond which stood High Bank. “Irish is good to
know if there’s trouble. He’s also a good contact if you need some
gear.” David shot me a knowing look.

“Those
days are long gone,” I lied.

We
arrived at High Bank.

“I won’t
come in,” David said. “Some of us have got work to do.”

And off
he drove, leaving me to contemplate my hangover.

Old
habits die hard. The following night was pub night again. This time
I got a taxi outward bound, pre-booking it for the return journey.
I met up with the lads, getting hammered for the second time in as
many nights.

I rolled
out of the pub into the taxi having invited half the pub over to
High Bank that coming weekend. Whilst I forgot all about it—alcohol
is a great amnesiac—a large number of those invited had far better
memories, including David, who was quick to remind me of my
commitment. I therefore prepared myself to party at the appointed
time.

There was
one little snag. It was also the weekend Michelle was due to stay,
and she was expecting to have me all to herself.