Tanners Dell: Darkly Disturbing Occult Horror (10 page)

                     
 
Chapter Eleven

Woodsend, Autumn 2002

Ruby Dean, age 14

I lost a day again. Maybe more. It’s like I wake up and think, ‘What day or time is it?’ The thing is, it’s happening more and more and it’s getting confusing because I don’t know why and I’m thinking, like, what happened during the time I was asleep or whatever…

Maybe it’s a lot worse at the moment because of the medicine? Our mother’s giving me stuff for the pain: she knows a lot about herbs – she’s always making up pastes and vials of liquid. She’d never call the doctor unless it’s really bad, which is fine by me because I hate the bastard.

When I was little I followed her to the ruins once to watch what she did. There were all these huge, shiny black berries ripening in the sun by the old abbey walls; bumblebees were droning and a purple butterfly landed on my shoulder; then suddenly my mother winged round like she knew I was there all the time and just crammed one of the berries into my mouth and made me swallow it. When I woke up the tree tops were swishing round and round the moon. I tried to stand up but kept bending over double with this thumping headache and sweat breaking out all over. It was awful, scary – I thought I was going to die. I suppose it was her way of warning me off.

She puts those belladonna berries in pies too, depending on who’s coming. I used to hide behind the kitchen door and this one time she was singing, ‘Four and twenty blackbirds…’ and tipping fresh blackberries and late autumn raspberries into a pie, having a high old time, then she went off to get the big ripe black ones from her laundry room. Half a dozen or more had gone in before she turned on me and flashed the knife. It glinted in the sun and I backed away and ran into the woods. I could hear her laugh spiralling round the valley and all the crows were screeching out of the trees. It’s not like I’d tell on her or anything, cos me and my sister would be put into care and that’s where even worse stuff happens and I’d never see my sister again.

Belladonna can kill you if you take too much: you have to take just the right amount and then it’s the best drug ever and at the moment I’m glad of it. It’s nice. She mixes it with hemlock – the same stuff she takes to put herself into a trance.

Well, I wish I was in a trance now. I can hear that pig clomping up the narrow staircase and my flesh creeps. I suppose this means my time must have come.

Ahead of him a black shadow stretches out along the corridor even though it’s a sunny day, slipping round the doorway long before he does. He looks more like a funeral director than a doctor, always dressed in a black suit, curly grey hair springing out in wiry tufts from his ears and nose. Something about him is so fucking repugnant – there’s a fanatical gleam in those horrible yellow eyes like he gets off on your pain. The more embarrassed or uncomfortable you are the more he drools. One time when I was about four and had the chicken pox my mother left me alone with him and even though I was crying and shouting for her she never came...
and no, I can’t…I can’t
…
No, Eve, no
…

“Get out of my room. What the fuck are you doing here?”

His hooded eyes glint delightedly. “Hello, Ruby! Feisty little thing, aren’t we?” he lisps. “So who are we today then? Alice in wonderland? Micky Mouse?” He snaps open his black bag and brings out a syringe.

Vaguely I’m aware of my own voice, only it isn’t my voice anymore. “Fuck off. She wants a proper doctor.”

“Ida!” He says, turning to our mother, who’s standing in the doorway. “We’re going to need…oh good you’ve got them.”

She starts spreading out towels and hands him a pair of rubber gloves.

What the fuck
? 

“Hummmmmmmm...”

“Ruby, stop that infernal humming. Shut up now, the doctor’s here and you’ve got to get this baby out.”

Looking down at the bed there’s this writhing girl with thin arms being tied to the bedstead by her mother. She shoves another rag into the girl’s mouth to muffle the screaming; then a needle is pushed into a vein and her legs are thrust apart. Blood pools onto the sheets as the man in the black suit thrusts his hand inside of her and starts to pull out the baby that was stuck…by its legs.”

‘Four and twenty blackbirds…’.

But I’m lucky, I’m the good girl not the bad one – the punishment happens to her and she deserves it because of what she does with
him
…because she likes it…

Where I am, though, oh it’s so nice here - late afternoon and just going dark in the fairground. The sky’s a deep indigo blue dotted with a few stars, and underfoot you can feel the vibration of the rides. The smell of hotdogs and sizzling onions is in the air, and my skin still feels warm from sunbathing all afternoon by the river. Money burns in my pocket as I stand looking at the Waltzer and the handsome gypsy boy with dark flashing eyes staring just at me. He holds the pole in the centre of the carousel, his loose, white shirt undone to the waist, a cigarette balanced on his lower lip. ‘Come on’, he says, reaching out with strong, brown hands…‘Come on, angel girl. Come and have some fun!’

Have I seen him before?

***

Days later or hours later

The harvest moon has painted the forest silver and sprinkled the river with a million crystals. The water is fresh and cold as I wade in washing off caked blood; falling into it, letting the exquisite iciness rinse over my face, smoothing back my hair. There is nothing now except me and the rippling, gurgling river.
Heaven take me.

That aching, dragging feeling in my tummy is finally floating away as I sink down and down and down, the moon swilling and swaying overhead, my lungs filling with glorious freezing oblivion.

“What in fuck’s name are you doing?”

A man’s voice registers from outer space and suddenly all the pain surges back into screaming, gasping reality. My elbow’s half wrenched out of its socket and my face is in the mud, then my hair’s being pulled back and his mouth is clamped hard on mine. Back over into the mud.

“Puke it up now. Make yourself sick!”

The man swimming into vision has the darkest hair and huge brown eyes. His jeans are torn and he looks a lot like the gypsy boy in my dreams – only instead of swinging me around the fairground he’s examining my forearms, staring at all the scratches and needle marks. “Are you a druggie? What the fuck happened to you? Aren’t you a bit young?”

A voice, not my own, says, “I’m sixteen.”

I don’t know what happens after this. Maybe I lose more days? This one’s already fading.

***

                    
 
Chapter Twelve

Sunday, 27th December 2015

Laurel Lawns

Becky walked down the driveway towards the gothic wrought-iron gates. No rumble of traffic disturbed the brooding silence of the gardens either side, and her heels echoed on the wet tarmac.

With a bit of luck there should be a bus along in around ten minutes, she thought, hurrying along – the wind was whipping up again and snow threatened. Pushing through the pedestrian exit at the side of the gates, she emerged on the other side into the quiet darkness of a country lane and squinted into the dusk. There wasn’t a soul in sight.

From somewhere out in the fields a sheep bleated and the first spots of sleet stung her cheeks. Honestly, she should have called a taxi – it was ridiculous trying to save a few quid like this, but old habits die hard as they say. Still, at least the long bus journey meant there would be enough time to read the diary. How incredible she’d managed to get hold of it; what a coup! Itching to tell Celeste, she started to call her on the mobile, then quickly realised there wasn’t a signal. Oh well…she dropped the phone back into her bag…no worries, she’d text her later.

The bus shelter was empty and she sat down, hugging herself to keep warm. A cold draft whined underneath the glass panels, blowing in a rustle of dead leaves. How dark it was, like night already. She looked at her watch. Fifteen minutes had passed, the horizon already merged in heavy cloud.

I assume you know they use the black arts
…

The diary…would ‘they’
know she now had it? They’d known Martha had…Somehow. What could happen to her out here, though? Seriously? Would a car skid off the lane from out of nowhere? Would the bus crash? Would Chester’s voice suddenly shout into her ear while she was out here alone? Yes, that was the most likely option – when it came to herself it seemed they liked to target her deep-rooted fear of madness. Kristy’s deformed face flashed before her unbidden, and Becky stood up. Where the hell was the bus?

Some people are more at risk of possession than others…like the lonely…

Well
that was just it – she was one of the lonely! Those shrieking, drunken nights out in Leeds were a thing of the long distant past. All those girls now women with families while she was facing divorce, had few relatives and no children. All there was in life now was work. Oh yes, she was cut-off and lonely all right.

Just don’t look into her eyes
…

Had she? Had she, though?

Yes! The moment had caught her off guard but she had, definitely, and now every time she tried to sleep and every single time she woke up in the early hours alone in the dark those eyes would be staring straight into her soul. Oh how crazy was this? Tears prickled her eyes. However had all this happened? Again she said a prayer and again pictured a brilliant divine light surrounding her body. She must believe, had to believe…but how did you know if the belief was strong enough to protect you? It was blind faith yet still she inhaled the imaginary white light as if it was steam, envisaging it enveloping every part of her until she sat safely inside a shimmering bubble of protection.

Pacing up and down, constantly checking over her shoulder, Becky prayed and prayed that the bus would come. Why was it so black dark out here, and so quickly? Inside her bag the diary sat waiting to be read and soon she would be the only person outside of Woodsend who knew its terrible secrets. Would those secrets die with her? Or be lost with her insanity?

In the distance headlights now bobbed into view, the bus driver crunching down a gear as the vehicle reached a slight incline, blue smoke billowing from the exhaust.

Becky stepped out of the shelter and into the sleety wind to flag it down. At the exact moment a glass panel at the back of the shelter blew out and shattered.

              Hundreds of glass crystals showered the floor, peppering the seat she’d been sitting on just moments before. She was still staring in shock when the bus drew level and the doors hissed open.

“That were a near miss, love,” said the driver, laughing. You alright?”

It was just a coincidence
…             

She struggled to raise a weak smile, fumbling for change before stumbling down the aisle on legs that had turned to jelly. He was still chuckling, nodding to her in his rear-view mirror, his shoulders juddering with mirth – probably the most amusement he’d had all day. It was enviable really, to be that blissfully ignorant. Why couldn’t she be a normal person too? What had she done to deserve this and who the hell could she turn to? Her life was in danger – it was – it definitely was…and there wasn’t a single person to put their arms around her and say it was all going to be okay. Not one.

She sat at the back of the bus looking straight ahead.
Gale force winds and a stress fracture, that’s all it was…coincidence…no it wasn’t, you know it wasn’t…

Buttoning down rising panic she tried to recall the Lord’s Prayer but could not. Instead her mind leapt down a myriad of different alleyways, chattering incessantly, frantically busy with questions but no answers.

Come on, Becky, you’ve got forty minutes stuck on this bus – read the bloody diary…come on.

It seemed the bus was entirely empty except herself. Looking out of the mud-spattered window all that was visible was her own bloodless face; and occasionally a powerful gust of wind buffeted the bus, the smell of diesel overpowering as the bus lurched up and down gears in effort to keep moving. She’d be sick if she tried to read the diary now. But read it she must and the sooner the better.

The first few pages she scanned.

Linda Hedges had harboured suspicions about Woodsend after being asked to visit highly disturbed teenager, Bella – Derek and Kathleen Dean’s daughter…
Yes, she knew about Bella…
The GP had not followed up and in the end her grandma had called out the police. Then came Thomas Blackmore…
Kristy’s patient
…and both children had duly been incarcerated into psychiatric care. Linda’s job should have been done at that point, except she’d been that little bit too curious it seemed, because the woman was clearly talking about keeping private notes in case anything happened to her. Why would she think that? Becky’s stomach clenched into a knot as she forced herself to read to the conclusion: Martha and Kristy would have been the last two people to read this and look what had happened to them!

She rested the book on her lap for a moment, quelling an increasing travel sickness from looking down. Bridesmoor Colliery had loomed into view, the pithead wheel partly obscured by rolling cloud. What if the driver lost concentration or a phantom appeared in the road to make him swerve? An image of the bus lying on its side in the bog, wheels spinning, formed in her mind’s eye and seemed so real, so likely, that it played out in front of her and now there were people she knew being told; announcements in the news….
Stop it, stop it…
.Forcing herself to re-focus on the diary she quickly read to the end. Too quickly, she realised later, because she’d been totally unprepared for its contents.

Linda Hedges had found unmarked, shallow children’s graves in Five Sisters Cemetery. The graves appeared to be relatively new; yet when she checked it out there were no records of any correlating births or deaths in the area.

The information sank and sank and sank…
OhmyGod
…
How many years? Who knew
?
Whose children
?

They had now reached Bridesmoor’s highest point and the wind was pummelling the bus so alarmingly it rocked and swayed. Becky stared at her reflection: the fluorescent interior of the bus served only to make the darkness outside seem even darker, with herself illuminated as if on a fairground carousel. She slid the notebook back into her bag, and as she did so, caught on the edge of her vision, a man in a black hat and coat on the back seat.
How come she hadn’t noticed him
? She whirled round. But there was absolutely no one there.

Her heart thumped so hard in her chest it made the blood surge painfully through the radial and carotid pulses and she gripped the seat in front of her.
What in fuck’s name was that?

She hadn’t eaten all day and light-headedness was making her sick and faint. Inside her chest, her lungs were as tight as an asthmatic’s and she fought for breath. It was an illusion. A trick, that was all. Celeste was right, though – time was running out – she would be stopped for sure if action wasn’t taken very, very soon. There had to be someone she could trust…
think, think
…someone who would help and believe all this before it was too late.

She closed her eyes and began to pray for help and guidance with all the force she could muster. The prayer came easily and fluently this time, and shortly afterwards the bus eased into top gear and began its descent.

When she next looked out of the window there were street lights and rows of terraces, a boarded up pub and a queue of people waiting outside a chip shop. Tears stabbed at her eyelids. Lord knows she wasn’t a crier, but never had loneliness shrouded her more.

She looked at her watch: ten minutes before the stop for the Infirmary – she’d better send Celeste that text and phone Noel. Someone else had to know what she now knew. The more people the better.

***

Noel sounded harassed. “Sorry, Becks. We’ve had a lockdown. Are you alright? You’re not in Woodsend are you? Please God, tell me you’re not out there on your own?”

She clutched the mobile, trying to keep her voice strong and steady. “No. Celeste persuaded me to visit her instead and I’m glad she did. Listen, I’ve just been to see Kristy at Laurel Lawns.”

“Oh my God, you didn’t? How is she? What’s happened?”

“Terrible. Shocking. Like Jack was. There’s a whole load of stuff I need to tell you urgently, Noel, and it’s really important. In fact, it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say my life’s at stake as well as…”

“What?”

“But before that, listen – do you remember the priest who helped me just before Christmas? Did you get his name?”

There was a slight lull while Noel flailed around. “Err…No…oh hang on wait…yes, yes I do actually – it was Michael!”

“And that was at St Mark’s Church, wasn’t it?”

“I went back to thank him but no one there had heard of him; in fact the Rev was a bit snappy with me – said I must have imagined it. What’s this about your life…?”

“Well, someone must know him. I want to get in touch with him as soon as possible for Kristy or she’s going to die. It’s a bad situation – really bad. The doctor there is blocking any chance of her getting help from the church but she’s got to have it. The thing is I saw him face to face and he looked like a nasty piece of work. Nora was out and out scared of him.”

“What was his name? What happened to the last one?”

“The last one got fired. Anyway, his name badge said, ‘Crispin Morrow’. I’m going to look him up on google now I’ve got data on my phone.”

“Where are you?”

“Five minutes from the Infirmary…”

“Becky, tell me why you’re in danger? Is it the same thing as before?”

“Kind of. Noel, I’m okay but I’ve read the diary that Linda Hedges kept – it was in Kristy’s locker – and there’s stuff that has to be got to the police but I don’t know who to trust. I have to show you…”

“I’ll come to the DRI.”

“Yes, please. Look, I’ll have to have a bite to eat or I’ll pass out, but while I’m in the canteen I’ll google this Dr Morrow – see what I can find. Then I’ll go and sit with Callum while I think what to do next. I’ll need to tell Celeste and I need to tell you because we have to do something and soon. I’ll be here all night.”

“You’re going to be exhausted.”

“I know but I can’t leave him. I think he knows what’s in this diary too, and I think ‘they’ know he knows, which is why he’s not getting better.”

“Pardon? I don’t follow.”

“I know…I need to explain it to you in person.”

“I’m up to my neck at the minute, Becks, but you know I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Thanks Noel. I’ll see you soon then?”

***

Dr Crispin Morrow.
Good grief, he should surely have retired by now!

It looked like he’d acquired his medical degree back in 1963 and subsequently qualified to practice as a GP in 1967.

Funny, she thought, he didn’t look as old as seventy-three. He’d seemed middle aged, sixty at the most; only his yellow hooded eyes, as leathery lidded as a chameleon’s, had indicated he might be older. For sure there had been something creepy about him, although nothing she could quite put a finger on.

On further research it seemed there was very little about him in the public domain. He’d practiced medicine in Bridesmoor village for over forty years and still did, albeit part time. She tapped away on her iPhone while stabbing at chips and wolfing down a cheese sandwich, trying to find evidence of his psychiatric work. It seemed he’d had various staffing psychiatry positions, including one at an adolescent unit and several at private clinics. There really wasn’t much more to go on. So he was fully authorised to work as a psychiatrist and a general practitioner, then? Alas, that was all the information on him. There was no home address and no family links