Trespass: A Tale of Mystery and Suspense Across Time (The Darkeningstone Book 1) (23 page)

1939

VINCENT WAS
IN A FOUL MOOD
as he walked home that evening.
I shouldn’t let Burrows get on my nerves
, he thought. But he couldn’t help it. The man was a jumped-up, conniving little weasel.
He’s no right to talk like that to me
, Vincent thought.
I’ve more skill in my little finger than he’ll ever have
.

Vincent had worked in that quarry since it opened—back in 1920. He’d been fifteen years old, an apprentice. All he’d wanted was to work hard and master the skills of his trade. Here he was, nineteen years later, still working hard. He was a damn good stonemason, and he deserved better treatment. He’d had just about enough.

He stopped outside the newsagents on the corner and felt in his pocket for change. Yes, there was enough there. He often popped in for a local paper and sometimes, when he felt like it, a bag of sweets. Perhaps today he’d cheer himself up with a quarter pound of mint humbugs.

The bell rang as he pushed the door open. He was the only customer, and the owner, Tom Marshall, stood ready behind the counter. “Afternoon, Vincent,” he said, already selecting Vincent’s usual paper from the pile on the counter and folding it in half. “Just
The Echo
today, or can I get you something else?”

“Afternoon, Tom,” Vincent said. “Yes, I’ll take
The Echo
and…” He’d been about to scan the sweet jars, but the headlines on the national papers caught his eye:
POLAND INVADED, Britain and France Mobilise, MILITARY AGE 18 TO 41

A few minutes later, when he emerged from the shop, he hadn’t bought the sweets, hadn’t even bought the local paper. He stood on the pavement holding
The Daily Telegraph
. He wasn’t used to the larger pages, and he fought to control them as they flapped in the breeze. He stood and read the entire front page, folded it hurriedly, read the rest of the story inside.

Only layabouts stood reading papers on street corners. But today Vincent didn’t care what people might think. He didn’t look up from the paper until he’d got the whole story straight in his mind. Then he folded the paper, tucked it under his arm and set off for home.

Now he forgot all about the quarry and its foreman, he forgot about stone and skills. Now he had a new purpose. As he strode home he thought,
I’m not a young man, but I’m fit and strong. I can look after myself better than most, and I’ve got a level head, which is more than you can say for most of the young lads you meet
.

But he didn’t really need to convince himself. As soon as he’d seen the headlines he’d known, with a cold certainty he would not wait. He’d be one of the first to put himself forward. He’d play his part to the full and be proud of it—whatever the consequences may be.

2010

WAS IT
JUST ROBBO?
I thought so. I couldn’t hear anyone else. But I couldn’t see a thing, my face was pressed hard against the ground. Robbo went quiet, intent on searching through my pockets. Maybe Matt could rush at Robbo, push him off me. I gritted my teeth and twisted my body to the side, trying to look back to the fence.

“Don’t move.” Robbo hit the back of my head, slamming my face into the gravel. I felt skin scrape from my nose, tasted dirt and blood on my lips. But I’d moved enough to see the hole in the fence. Where was Matt? What had happened to him? Was he hiding?

Then he was there, his face pale, peering out nervously from behind the iron sheet. Our eyes met. Robbo hadn’t seen him yet. But it was no use. Matt was terrified. And anyway, what could he do against someone like Robbo? Nothing. There was only one sensible thing for him to do, only one hope for both of us.

“Run,” I mouthed at him, “Run. Get help.” Matt nodded once, and then he was off. He didn’t sneak out carefully and quietly, he just ran. I’ve never seen anyone run so fast, arms pumping, legs a blur. He probably thought Robbo would chase him. I wished he would. With two of us to chase, we might both have escaped. But Robbo wasn’t going to fall for that. He just let Matt go.

“I’ll sort that one out later,” he said. “That your little friend, is it? He’s been after nicking my stuff as well has he?”

“No,” I moaned. “We haven’t nicked anything. We didn’t know it was your place. I won’t tell anyone, aaah!” He twisted my arm even farther. I’d made a mistake, I knew what he was going to say.

“Tell anyone what? What do you think you know about, eh?”

“Nothing. Nothing.” I could hardly recognise my own voice. It shook with fear and pain. “I don’t know anything. Just, it’s your place, that’s all, just…my arm, my arm…” I couldn’t say anymore. I screwed my eyes shut tight, squeezed out hot tears. There was only pain. It flooded through me, washed over me, pulled me under.

But Robbo was enjoying himself. “Oh dear,” he said in mock sympathy. “Does that hurt? I didn’t realise.” Another savage twist to my arm, then his voice was hard again, shouting, close to my ear, “Then tell me what you were doing in there. Tell me now before I pull your bleeding arm right off.”

I wanted to speak, wanted to tell him what he needed to hear, anything, just so long as he’d let go of my arm. But I couldn’t do it. The pain overwhelmed me, took away my words, my thoughts. I was breathing very quickly, gasping in the air, but I couldn’t make myself breathe out again. That couldn’t be right. What was happening to me? Panic swept through me. I opened my eyes, stretched them wide. But they weren’t working properly. There was no colour. The world had gone ghost grey, shadowy, fading into nothingness. Some detached part of me realised I was blacking out and wondered if it might be better, if it might make the pain go away.

But I wasn’t going to escape that easily. Suddenly Robbo released my arm, rolled me roughly over onto my back. For the first time, I saw him, a dark shape stood over me, bending down. But I didn’t see the fist coming. My head jerked sideways as the punch connected with the bones around my left eye. A white starburst exploded, blotted out my vision. A searing heat pierced my skin, penetrated my skull. And something warm seeped slowly around my eyebrow, ran across my forehead. I touched my hand to the place. It was wet. And when I lifted my hand to look, my fingers were covered with blood, dripping with deep-red blood. My blood. I saw my fingers tremble with the horror of it.

But the nightmare carried on. Robbo grabbed the front of my shirt with one hand, and with the other he pointed at my face, stabbing his finger closer to my eyes in time with his words.

“That’s to learn you some respect. You’ve got to show some respect for people, you hear me? Do you?”

I’ve never forgotten those words, never understood them. How twisted do you have to be, to confuse respect with violence and fear? But at the time I nodded, just to show him he’d won, just to show him I couldn’t take any more. And maybe, for most people, that would’ve been the end of it. But not for Robbo.

“You know what?” he said. “I don’t think I believe you. I reckon you need another lesson.”

I closed my eyes.

The first kick was the worst. It stabbed into my side, burned into me. I cried out, curled myself into a ball, wrapped my arms around my head. That instinct saved me. He kicked me again and again—I don’t know how many times. But most of them landed on my arms, my legs. It could’ve been a lot worse.
Not the knife
, I thought,
anything but the knife
. And maybe, when he’d had his fun, he would’ve stabbed me, left me to bleed and die on the dusty path. But he never got the chance.

“Oi! You!” A man’s voice. “Leave him alone. I’ve called the police. They’re on their way.”

And the kicking stopped. A dog barked furiously. Again, a man’s voice: “See him off! Go on! Good boy!”

I lowered my arms. Robbo walking away from me. He didn’t run. He didn’t look back. He just walked away. Slowly, painfully, I sat up.

“Are you all right, son?” I turned to see who’d saved me. There he was, striding toward me, his dog still barking. It was incredible. I wanted to laugh. I needed to cry. It was the old man who had caught me and shouted at me after my first trip into the quarry. And there, walking a little way behind him, looking very worried, was Matt. I was safe.

3,500 BC

BURLIC POKED
THE FIRE
with a stick and munched silently on his breakfast. Scymrian sat down beside him, cradling Cyrman in her arms. “What’s wrong?” she said.

Burlic shook his head. “Nothing,” he said.

“You were restless in the night,” she told him. “Worse than the baby.”

Burlic grunted. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “That’s all.”

Cyrman stirred and Scymrian rocked him gently back and forth. “Burlic,” she said. “What made you come back to us?”

Burlic looked at her. “You needed me,” he said. “I wanted to be here with you, and with my son.”

“What about Waeccan? Was he all right when you left him?”

Burlic looked back to the fire, carried on poking at it.

“Was he all right?” Scymrian said.

Burlic threw the stick into the fire. “I don’t know,” he snapped. “He’s old, he’s foolish, he’s sick, he…he can’t even look after himself.”

Cyrman whimpered and opened his eyes. “Shh,” Scymrian said. “Shh.” She stood and swayed the baby in her arms, walked the few steps across the hut, from one side to the other until Cyrman closed his eyes and lay still. “Right,” she said. “You’d better go and see Waeccan—help him.”

“What?” Burlic said.

“Go now,” she said. “Take some food and water.”

Burlic stood. “No,” he said. “I will not.”

“Yes you will, Burlic.” She took a deep breath. “People say you meant to harm him. It shames you. It shames us all.”

Burlic hung his head.

Scymrian walked closer to him, softened her voice. “Show them they’re wrong,” she said. “Let them see you’ve helped him, and everything will be all right.”

Burlic looked into her eyes. “I…I don’t know,” he said.

“But I do. And Burlic– take Tellan with you.”

“Tellan?” he said. “I don’t need Tellan.”

“I know,” she said. “But it will help if there’s someone else—someone who can say you speak the truth.”

Burlic frowned. “But I swore. I swore not to leave you.”

“It’s all right,” Scymrian said. “You won’t be long. Just make sure he’s all right—that’s all.”

“Well,” he said. “If you think it’s right.”

“I do,” she said. “Go now. But Burlic—whatever happens, be back here before dark.”

2010

“IT LOOKS
WORSE THAN IT IS,”
the old man told me. “It looks worse than it is. Here, take my arm.” I reached out and he took my arms, pulled me gently onto my feet.

“Thanks,” I mumbled.

“There you go,” he said. “Take my handkerchief. It’s clean.”

I took it. “Thank you,” I said. I touched the handkerchief to my eyebrow, checked it—just a small bloodstain. The bleeding had almost stopped, the blood already drying, shrinking onto my skin. “I’m all right,” I said. But my legs shook, and the old man put his hand on my shoulder to steady me.

“No, you’re not,” he said. “But you soon will be.”

I didn’t know what to say. My whole body ached, my head throbbed, my legs were about to give way. I looked over to Matt. He ran a hand over his forehead. From the look in his eyes, I knew he was worried: worried about the state I was in, worried that he shouldn’t have left me, worried about what would happen next.

“Thanks, Matt,” I said. “If you hadn’t gone for help, I don’t know what would’ve happened.”

Matt nodded, looked at the ground, mumbled, “OK.”

“That’s right,” the old man said. “Lucky for you, your friend found me when he did.” He looked along the path in the direction Robbo had gone. “That blooming thug’s gone anyway. One of these days I really will let Frank take a piece out of him.” He looked down to where his dog was sitting obediently next to him. He scratched the top of the dog’s head, and it looked up to him, licked his hand.

So Frank was the dog that had scared the life out of me the last time I’d met him. I’d thought he was a vicious brute, but he’d only been carrying out the old man’s commands, seeing me off. Frank shuffled closer to the old man and leaned his head against him. He gave a little whine as if he wanted to know what was going on. He looked like a nice dog. I didn’t doubt that he would protect his master, but I wouldn’t wish a fight with Robbo on him.

“I shouldn’t bother,” I said. “He’s not worth it.”

The old man looked down at Frank, tickled him behind the ears. “You’re right there, my lad,” he said. “Right, let’s have a look at that head of yours.”

If my first impression of Frank had been wrong, then I couldn’t have been more mistaken about the old man. Physically, he was a big man, and he did have a gruff, no-nonsense way of talking, but he was genuinely concerned. He even managed to cheer me up a bit.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” he asked me.

I managed a thin smile. “Four and a half,” I said. He’d shown me the whole of his left hand, but the ring finger was just a stump.

“That’s the spirit,” he said when he saw my smile. “And before you ask, I lost it in there.” And he nodded toward the quarry. “Accident. A long time ago…” He looked at the fence, lost in thought. What was he remembering?

“You—you used to work in there?” I said.

He looked me in the eye, searching, wondering why I wanted to know. “Oh yes,” he said. “Twice, as it happens. Once when I was a young lad, before the war this was—apprentice to a mason, but…well, I wasn’t much good. I got laid off.”

“And the other time?”

“Well, after the war they were a bit short of men. They weren’t so fussy.” He sighed at some memory. For a moment, he looked at the ground, but then he looked up and forced a smile. “But don’t get me started,” he said. “Or you’ll be here all day.”

I looked him in the eye. He was holding something back. He knew something about the quarry. Perhaps he knew about the ledge or even the stone platform. Maybe he would know about…

“The tools!” I said. Of course he would know. But where were they? I scanned the ground.

“Are you all right, lad? What’ve you lost?” The old man sounded concerned.

“Matt, have you got them?”

Matt spread his hands. “No. I thought you had them.”

That was right. I’d put them down before I went through the gap. I limped to the fence and gingerly, I crouched down and stuck my head back through the opening.

“No,” Matt shouted. “Don’t you dare go back in there. Don’t you dare.”

“It’s all right,” I said. The tools were where I’d left them on the ground. I reached forward and grabbed them then shuffled awkwardly back out of the gap. “Got them,” I said. I stood, wincing from the pain in my back and my legs. “We found these,” I said. I held them out to the old man.

“What on earth have you got there, lad?” he said. He reached out and very gently, took the hammer and chisel. They didn’t seem so big or so heavy in his large hands. He handled them carefully but purposefully, as if he knew how to use them. But then he saw the letters marked on the handles. He gasped. He looked at me and then he looked back to the tools. “Oh dear,” he said. “Oh dear. Still…I suppose I should’ve known.” And then he hung his head, and closed his eyes.

What did he mean? How could he have known about the tools? “How –” I started.

But Matt interrupted me. “Look,” he said. He pointed toward the end of the path, where it meets the pavement. A police car was parked there. As I watched, two policemen got out and put their caps on.

At the sound of the car doors, the old man looked up. “What?” he said.

“It’s all right,” I said. “The police are here. I, erm, thank you for helping me.” I held out the blood-stained handkerchief. “This is yours.”

He shook his head. “No, no,” he said. “Don’t worry about that, you keep it. And these too, keep these.” He offered the tools back to me.

“Oh, I…”

“Go on,” he said. “Take them. They belonged to a friend of mine—Vincent. He was a good mason, a good man. He was a good friend.” He looked over my shoulder to watch the policemen, then he leaned closer to me. “Is it still there—up on the ledge?” he whispered. “You have been up on that ledge, haven’t you?”

How did he know that? Should I tell him he was right? I exchanged a quick look with Matt. He shook his head, mouthed “No.”

I looked the old man in the eye.
He already knows
, I thought. “Yes,” I said. “It’s still there.”

“I thought as much,” he said. “Well, go on. You take these. Vincent lost these a long time ago. He always said tools were made to be used. Well, they’re no use to him now, nor to me for that matter. He taught me to treat tools with respect. You found them, you look after them. They’re yours now.”

There was no use arguing with him. I took the tools from him, glanced back along the path. The policemen were close now. There wasn’t much time. “How did you know?” I hissed. “About the ledge?”

“Well, for one thing,” he said. “You’ve found Vincent’s tools. And I know for a fact he lost those tools up on that ledge—that was in 1939, and they haven’t changed one scrap since. And back then, when I wasn’t much older than you, I saw something up on that ledge—something I won’t ever forget. And Vincent, he saw something up there too.” He paused, studied my face. “And then there’s the business with the mobile phones,” he said. He smiled at my look of astonishment. “Oh yes,” he continued, “us oldies have mobile phones now. How’d you think I called the police? Anyway, I was walking Frank along here on Sunday when something went very peculiar with my mobile phone. A while later, you came crawling out of that hole.” He smiled sheepishly. “Of course, I thought you were one of that rotten lot at the time, so I told Frank to see you off. Sorry about that.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I mumbled.

“Well, the strange thing is, my mobile phone went funny again today—and suddenly, here you are again. Made me think.”

I was still trying to take this all in when a stern voice cut into my thoughts.

“Right then, Mr Drew, what’s the trouble this time?” The policemen had arrived. “Usual complaint is it—kids mucking about in the quarry?”

“No,” the old man said. “It’s worse than that, they’ve given this poor lad a beating. I saw the whole thing.”

The policemen looked me up and down. “Right,” one of them said. “Let’s get on with it.”

I answered their questions in a daze: name, address, school, parents’ phone numbers. They’d need to get a statement, they said, and there might be an investigation, charges, maybe a court appearance. It didn’t seem real.

“We can take you to the hospital for a check-up if you want,” one of them said.

I just shook my head.

“In that case, we’ll get you home,” he said. “We need to talk to your parents.”

I closed my eyes. Whatever else happened, I’d have to face my mum and dad, and that was going to be the hardest thing of all.