Shepherd's Cross (29 page)

Gowland and Wilson rushed across the
room and blocked her path, grabbing her arms and forcing her back to her knees.
‘Ow! Let go – you’re hurting me. Let go of me, you fucking bastards!’

Blackmoor laughed. ‘Such a sharp tongue
for such a pretty girl. Maybe He will share you around after He’s done playing
with you. I do hope so.’ He checked his watch - half past four. ‘Enough messing
about; it’s time to get ready. Reuben, Mr Gowland, Mr Wilson: take PC Jones and
Mr Price out of here and lock them in the side room – we’ll deal with them later.
And close that trapdoor. I don’t want to see or hear anything more out of that little
bitch until it’s time. Do I make myself clear?’ King nodded and went over to
the trapdoor, shutting it and drowning out the cries from the cellar before
effortlessly scooping up Ben Price and throwing him over his shoulder. He then
joined Wilson and Gowland, who tightened their grip on Cara and clamped her
hands behind her back so that she couldn’t retaliate.

As they carried the two prisoners out of
the kitchen, Cara looked again at Bronwyn. Her eyes seemed darker again, and
her face slightly more blank that it had earlier appeared, but there was
something there…she just knew there was. This time Bronwyn did look back at
her, and Cara hoped that whatever spell Blackmoor had put her under would fade.
Admittedly, this wasn’t the Bronwyn Hess whom Cara had spent hours talking with
about her hopes, dreams and relationships; but there was someone inside that
hard shell whom she recognised. Someone who could perhaps be coaxed back to
life and help them get out of here before it was too late… someone who could
help them stop whatever barbaric act it was that these two maniacs were
planning.

As she was taken from the room, she just
had time to mouth the words ‘Help Me’ to Bronwyn. She didn’t know whether or not
her cry for help would fall on deaf ears, but she had to try something. Her
resolve, which had been all but knocked out of her as she had watched her
friend and colleague being butchered before her own eyes, was starting to
return. There had to be some way of stopping this nightmare.

If nothing else, the life of a helpless
child depended on her.

4.45pm:
Jack Cranfield’s
John Deere
pulled up to the gates of Fellside Hall,
closely followed by Wilf Blackett’s red Massey Ferguson. There were four or
five villagers per tractor: the older men had been squeezed inside the warmer
cabs, whereas the younger lads had been forced to cling on to the outside and
brave the elements. Liam Turner jumped down from the step, switched on his
torch and walked over to the gates. By now, the sun had well and truly shut up
shop for the day, and the moon hid unhelpfully behind a blanket of clouds.
Whatever light there was to guide them shone from artificial sources.

‘Good news,’ Liam said, turning to look
at his father who had come across to join him. ‘They’re not locked.’

‘Well, at least that’s something,’
Turner replied. ‘Then again, why would Brian and Cara lock themselves in a
place like this? I’m surprised they even bothered shutting the gates behind
them. Come on…give me a hand to get them open.’

Somewhat surprisingly, the gates opened
with little resistance. Bill Turner noticed that the hinges had been recently
greased. ‘They’re not wasting any time in trying to put this place right,’ he
muttered to nobody in particular.

‘Well, they can forget about making
themselves comfortable,’ Blackett said, his words being met with a rumbling of
agreement in the background. ‘They’ll bloody well wish they’d never set foot in
this place by the time we’ve finished with them.’

‘Just…be careful everyone,’ said Turner,
returning with his son to Cranfield’s tractor. ‘I know there are a lot of us
here, but we haven’t the faintest idea about who we’re dealing with. For all we
know, they could be more of them up there. And they could be armed.’

‘You’re not chickening out, are you
Bill?’ joked Dougie Hickman, who, if truth be told, was the biggest chicken of
them all. ‘There’s still time to turn back if you don’t feel up to it?’

Blackett rounded on him; he’d had as
much of Dougie Hickman as he could stomach for one day. ‘Dougie – shut the fuck
up, will you? Bill’s right – we don’t know who’s up there. If you want to go in
all guns blazing and get your head blown off, then that’s up to you. But I also
reckon the sooner we get up there the better. We’ve left it long enough as it
is.’

‘Okay,’ Cranfield said. ‘Let’s crack on.
I’ll go first. Wilf, you follow me. I used to mess around up here as a kid;
from what I can remember, it’s a fair old trek up to the Hall. It’ll take us a
good five or ten minutes at least.’ Not wanting to waste any more time, he
shifted the tractor into gear and set off through the gates and along the
driveway. Blackett watched after him and smiled to himself: seeing Jack
Cranfield’s tractor full of men like that reminded him of ‘The Ant Hill Mob’
from ‘Wacky Races’, one of the old Hanna-Barbera cartoons he’d watched in the
seventies. As he set off behind his friend, his smile quickly faded; the image
of the inverted cross still fresh in his mind. If these characters were
responsible for killing Reverend Jackson and kidnapping Chloe Price, there was
no knowing how they might react to a motley crew of uninvited trespassers. And
although he could take a certain amount of comfort from the size of the group
he was with, he had a niggling feeling that they were up against something that
wasn’t the slightest bit afraid of them. As he looked into the blackness that
surrounded them, he felt certain that whoever was up at the Hall was fully aware
of their imminent arrival.

It was Ted Simpson sitting next to
Blackett who first noticed the back of Cranfield’s tractor rushing up to meet
them. ‘Wilf!’ he shouted. ‘Stop, for fuck’s sake.’ With his mind otherwise
engaged, Blackett almost jumped out of his seat. He slammed his foot on the brake
and skidded the tractor to a stop within inches of Cranfield’s. ‘Jesus Christ,
Wilf,’ said Simpson. ‘Didn’t you see his brake lights?’

‘Err…no. Sorry lads,’ he replied. ‘What’s
the daft bugger doing anyway? Why have we stopped?’

‘No idea. We better get out and see.’

They climbed down from the tractor and
moved around to join Cranfield and the others. Blackett hung at the back,
reaching into his overalls and retrieving his hip flask, trying his best to
conceal his addiction. But if ever he needed a drink, it was now. He drank
quickly and greedily before returning the flask to its hiding place.

‘What’s up?’ he asked, joining the
others and making his way to the front of the group. ‘You could have warned me
you were stopping Ja...What the hell?’

The way ahead was blocked. Forty or
fifty silver birch trees, which earlier had graciously lined both sides of the
driveway leading up to the Hall, had been overturned and lay strewn across the
path in front of them. Tangled roots jutted up from the earth like giant spines
of barbed wire; thick, knotted trunks piled up high on top of each other. There
was no way through or around them, not even with the plough that was still attached
to Blackett’s tractor.

Liam Turner broke from the group and
went to climb over the trunks, but was yanked back by his father. ‘Don’t be
stupid, lad. You’ll break your leg trying to get over them in this light.’ He
looked over to Cranfield. ‘I don’t suppose…’

‘Not a chance,’ Cranfield replied,
second-guessing the question. ‘There’s no getting past them, Bill. It’s been
done recently, as well. Look at the roots – there’s not a flake of snow on
them. Probably this afternoon.’

‘He’s right,’ said Blackett. ‘But what I
want to know is how on earth Brian and Cara got past them? And more’s the
point, who around here has got the kind of machinery that could do this? That’s
a heck of a timber claw that’s pulled them out, I can tell you.’

Bill Turner checked his watch: it was
coming up to five o’clock. ‘All good questions, but we haven’t got time to
waste trying to figure it out now. If we can’t shift them with the tractors,
we’ll have to walk.’

‘Walk?’ asked Dougie Hickman. ‘Are you
mad? It’ll take us an hour at least to get there. And who knows what else
they’ve got in store for us? No no,’ he said, shaking his head and turning back
towards the gates. ‘This lot aren’t daft. They know what they’re doing alright.
These trees have been turned over to warn us, and to warn anyone else who’s
stupid enough to come up here. If we go along there tonight, there’s a better
than even chance we’ll not be coming back. I’m sorry for the girl, and for
Brian and Cara, but I’m not prepared to risk my neck for anyone. We’d be much
better off waiting for the Police to come tomorrow. This is a matter for the
authorities. I’m off.’

‘Hickman, you’re a fucking coward and
you always have been,’ said Blackett. ‘We’re hill folk, for Christ’s sake. We
don’t bow down to anyone, and we especially don’t hold with people coming here
threatening us. Now you turn yourself around and get back here. We’re going to Fellside
Hall, and you’re coming with us.’

‘I’m bloody well not,’ Hickman replied. ‘And
anyone who wants to join me is more than welcome to.’ The group fell silent.
Nobody moved.

‘Looks like you’re on your own,’ said Cranfield.
‘I’m sure you can manage that walk home all by yourself. I hope you’re not afraid
of the dark?’ Several of the younger lads sniggered in the background.

‘You’re mad, the lot of you,’ he replied,
turning to leave. ‘You’ll get no sympathy from me if owt happens to you. You
can’t say I didn’t warn you.’ He started walking away, and this time he didn’t
stop or look back. The others stood quietly, watching him as he reached the
open gates and disappeared into the darkness.

‘Do you think we should go after him?’ Cranfield
asked. ‘It’s a fair old hike back to The Cross in this weather. What do you
think?’

‘No. He’s made his choice,’ said
Blackett. ‘Come on, let’s stop pissing about. We’re running out of time.’

5.00pm:
‘They’re coming for us.’

‘Like moths to a flame,’ replied Blackmoor.
‘Let them come – we have nothing to fear. By the time they reach us, they would
have wished that they had stayed at home.’

‘Is it time?’ asked King. He was pacing
back and forth in front of the dining room’s open fire, growing increasingly
agitated, like a dog waiting impatiently by the back door for its master to
take it on its evening walk. The others were seated around the table, seemingly
more relaxed with the situation.

‘Calm down, Reuben. Your uneasiness is
both unhelpful and unnecessary.’ Blackmoor pushed his chair away from the table
and stood up, ‘However, I think we’ve waited long enough. It’s time. Everyone,
follow me to the Round Room.’

King hurried away from the fire and was
first to catch up to Blackmoor as he walked to the door; the others
subserviently falling in line behind. Blackmoor smiled to himself as he headed
down the corridor. This was the moment he and King had spent years preparing
for. The trials and tribulations, the false starts, the disappointments; they
had all failed to dampen the strength of their resolve. How they longed for Him
to rule over them; to sweep away the hypocrisy and piety of man. To establish a
world without ambiguity and blind faith to an invisible God who gave no sign of
His existence.
Their
God would not choose to hide in the shadows any
more than He would choose to blatantly ignore His followers. On the contrary, He
would openly reward those who worshipped Him with power and wealth in this
world, not the baseless promise of salvation in the next. Granted, there would
be severe punishment for those who denied Him their allegiance, but at least
the choice would be clear for all to see: devotion or death, servitude or
suffering.

A short while later they reached the
small, wooden door at the centre of the Hall that led into the Round Room. King
handed the key to Blackmoor, who inserted it into the lock and turned the
handle. He entered the room and touched the flame of the candle he was carrying
to the wicks of thirteen black candles that were at least three times as long
and thick as his own. Crouching down, the others followed him into the room one
at a time. Bronwyn was last to enter, closing the door behind her and groaning
with relief as she straightened up. As soon as they were all inside, King
locked the door. They stood together silently, staring in awe at the
five-pointed star with its cryptic symbols painted on the floor, and in
particular the blood-filled, ornamental horn that hung from a metal pole that
pierced the centre of the star. Above them span the glass dome that constituted
the roof of the tall, cylindrical room, but there were no stars; only dark
clouds.

‘Reuben, would you be so kind as to
light the fire?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good. And while you’re doing that, I
would like the rest of us to put on our robes.’ He pointed to the five red
robes that hung from hooks in the wall. ‘You may need to help each other with
them; the material is rather heavy.’

One by one, they pulled the robes over
their heads, until only King’s was left hanging. Having lit the fire, he walked
across the room and joined the others. ‘The girl - when should we get her?’ he
asked, stooping slightly as Ted Wilson helped him into his robe.

‘When I say, and not a moment before,’ Blackmoor
snapped. He was starting to become irritated by King’s impatience and constant questioning.
‘Calm yourself, Reuben. Put your trust in me and do as I say and everything
will proceed as planned. The girl must stay where she is until the very last
moment. Otherwise she will only interrupt our ceremony with her crying and
screaming. That can’t be allowed to happen – it would ruin everything.’

‘Sorry, Benedict.’

Blackmoor took a deep breath. The others
sensed that it was time to begin. ‘Stand at your points,’ he said to them. ‘And
do not, under any circumstance, interrupt my flow.’ They did as he asked,
walking to their predetermined position on the pentagram. Blackmoor moved to
the small table against the wall and picked up the ornate, leather-bound book
that lay upon it, before standing on the remaining free point on the star. ‘Is
everybody ready?’ he asked, looking at each of them in turn.

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’ He undid the silver clasp holding
the book together and opened it to a page near the front. As he began reading
aloud the preliminary passages of the dark sermon, Bronwyn suddenly felt a
sharp and repetitive pain in her head, like a bird pecking away at the inside
of her skull. Terrified of the consequences of making any kind of noise now
that Blackmoor had commenced the ceremony, she bit her lip and fought the urge
to cry out. Instead, she looked down at the floor and closed her eyes, hoping for
the pain to disappear. Gradually, the pain began to subdue, and the peck – peck
– peck changed into words, hard and sharp to begin with but gradually becoming
softer. At first, she wasn’t able to understand the words; they were too fast
and compressed. As they softened, however, they began taking a form she was
able to recognise. Then, with crystal clarity, the words: ‘Help me…please…help
me…don’t let them hurt me…please.’ Bronwyn opened her eyes with a start.
Where
have I heard those words before?
She racked her brain, and as she did so
she began to remember parts of the life she’d had before the hypnotic haze had
fallen on her. The life that Blackmoor had willed her to leave behind. Whatever
spell he had put her under was beginning to lose its potency; the power he had
over her was beginning to fade. And then the words again, louder and clearer
this time: ‘Help me…please…help me…don’t let them hurt me…please.’

And suddenly the haze lifted and
everything became clear.
The girl
, she thought, stopping herself from
saying it aloud.
The girl in my bathroom back at the Hostel – I remember
now. She was talking to me…it was her. She needs me to help her. She needs me
to save her.