Shepherd's Cross Page 28

  They didn’t need asking twice. Bill Turner didn’t count them as they left, but he guessed that maybe ten or more villagers, from young farmhands keen to see some action to older but capable residents who wanted to help in any way they could, rushed through the pub doors and into the evening air.

  ‘Right lads,’ Turner said, addressing the men in his search party. Let’s get ourselves ready.’

  ‘What about the Police, dad?’ asked Liam. ‘Shouldn’t they be leading this?’

  ‘There are no Police, son…apart from Jennings and Cara. And as far as we know, they could be in a spot of bother themselves. We can’t sit around doing nothing while they could be in danger up there…that’s not the way we do things around here.’

  ‘Your dad’s right, Liam,’ Blackett added, pulling on his worn overcoat. ‘Folk in The Cross look after their own. They always have done.’

  Emily listened as the men talked and prepared themselves for the journey to Fellside Hall, but she was only half paying attention. Her mind was occupied with Reverend Jackson, with the inverted cross, and most of all, with Chloe Price. Her thoughts drifted back a day or two to the discussions that she and Bronwyn had enjoyed with Charlotte Bainbridge and Olivia Falconer, seemingly harmless and good-natured at the time, but now fraught with preternatural meaning and significance.

  ‘So it is true,’ she said aloud, although nobody around her could hear her through the sound of hectic activity and last minute preparations. She looked up and out through a window into the creeping darkness of the night sky. ‘History is repeating itself…after all this time.’ She shifted her gaze into the bar and studied the expressions on the faces of her friends and customers, noticing the panic-stricken look in their eyes. As she watched them, she couldn’t help but compare them to their ancestors from times gone by; like them, they would have been excited and terrified of the witches and devils that terrorised their village, sacrificing their animals and damaging their buildings with spells and acts of black magic. Centuries had passed, but the memories had remained fresh; lying under the surface, waiting patiently to return.

  Noticing that Emily was by herself, Tina moved from the bar and walked over to join her. ‘Emily,’ she said, concerned by the vacant look on her friend’s face. ‘Emily, are you alright?’

  Emily continued to stare at the people in the room, wrapped up her in her thoughts. At last, she spoke; quietly but with a self-assured tone. ‘They’ve come back to The Cross,’ she said, turning to face Tina.

  ‘Who have, Emily?’ Tina asked. ‘Who have come back?’

  ‘The Coven,’ she said, the matter-of-fact nature of her reply causing every hair on Tina’s arms to stand up without so much as a warning. ‘The witches, the spirits…the dark hand of Satan that surrounds us but seldom shows itself. I should never have doubted my feelings. They’ve come back…I’m sure of it,’ she said, before saying something that would have floored a less hardy soul than Tina Radcliffe.

  ‘And they’re not going to stop until they’ve had their revenge.’

  Chapter 13

  4.15pm: ‘Let’s go after him – he’s been gone too long.’

  Cara sighed and nodded her head reluctantly. ‘Alright,’ she said, unclipping her truncheon from its holster. ‘But remember – I’m in charge. You’re to stay behind me at all times, is that clear?’

  ‘Clear as crystal.’

  ‘I’m fairly certain I haven’t heard anybody coming out of that room yet. If we keep quiet, we should be able to get past without alerting them to us.’ She gripped the door handle and looked into the hallway. The large double doors that led to the room where the others were talking were still closed. She looked at Ben. ‘You ready?’

  ‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’

  They tiptoed along the short stretch of hallway that led to the double doors, edging their way by them without stopping, before heading down the same corridor that Jennings had earlier taken towards the kitchen. They passed two more closed doors, slowing down at each one without opening them. Cara’s eyes were focused on a faint light that was coming from an open room slightly further down the hallway; she was unable to see into it from her current position, but her intuition told her that she needed to head towards it. She tightened her grip on the truncheon and moved closer.

  A few steps later, they reached the opening from where the light was shining and cautiously peered inside. Some sort of kitchen, thought Cara, noticing the array of rotten units and worktops fastened to the walls. Her eyes were drawn to the centre of the room, to the trapdoor lying open suggestively in the middle of the floor. She sensed immediately, that wherever Chloe was, or whatever had happened to Jennings, that hole in the ground had something to do with it. Her imagination started playing tricks on her, convincing her that it was not actually a trapdoor, but rather the entrance to a torture chamber, where all who entered were at risk of having their limbs ripped from their bodies and their hair scorched from their heads. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to try and control her fear. However terrifying the dark and random images in her head might have been, the fact remained that there were two real-life people currently in danger; two real-life people who were depending on her.

  She walked through the open doorway, Ben following closely behind, and headed for the trapdoor. Their thoughts were so occupied with what lay underneath the floor that they failed to see the figure of Sergeant Jennings, his hands and body bound tightly with rope and his mouth covered from ear to ear with tape. He had been tied securely to a pair of hooks that were fastened to the wall on the left side of the entrance, to the extent that he was unable to manage even the slightest of movements that would have alerted Cara and Ben to what was about to happen. The only parts of his body that he was able to move were his eyes: which strained against their sockets as he desperately tried to attract Cara’s attention.

  Reaching the open trapdoor, Cara and Ben leant over the hole and tried to see what was below. It was too dark, but a faint, flickering light suggested that there was someone, or something down there lurking in the shadows. Ben placed his foot on the first step, reaching for the truncheon that Jennings had given him, and tentatively began walking downstairs. Cara’s hand on his shoulder stopped him dead in his tracks. She shook her head to warn him that she didn’t think going down there was such a good idea, that maybe they should just turn around and get the hell away from Fellside Hall and everyone in it, but it was no use. She could see the determination in his eyes – he wasn’t going anywhere without Chloe. He tried his best to smile at her, to let her know that this was the right thing to do; the only thing. In her heart she knew he was right, no matter how frightened she was of what might happen to them.

  Ben took another step, and another, until half of his body was submerged in the cellar. Before he could descend any further, the sound of Chloe’s voice rose up to meet him. It was weak and confused, like that of a sick child waking up in a bed that wasn’t her own, but it was Chloe…he was certain of it. ‘Chloe!’ he shouted. ‘Where are you? Don’t worry, darling, daddy’s here. I’m coming to get you right now!’ She screamed; a terrified, high-pitched scream that echoed through the cellar and up into the kitchen and beyond. Jesus Christ, Ben thought, what have they done to my baby?

  ‘I wouldn’t go down there if I were you. You won’t like what you find.’ Ben and Cara span around to see the towering figure of Benedict Blackmoor, his eyes burning bright with excitement, his smile sickening and cruel. He was standing over by Jennings, his knife pressed against the Sergeant’s throat. Cara froze, too frightened to move or speak. Jennings looked at her, his eyes willing her to pull herself together and concentrate. At that precise moment in time, she was all he had. He was almost certain that he was going to die – he had seen up close what they’d done to Reverend Jackson – but he couldn’t allow the same fate for Cara. He needed her to be strong; for him, for Chloe, and most importantly, for herself.

  ‘My…my daughter’s down there,’ said Ben, b
reaking the silence. ‘I need to see her. Please…I’m begging you.’

  Blackmoor looked to the floor and shook his head. ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible. You see, Mr Price, we need your daughter. She is a very important part of our plans; indeed, you might say that the success of the entire operation rests on her delicate shoulders.’ He sniggered, finding amusement in this last comment.

  Chloe screamed again and cried out for her daddy. As quick as a flash, Ben’s fear turned to anger, his protective instinct towards his daughter surpassing every other emotion. He turned away from Blackmoor and resumed his descent into the cellar, but as he did so, he was met with the glowering presence of King standing in front of him, his face devoid of any discernible emotion as he confronted Ben and blocked his path down the remainder of the steps. Ben raised his truncheon, but King was too fast for him. Ben had time to hear his daughter scream one final time before he felt the weight of King’s fist smashing into his face, breaking his nose as he howled with agony. Searing pain coursed through him, throwing him completely off-balance and causing him to fly backwards with a seemingly unnatural amount of force. As he landed, his head struck the side of one of the concrete steps. This time he didn’t feel anything, as his world instantaneously slipped from light to dark.

  Cara screamed as she bent down to hold Ben, only to feel the blood seeping from a deep cut in the back of his head through her fingers and onto the steps. King stared at her with utter contempt as he walked past her, stepping over Ben’s motionless body before joining Blackmoor at the far side of the kitchen.

  She was alone now, nobody to protect her but herself. She stared in horror at King and Blackmoor: no matter how fast she ran, or how lucky she was with a blind swipe of her truncheon, she knew there was no way she could fight them; not by herself. She could only stare at them and wait for their next move. She looked at Jennings, trying but failing to give him a reassuring smile: to see him so vulnerable and helpless was heart-breaking; reinforcing the abject futility of her situation. She felt tears rising to the surface but fought them back. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, give them the satisfaction of seeing her cry in front of them.

  ‘Come now, my dear,’ said Blackmoor. ‘You don’t want to suffer the same fate as your friends, do you?’

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked. ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘Why do you think we’re doing it? We’re having fun. Aren’t you?’ The two archaeologists laughed, enjoying the game.

  ‘Don’t you have a conscience?’ she asked Blackmoor. ‘Can’t you see what you’re doing is wrong? You’ve murdered a vicar and kidnapped an innocent girl, for Christ’s sake!’

  Blackmoor’s face hardened at this. ‘I’ve spent my life killing people. I have no regrets – I can assure you that not one of my victims deserved to live. You might even say I’m carrying out a valuable public service. Like yourself, PC Jones. We’re the same, you and I. Servants of the people.’

  ‘Go to hell. I serve the law – you break it. You know you won’t get away with this: you’ll be caught within a matter of days. I’d strongly advise you to stop this right now. Don’t make it any worse for yourself than it already is. Release Sergeant Jennings and Chloe Price immediately and give yourselves up. It’s the only way out of this.’

  Blackmoor laughed; a loud, powerful laugh from deep within his gut. ‘As you wish, PC Jones, as you wish.’ He offered the knife to King and stepped aside. ‘You heard the officer, Reuben. She wants us to release Sergeant Jennings. Would you be so kind as to oblige?’

  King accepted the knife and walked toward Jennings.

  ‘Wait. What are you going to do to him?’ asked Cara. ‘Let him go. Can’t you see he’s no threat to you? He’s innocent. Let him go!’

  ‘Sshhh, don’t spoil the moment,’ Blackmoor whispered. ‘Give your superior officer the honour of dying with a modicum of dignity. It’s the least you can do given all that he’s taught you.’

  Jennings felt the cold steel of the knife’s blade as King pressed it to his throat. The sound of Chloe sobbing in the background broke the silence, but Cara paid it no attention. It was as if the entire scene before her was being played out in slow motion, like the nightmare where no matter how hard you try, you can never escape the dark figure as it chases you down every corridor, until eventually you can run no more and you wake up sweating with a fear that only changes to relief once you are absolutely sure that you are alone and that whatever it was that was coming for you hasn’t also crossed the divide from dream to reality.

  But this was no dream. Cara opened her mouth to speak, to plead with them to stop, but her throat was too dry to form words. All she could do was stare at Jennings’s eyes, helplessly watching him, as if he were a pig strung up on a slaughterhouse rack. For a brief moment, she thought she saw his eyes smiling at her. She did her best to smile back at him, to tell him telepathically how much he meant to her, how much she appreciated all the good and bad times they’d shared.

  King looked at Blackmoor, who nodded back at him to give him the authority he needed to continue. Jennings, sensing his fate, closed his eyes and began to shake. He prayed that the pain wouldn’t last long and that it would all be over as quickly as possible. Cara saw his eyes rolling back behind their closed lids, and part of her couldn’t help but wonder whether or not there was any truth to the claim that your life flashes before your eyes as you stand on the brink of death. She hoped it was true and that he would draw comfort from that.

  The increasing pressure of the sharpened blade eventually became too great for Jennings’s skin to resist. Blood began to flow as it sliced into his neck, a few trickles to begin with, but as it sank deeper the trickles turned into a steady stream and then finally a spurting gush as King plunged the blade deep into his throat and yanked it across from one side to the other, tearing through the oesophagus and ripping through arteries. This time Cara did manage to speak, but only enough to groan as she fell to her knees and crouched up into a tight ball, taking her eyes away from the dying body of her friend. Jennings’s body thrashed against the wall with prolonged and undignified death throes, until eventually it moved no more. His head slumped down over his torn throat, his normally pristine white shirt now drenched in blood.

  If Cara had still been looking up, she would have seen an ecstatic smile form across the face of King, grinning from ear to ear like a child on Christmas morning. She would also have seen a similar look of satisfaction on Blackmoor’s face, slightly more subtle perhaps, but smug and contented all the same. Instead, she continued to lie curled up on the floor, trying desperately to pretend that none of this was real.

  It was only the arrival of familiar voices that managed to snap her back into the present. She lifted her head, and standing by the open doorway to the kitchen, as if they had been there watching silently all along, were Ted Wilson, Frank Gowland and Bronwyn Hess.

  ‘Have we missed the action?’ asked Wilson, grinning at Cara as he led the others into the room. ‘Hello, Cara. Have you come to join our party?’

  Cara didn’t even look at him. Her eyes were fixed on Bronwyn in a cold, embittered stare. Bronwyn didn’t return the stare.

  Blackmoor interrupted them. ‘I’m afraid we have no need for PC Jones at our party – there are enough guests as it is. However, I do feel that it may be worth her joining us later. Perhaps she can be offered up as a welcoming present for the Master?’ Laughter from the others.

  Bronwyn glanced at the trapdoor as Chloe began to cry again. For an instant, Cara could have sworn that she saw something in her eyes: not the dark, lifeless pools that had been there earlier, but signs of life; signs of the real Bronwyn who everyone in the village knew and loved. Cara climbed to her feet and began walking over to her. ‘Bronwyn, can you hear me? BRONWYN! I know you can hear me. You’ve got to help me. We’ve got to get Chloe away from here. Bronwyn!’

  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.