It’s
never been published, largely, I think, because modern editors generally
dislike extended exposition, and the modern taste for things Gothic requires an
element of the darkly glamorous. Fear, frosty nights and bad smells alone won’t do
any more.
Approximate
reading time: 20-30 minutes.
---------------------------------------------------
Alistair Thackthwaite fitted the
image of the classic North Yorkshireman well,
being tall, lean, dark complexioned and steely eyed. Even though he had lived
in the East Midlands for most of his adult
life, his accent still carried the flat vowels and glottal stops of his native
county. The tone of his speech was typical too: blunt and forthright, with
rarely a hint of uncertainty. His mind was the same, and I never knew him to
shirk a challenge or hesitate to proceed with whatever he felt was required of
him.
Some people found him difficult; they
disliked his bluff manner. They said he should be more diplomatic, but I didn’t
agree. Even though we were sometimes at odds over a few issues that we both
felt strongly about, I liked his directness. You always knew exactly where you
stood with Alistair, and that was something that couldn’t be said for most of
those who complained about him.
We lived in a village in
Bedfordshire, not far from the border with Northamptonshire. I still live there,
but Alistair has moved on, and without him, the place has little to commend
itself to me. A cloud of dark and disturbing memory hangs over it now, and I
shall probably move away myself before too long.
I call it a village and that’s how
the locals like to think of it, but it’s really more of a remote suburb. The
older buildings in the centre are mostly Victorian and Edwardian replacements
for what stood there in earlier times, and the pub has been extended and
established as a popular restaurant. Three large housing estates form a
semi-circle around one side, and where there were once meadows, trees and
hedgerows, there is now a forest of inert brick, tarmac and satellite dishes.
At night the village streets are
busy with outsider traffic, visiting either the pub or the local late shop that
makes most of its profit as an off licence and rental store. Groups of idle teenagers
hang pointlessly around it from about six o’clock onwards, swilling the cans of
lager they have bought, or sometimes stolen, from the nervous proprietor. By
seven they imagine themselves to be drunk and entitled to behave in a manner calculated
to annoy the rest of the community.
The word “community” is also something
of a misnomer, since there is little community spirit left. Nearly everyone who
lives in the village commutes long distances to work, and the old sense of
social cohesion has effectively gone. The true locals are a dwindling breed and
mostly retired. They tend to form their own small clique and remain apart from
the outsiders who pay high prices for their properties in order to say that
they live in the country. Mostly they don’t; they just sleep there. They travel
to the towns for everything else.
Alistair was a notable exception.
He had no car and his needs were simple, so trips beyond the parish boundary
were infrequent. Although retired, he gave the equivalent of a working week to
his duties as the verger of the local church, and that was how I came to know
him in the first place.
There are only two structures of
any antiquity left in the village. One is a Saxon cross, the inscriptions on
which have been all but obliterated by the passage of time. Sadly, they have been
usurped by a few choice examples of the Anglo-Saxon tongue that still remain in
the modern, colloquial vocabulary. They have been scrawled in gaudy spray paint
by the local youth, attempting to manifest its creative aspiration in the only
way it knows how.
The other is the church. The
present building is late medieval, but is known to have much older origins. It
stands mercifully apart from the busy centre of the village at the top of a
narrow lane that runs onto a rise overlooking farmland to the west.
The lane is bordered by a few
Victorian cottages, mostly occupied by more elderly villagers, and a couple of
small businesses. And since it bends quite considerably on its progress up the
hill, the noise of the busy street that runs across the bottom of it is almost
impossible to hear. Consequently, the location of the church enjoys a sense of
peace and serenity that belies its proximity to the bustling thoroughfare a
mere two hundred yards away.
The view from the roof of the
crenellated tower carries for many miles over a patchwork vista of farmland towards
the Northamptonshire border and the Nene valley beyond. I had the pleasure of
looking out on it one fine day last November. That was the day on which
Alistair told me what had been troubling him. The story didn’t begin there,
though. It began ten years earlier when I first moved into the village.
During the first week I lived there
I made a point of visiting the church. I had long been interested in medieval architecture
and it seemed a fine example of the Early Gothic style. As I was admiring the
sturdy tower and musing on the reason for crenellating such structures, the
vestry door opened and a tall, saturnine-looking man stepped out. I greeted him
politely and remarked on the age and quality of the building.
“Aye,” he said without smiling.
“Seen a bit of life, has that. Stuff you and me might be shocked at as well,
some of it.”
He strode on his way without
engaging in further conversation and I continued my inspection alone.
A week or so later I decided to
acquaint myself with the local pub. I was sitting on a bar stool, engaged in
forced and trivial conversation with a reluctant barman whose only real
interest lay with the clock ticking away the hours to closing time, when the
man from the vestry strode up and ordered a pint. Even though our first meeting
had been brief, I’d already taken a liking to his solid and direct manner and
offered to buy the drink. He looked at me with a stern eye and an enquiring
manner.
“Aye, OK,” he said, when he had
completed his rapid assessment. “My name’s Alistair - Alistair Thackthwaite.
What’s yours?”
From that uncompromising start grew
a friendship of more depth and substance than most in my life. Having a
naturally enquiring mind and a ready need for self-expression, I tended to do
most of the talking as we got to know one another. Alistair was more reticent,
but it soon became clear that we had much in common as well as a few stark
differences. It was principally our mutual respect for honesty and forthright expression
that cemented the friendship.
I learned that Alistair had moved
to the village thirty years earlier when he had left the army. Although his
wife had connections in the area, he had never felt fully accepted there. His
north country origins and blunt manner had ensured that he was politely
tolerated, but never entirely welcomed. It didn’t bother him a jot. Alistair
was his own man, and even when his wife had died suddenly in middle age, he was
content to live in his self-contained world and felt no need to move back to
his native county.
He had been a self employed
carpenter and joiner during his working life, but had also taken on the part
time job of verger when the previous incumbent had gone to his own permanent
rest in the churchyard. Alistair was a devoted churchgoer and had welcomed the
opportunity to make his contribution to what he saw as a traditional and worthy
cause. As soon as he reached retirement age, he had given up his business and
devoted himself to doing greater justice to his church work. He liked to “keep
a tidy ship,” and took an honest pride in the quality of his labour.
He gave me a guided tour of the
church on one occasion. There wasn’t much to see, since it was only a small
church, but he did his best as always. He gave me a comprehensive appraisal of
the history of the building, full details of the pair of tombs close to the
altar screen that contained the remains of some medieval gentleman and his
beloved wife, and a privileged look at the dark, mouldy crypt under the nave.
He took me up the tower too, but
only as far as the level on which the clock was situated. It was one of his
jobs to set it right every so often. He offered to take me up to the roof, but
I declined. It was a cold, wet day and I suggested that it would be better to
leave that treat until the view was worth looking at.
The church and the Christian faith
in general were among the very few subjects that loosened his tongue, and
occasionally gave rise to heated debate between us. In lighter moments he would
tell me amusing stories about odd happenings at funerals and weddings. On one
occasion, he told me the story of the haunting.
There was a local legend that a
Mercian warrior had been killed fighting the Danish Great Army some time in the
ninth century. After his death, his ghost had been seen patrolling the land
around the church, a duty he had continued to perform even after the small
Saxon structure had been rebuilt four hundred years later. There were several
accounts of sightings right up to the previous century, and it was assumed that
he was there to protect the spot from the ravages of any pagan Viking who dared
to set foot on the hallowed ground. I asked him if he had ever seen or heard
anything.
“’Course not lad, it’s just a fairy
story,” was his dismissive reply.
People like Alistair don’t generally
believe in ghosts, at least not without good evidence, and good evidence rarely
seems to fall the way of people like him. But then he continued after a
moment’s thought.
“Besides, it’s not time yet.
According to the stories I’ve heard, he’s always been seen at the end of the
century - 1698, 1797, 1899. He’s not due for a year or two yet.” Then he
chuckled. “If I do see him, I’ll send him down to the village to put paid to a
few of these yobs we get hanging around these days.”
It was about two years ago that he
told me the story, and although I was more inclined to believe Hamlet’s
assertion that there are more things in heaven and earth than Alistair was, I
didn’t take it too seriously myself. There are countless similar stories all
over the country, and hardly any of the alleged spectres make substantiated
appearances these days. It resurfaced with a vengeance, however, last November.
I’d noticed for a couple of weeks
that Alistair had been lacking his usual taciturn but unshakeably confident air.
At first I’d assumed him to be a little under the weather. He had no family or
close friends to speak of, so it was unlikely that he had worries along those
lines; and his situation held nothing to suggest the likelihood of financial
difficulty.
I’d resisted asking the obvious
question since he was not much given to expressing his feelings, or even
discussing any problems save the mundane and practical. I wondered whether he
might have some serious illness, but saw no evidence that he was in anything
but robust physical health.
I watched him carefully, if
surreptitiously, in an effort to define the nature of the change in him. I
decided that he looked edgy. When we talked, his concentration wandered, and he
would sometimes stare into space and look preoccupied. I still avoided asking
him what was wrong. Whatever it was, I felt he would come through it eventually;
that was his way.
And then, one dark November evening,
he appeared to gather himself to do something objectionable. We were sitting in
front of the open fire in his living room. The loud ticking of his grandfather
clock had been rhythmically interrupting the silence between us for some time
and his sudden question took me by surprise. He asked me, in an unusually apologetic
tone, if I would do him a favour. He had never asked a favour before, and he appeared
to be making an effort to hide a sense of embarrassment.
“Of course,” I replied eagerly.
“What’s the problem?”
I thought his request might throw
some light on what was troubling him. It didn’t. He told me that the vicar
wanted the flag staff on the church tower replacing. The old one was cracked and
he feared that his beloved Union flag might get carried away in a winter storm.
Alistair’s skill with wood made him the obvious candidate for the job and he
had already produced the article ready for installation. He wanted me to help
him fit it.
“When?” I asked.
“Tomorrow?”
“OK, what time?”
“Morning,” said Alistair, “so we’ve
got plenty of daylight to work with.”
I agreed readily and knocked on his
door at ten the next morning. We trudged off to the church carrying the
pristine white pole between us, and walked in single file up the narrow lane
leading to the church. I was behind him and noticed that he looked constantly
at the top of the tower. So complete was his attention that he almost stepped
on a cat basking in the weak November sunshine.
At the time I thought it no more
than professional commitment, but I was more concerned when I saw his hand
shaking as he unlocked the church door. As usual, I said nothing.
We climbed the stone steps, passing
through the clock level and on up to the bell room. Access to the roof was
gained through a trap door at the top of a short ladder and I saw that Alistair
was breathing heavily. So was I for that matter; it was a steep climb. But his
breathing was different. It seemed to match a look in his eyes that suggested
some sort of concern or even fear. As he slid back the two bolts securing the
door, I asked him
“Are you all right?”
“Perfectly,” he replied with a hint
of impatience, and we were soon setting about the job in hand.
I began to wonder what I was doing
there. Alistair took a spanner out of his pocket and unscrewed the bolts on the
bracket that held the pole. The old one was removed in seconds and the new one
put in its place. I did hold it steady while he put the bolts back in their
runners, but there was no need; the pole would have stood easily in position
without my help.
I noticed that he looked furtively
around a couple of times, and that he was working quickly and clumsily. Once
the first bolt was tightened, I left him to it and strolled over to look at the
view. After some minutes of admiring the beauty of the landscape, I said
“Some view, eh?”
“Aye, it’s grand enough,” he
replied. “Are you ready?”
I turned back to see that he had
finished the job and was already walking towards the trap door. I followed and
we were soon out of the church and walking back down the lane. He was striding
so quickly that I had trouble keeping up with him. I decided that enough was
enough.
“Look, Alistair,” I said, as I
tripped along like a faithful spaniel at his side, “something’s got into you
lately. I wish you’d tell me what it is. I’m getting a bit fed up with it.”
“What sort of something?” he asked,
not breaking his stride one jot.
“Wish I knew,” I said. “You’re
edgy, uncommunicative, distracted. And then there’s this business with the flag
pole. You didn’t need me there. You could’ve managed the whole thing on your
own quite easily. It only took ten minutes, so what’s this ‘favour’ business
all about? And why did we need to have plenty of daylight to work with?”
“If you didn’t want to do it, you
should have bloody well said,” he replied angrily.
“Oh come on. We’ve known each other
for ten years. That’s not the point and you know it.”
He strode on in silence until we
reached the junction with the main street. Then a change came over him. He began
to look deflated. He turned to me and asked
“You didn’t see anything up there,
did you?”
“On the tower?” He nodded. “No,
only a fine view of the landscape and you looking bothered about something. Did
you?”
He shook his head.
“Not saw, no.”
“What then?”
We were standing on the edge of the
pavement with the traffic and the shoppers going noisily about their business
on all sides of us. He began looking around with the air of a hunted man, and I
swear that he was trembling. Even at the age of seventy, he was sturdy and
upright. His present demeanour was most uncharacteristic. He turned his face
towards me again.
“Let’s go to the pub,” he said
quietly. “I’m buying.”
The pub had only just opened when
we got there, and the busy lunchtime trade was still but a storm on the
horizon. Alistair nodded to a couple of elderly acquaintances sitting by the door.
We were the only other occupants of the main bar and I was glad that there
would be no prying ears close by to discourage my troubled friend from telling
his story. We ordered our drinks and took them to the corner furthest from the
bar counter.
Alistair had ordered two double
scotches for himself and drained the first one in an instant. He sat looking at
the table for a few moments while I waited patiently. He took a sip from the
second and then gathered himself to speak.
“You know me,” he said. “I’m not
one for complaining or talking about problems.” He looked at me with an
uncharacteristic hint of resignation. “Aye, well, this one’s getting under my
skin a bit, and I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t even know where to
start.”
“At the beginning?” I suggested.
“Aye; where else?” he began. “Two
weeks ago, the vicar asked me to look at the flagpole. He’d seen it bending in
the wind and thought it might be broken. He was right, it was. I got my tape
out to measure it up ‘cos I knew he’d get me to make another one. Just as I was
finishing – I don’t really know how to put this – I, sort of, felt something.
Not physical, like. Here, inside.” He tapped the centre of his chest, then
paused.
“Felt what?” I asked eventually.
“Fear, lad. Bloody stark, cold
fear. But not like any fear I’ve ever felt before. You know I used to be in the
army? Well, I felt fear then, but it was a different kind of fear - the proper
kind. Fear of something real. I was in Kenya during the Mau Mau business
and we were all frightened witless most of the time. It was only natural,
nothing to be ashamed of. It was, how can I put it, a fear of - well -
consequences I suppose. You meet a big black man in the jungle and he sticks a spear
in your guts. You know it’s going to hurt like bloody hell and you’ll probably
die from it. Simple. This was different.”
He took another sip of scotch and
looked thoughtful. He was obviously beginning to warm to the task and I thought
him remarkably eloquent for one of such little practice. It got better.
“You know how you can go out on a
cold, crisp day and the cold makes your fingers and nose tingle, but you’ve got
a good coat on so you stay warm inside? But on one of them damp, dreary days in
autumn, the cold chills you to the bone and it doesn’t matter what you’re wearing,
you still feel cold inside? That’s how this was. The fear was on the inside, gripping me like a vice, and I
had no bloody idea where it was coming from. There was definitely nobody else
on the roof and yet it felt as though
there was. It felt as though something dark and evil was close by - sniffing
me, eying me up.
“I don’t like to admit this, but I
started feeling panicky. The fear was getting worse. And then I smelt something
- horrible it was, like old sweat and toilets. That was it. I was off the roof
and down the ladder bloody quick. I nearly fell off it; my legs were like jelly.”
He paused again and took another
drink. I was just about to launch into some tentative rubbish about psychology
and panic attacks, when he resumed.
“Anyway, that was two weeks ago and
I haven’t been on the roof again ‘till today. But it doesn’t stop there. I’ve
been into the church every day - have to, it’s my job - and I felt it in there
too. Not as strong, like, but it was there all right.
“And I’ve heard things. One day it
was something like breathing, up near the ceiling. Slow and deliberate, like it
wanted me to hear it. Another time, I could have sworn I heard footfalls on the
steps that go up the tower. I went and looked of course, but there was nothing
there. Then, two days ago, I heard a scraping on the back of the door that
leads to the tower steps. I felt like it was watching me, waiting for me to go
up to the roof again. And I’ve smelt that horrible smell again, always at that
end of the church. The vicar smelt it one day. Said the drains must be blocked.
There’s no drains anywhere near there.”
Another drink pause ensued and I
felt that I ought to offer something to ease his fears.
“You know what I think? I think
your subconscious is aware of the fact that it’s the end of the century and
that the ghost you told me about is due to make another appearance. Put that
together with some natural hormonal change brought on by age and, Bob’s your
uncle. You had a simple panic attack on the roof and your imagination did the
rest.”
It was a paltry effort and I didn’t
really believe it. It didn’t sit well with his nature; Alistair was not the
imaginative type. He didn’t believe it either.
“Doesn’t explain seeing him though,
plain as day, does it?”
The change of pronoun startled and
chilled me.
“Seeing who?” I asked. “You said
‘him’.”
“Yesterday. You know how misty it
was yesterday morning? Well, I went to the church at nine o’clock to unlock the
door as usual, and as I walked around the bend I looked up at the tower - always
do these days. He were stood there, watching me.”
There was a tense pause until I
asked the obvious question.
“Who was?”
“You tell me, lad.”
Alistair fell silent and looked embarrassed.
He was returning to his customary reticence. It was apparent that he had seen,
or thought he had seen, a person - a person who shouldn’t, or couldn’t, have
been there. But I judged that he was struggling to admit the possibility of a
paranormal explanation. I made the predictable attempt to apply reason.
“It was probably one of the finials
on the corners of the tower,” I offered. “Mist can play tricks on the eyes, you
should know that.”
“He wasn’t in the corner though,
was he?” said Alistair. “He was standing in the middle, shorter than the
finials. Besides, he wasn’t the shape of a bloody finial. He was the shape of a
man. I couldn’t see him as clear as I see you now, of course; the mist was too
thick. But I saw him clear enough, right up ’til I got to the church door.”
“What did you see exactly?”
“A man with some kind of a tunic
on. It seemed to glint like it was made of metal. Chain mail, I suppose. He had
a helmet on his head, with one of them nose guards, and his long hair stuck out
from underneath it. And he had a bloody great big axe slung across his
shoulder. I couldn’t see his face clearly, it was too misty; but I could tell
from the set of his head that he was watching me all the way up the road.
“I know it’s him – that Saxon bloke.
I just know it. And he’s out to get me for some reason. God knows why. I’m not
a bloody Viking, am I?”
Alistair had finally admitted his
suspicion, and with remarkable certainty. That was typical of his nature. Once
he had made up his mind, he didn’t easily change it. I was prepared to admit
the possibility too, and was inclined to agree that only Vikings should have
anything to fear from the spectral guardian. Since the Viking age had ended a
thousand years ago, it seemed probable that the worst injury likely to be suffered
would be the assault on his nostrils from the warrior’s unwashed body. But then
I remembered something.
I had attended a lecture some years
earlier, given by an expert in Dark Age history. The subject of the talk was Britain during
the Viking period, from the late eighth century to the middle of the tenth.
He related how the early sporadic
raids had turned into a full scale invasion by the Great Army, and how they had
swept all before them until they were stopped by Alfred and the men of Wessex at
Edington. He regaled us with details of the “blood eagle” ritual, in which the
conscious victim’s ribcage was split and pulled out to his side, followed by
his lungs, so that they looked like a hideous representation of an eagle’s
wings.
He told us of the discovery of a
Viking mass grave, in which the skeletons bore the marks of excessively
gratuitous injuries. They were taken as testimony to the Saxons’ hatred of the
brutal invader and their desire to exact a fitting revenge whenever they could.
He spoke of the heroism of Alfred,
and of the great victory that had turned the tide and restricted the Danes to
possession of only half the country; and how that possession had been
diminished further by Alfred’s heirs who had driven them back until only the kingdom of York was left. He explained that the kingdom of York
equated roughly to the modern-day county
of Yorkshire.
He told us of a second wave of
Norse invaders who had come in from the western side, bringing names like
Thwaite, Beck and Force with them, and how such names now filled the landscapes
of Cumbria and North Yorkshire.
And he finished with a joke. He
told us that he was a Yorkshireman himself, and claimed that all of his breed
had large quantities of Viking blood flowing through their veins. That, he said
with a smug expression, was what made them so special.
It seemed that Alistair was probably
a sort of Viking after all. At least, his origins and his name made it likely
that he had a strong genetic connection with the Dark Age invader.
I was about to explain this fact to
him, but thought better of it. The poor man felt hunted enough already, without
giving him reason to believe it all the more. But I began to feel nervous on
his behalf. I had neither seen nor heard anything myself, but Alistair was just
too prosaic an individual to warrant dismissing his stories as nothing more
than imagination.
I wondered whether a ghost would be
capable of inflicting bodily harm on a living person. I had no idea; but it
seemed likely that, were the spectre to be a conscious entity seeking vengeance,
it might well be capable of turning a person’s mind or forcing him into some
sort of action resulting in harm. I broke the silence.
“Look,” I said, trying to sound concerned
for his welfare without being seen to give credence to his fears. “I think it
might be better if you didn’t go into the church alone for a while - just until
your mind has settled a bit.”
“You think I’ve imagined it all
then?”
“Well, actually, no; not
necessarily.”
“So you think it might be real?”
His logic was impeccable and I was
struggling.
“Oh God, Alistair, I don’t know.
Perhaps there’s something there, perhaps there isn’t. If there is, it’s
probably harmless. It can’t be flesh and blood, can it? The axe can’t be
physical. But it could get you into a state of panic and make you fall off the
ladder or have a heart attack or something. I really don’t know. I’m not an
expert in these matters. I just think we should err on the safe side. I think I
should come to work with you for a while. I could even help out a bit. I’m not
doing much else at the moment.”
He thought for a moment, shaking
his head.
“Oh, I don’t know lad. I don’t like
the idea of going round holding somebody’s hand just because of some bloody
ghost. I didn’t even believe in the damn things until this happened.”
“But it would be a practical
solution to a practical problem, wouldn’t it?”
I emphasised the word “practical”,
hoping it might win the day. It did. He thought for a while and then said
“OK, I suppose you’re right. I must
admit, I don’t much fancy being in there by myself at the moment. But we can’t
keep it up forever, can we? You won’t always be around. Play it by ear I
suppose. How d’you fancy starting tomorrow? I told the vicar I’d re-varnish the
choir pews and I was going to start sanding them down tomorrow. I did it ten
years ago when I was still working, and it took all bloody week doing it on my
own at nights.”
I nodded my assent.
“Have you got to go back there again
today?” I asked.
“Only to lock up.” He frowned. “That’s
a thought. I’ve got to go in to check the place is clear.”
“What time?”
“Half past five.”
“OK, I’ll come round to your house
at five o’clock and we can go up together.”
He nodded and I fetched another
round of drinks. We changed the subject after that and spent a convivial couple
of hours putting the world to rights before going our separate ways for lunch.
Being late November, it was dark
when I called for him, and cold, too. He opened the door and plucked his coat
from the hook. We walked together through the village and entered the lane that
ran up to the church.
The street lighting there was poor
and most of the buildings were in darkness. There was no moon and no wind. The
mist that was beginning to form in the crisp, still air painted lurid halos
around the widely spaced sodium lamps, and the feeling that we were leaving the
bright, modern world behind and walking back through time to a darker, quieter
place had never been more marked.
I would normally have revelled in
such a sense, but Alistair’s tale had left me wary of the church and its
possible ghostly inhabitant. I felt a sudden fondness for the warm evenings of
mid summer, and looked around in the hope of finding some human company to
remind us that the bustle of civilisation was only a short walk away. The
street was empty, and our footsteps were the only sounds breaking the eerie
silence. They seemed unnaturally loud as they echoed from the walls of the
buildings that crowded the narrow street.
Alistair stopped suddenly and I
heard a short but definite gasp. I stopped too, and turned back to look at him.
My skin quivered as I saw him looking towards the top of the church tower, his
eyes narrowing as though they were straining to see something. His mouth was
open slightly but nothing came out of it, neither sound nor the pale vapour
that should have been spreading out into the frosty air. I realised that he was
holding his breath. I followed his gaze and then looked back at him. There was
silence for a few seconds.
“What?” I said eventually. “Are you
trying to put the wind up me or something, ‘cos you’re doing a bloody good job?”
“I could have sworn I saw something
move up there. It’s gone now.”
“I don’t see how,” I said, putting
a brave face on my own fear. “It’s too dark. The street lighting doesn’t reach
that far up.”
“No, suppose not. Just my
imagination I expect. Come on. The sooner we check there’s nobody in there and
get the doors locked, the sooner we can go and have a couple of malts at my
place.”
We continued our walk to the church
with renewed haste. Alistair turned the iron ring on the heavy old door and
pushed it open. I could just make out a bank of switches on the opposite wall
and he pressed them all to flood the whole building with welcome light.
We walked through the quiet,
ice-cold nave and entered the vestry. It had that musty smell, typical of
church ante-rooms and old fashioned village halls. It reminded me of why I was
there. Alistair tried the outside door to check that it was locked and bolted.
Duly satisfied, we made our way back down the aisle towards the door that led
into the tower.
“There’s not going to be anybody in
there, is there?” I said.
“Who knows?” he replied. “Got to
check.”
We went through and stood at the
bottom of the stone steps.
“Anybody up there?” he called
loudly. “I’m locking up.”
We listened for a few seconds and
were about to walk out again when we heard a noise from somewhere above us. It
was brief and indistinct, but definitely there. We looked at each other. I
certainly didn’t want to go up those steps and I judged that Alistair felt the
same way. I began to shiver, and told myself that it was due entirely to the
icy, barren air in the old stone building. I knew that the heating was turned
off during the week and that the intense chill creeping into the very core of
me was only to be expected.
“Oh bloody hell,” I exclaimed.
“It’s probably just a rat or something.”
“I’ve never seen a rat in this
place in all the years I’ve worked here,” he said. He looked worried.
“Well I don’t think it’s a good
idea to go up there at night.”
Taking a rational view had been
easy in the pub at lunchtime. Standing at the bottom of the tower steps among
the cold, impassive medieval masonry was different. I felt truly detached from
the outside world; and the deathly quiet seemed to have a weight of its own,
pressing down and closing in on me. Alistair’s story seemed all too credible
and my instinct was telling me to leave. But Alistair was nothing if not
conscientious.
“Got to, lad. It’s my job.”
We stood for a moment. Alistair was
looking up the staircase, obviously steeling himself to do his duty.
“Anyway,” he said with an ironic
smirk, “there’s two of us. That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?”
It was indeed, but I felt rather
less brave than when I’d made the offer.
“Thanks for reminding me,” I said,
resigning myself to my duty. “I’d better go first then, hadn’t I? Can’t have
you being hacked to pieces by a psychopathic Saxon, can we?”
It’s odd how we react to fear with
ironic humour. I felt anything but humorous at that moment.
“The steps are wide enough to go
two abreast,” he said gallantly. “I expect it’s just a bird got in anyway.”
We walked up the steps side by side
and entered the clock room. It was empty. We continued to the bell room. That
was empty too, but the trapdoor to the roof was open. We saw it simultaneously
and looked at each other again.
“You must have left it open earlier,”
I suggested.
He shook his head and the gravity
of his expression set my nerves on edge. I continued my attempt to keep the
possibilities comfortably rational.
“Well somebody else must have been
up here then. Local kids probably, or some inquisitive visitor.”
“Aye, maybe. Better go and see if
they’re still here then.” He moved towards the ladder.
“I’ll go first,” I said
“No you won’t lad,” he replied. “My
job, my responsibility.”
Then he reached into the inside
pocket of his old duffle coat and took out a vicious-looking claw hammer. He
had obviously come prepared.
“What the hell are you going to do
with that?” I asked.
He started to climb the ladder.
“Nothing I expect. It makes me feel
better.”
He stopped momentarily, once his
head and shoulders were through the opening.
“See anything?” I called.
He made no reply, but continued
until he was out on the roof. I followed immediately and joined him.
There was enough light coming up
through the trapdoor for us to see one another, but its influence was limited
to a small area around the opening and the rest of the roof was in darkness.
The western sky still retained a hint of brightness, however, and the regular
blocks of the crenellations were dimly silhouetted against it.
Our breath steamed as we stood
there, straining our eyes to try and see some detail in the blackness. I
realised that we needed a torch and cursed myself for not thinking of it
earlier. I also realised that we should have been striking out on a walk around
the walls to satisfy ourselves that the roof was empty. Neither of us wanted to
leave the comfort of the light coming up through the trapdoor, and so we stood
looking pointlessly into the impenetrable darkness for some time. I was about
to suggest that we go home when the back of my neck prickled with the sudden
touch of fear.
I saw a movement on the far side. A
dark shape began to rise up above the level of the wall. It was the shape of a
person. The top of its head was rounded and the sides were smooth as far down as
the level of the ears. Below that, the shape spread out unevenly, like long
hair released from the confines of some tight piece of headwear. The figure
continued to rise until the shoulders, chest and arms were also clearly
silhouetted against the sky. Its right hand held something long and narrow,
with a wider piece at the far end.
I stood transfixed by fear, and
detected no movement from Alistair either. We both stared at the horrible black
shape that faced us across the roof. The tension, the silence and the darkness
combined to form a cowl of prickly energy that held me rigid. And the figure
appeared to stare back at us, equally still. It had us completely in its power.
Suddenly, it sprang forward and
made straight for us, raising the implement in its hand in a menacing fashion.
I found my legs again and moved instinctively to one side. As it came within
the spread of the light from the trapdoor, it seemed to hesitate slightly and I
saw it for what it was.
The potential for an impending tragedy
rose quickly in me, but not quickly enough. It was heading straight for
Alistair, whose mind was obviously set on defence. There was no time to stop
him striking the assailant a cracking blow with the hammer. The figure dropped
its own weapon and staggered for a few seconds before collapsing forwards,
close to the trapdoor.
We looked down at the body of a
young man lying on the floor between us. He had long, curly hair and was
wearing a simple, grey woollen hat. I was struck by the sudden, poignant
thought that his mother had probably knitted it for him. The “weapon” lying
close by was the shaft of the church’s weather vane, a simple metal pole with a
copper fish stuck on the end, a design not uncommon on church roofs. I was the
first to come to my senses and felt for a pulse. There was none.
“I’m going to call an ambulance,” I
said.
Alistair was still rigid, staring
at the body with an expression of shock and disbelief. I climbed hurriedly down
the ladder and rushed back to the vestry where I knew there was a phone. My
hand was shaking so violently that it took some effort of concentration to
manage the simple task of dialling, and I heard my voice trembling as I gave
the necessary details to the operator.
Once that was done, my concern was
for Alistair. I could only guess at the level of anguish he must have been
feeling, and hated to think of him sitting on that God-forsaken roof with only
the result of his involuntary handiwork for company.
I returned to the stairs and began
to climb them as quickly as my weakened legs would allow. Before I reached the
clock room, I heard a voice cry out from the direction of the roof, followed by
a clatter and a muffled thump. I stopped for a second, then redoubled my
efforts. All thoughts of the supernatural had disappeared during the last few
minutes of frantic activity, but they returned like a blast of cold air on
hearing the noise. I felt myself suddenly gripped by the hand of irrational
fear that Alistair had described earlier.
I arrived, panting hard, in the
bell room to find Alistair lying at the foot of the ladder. I stared at him and
my head began to swim. There was a glazed look in his eyes and he was turning
pale. I needed no medical training to see that the life had gone from him.
It was my turn to stand in shock
and disbelief, and my feelings were compounded by a sense of nausea caused by a
sickening stench that hung in the air. Alistair’s phrase “stale sweat and toilets”
had been well chosen. I stood for some time, awash with the horror of what had
happened and still gripped by an intense sense of irrational fear. I took
little persuading that there was nothing I could do for either victim, and went
back down the stairs to wait for the ambulance and the police.
The ambulance arrived first and I
conducted the two paramedics to the scene of the incident. One examined
Alistair while the other went up to the body on the roof. They confirmed what I
already knew: both men were dead. I remarked on the smell that was fainter now,
but still nauseating.
“It’s the smell of death, mate,”
said the paramedic. “Bodily functions, and all that.”
I allowed him his pragmatic
explanation, but felt certain that the truth was altogether stranger.
Over the next few days the police
conducted their enquiry and I was interviewed at some length. I told our side
of the story in full detail and was cleared of blame. They looked askance at
the mention of a ghostly guardian, but shrugged their shoulders and put the
whole thing down to tricks of the light and Alistair’s frame of mind.
I felt annoyed by that. They hadn’t
known Alistair, and I saw their attitude as an insult to my old friend. But
argument would have been pointless and I let it go. When they had completed
their investigations they told me what they had discovered about the young man.
He was a Danish student studying at
some English university, and he had come to the village to stay with a
colleague’s family over the Christmas holiday. He had been walking around the
streets with his host and some other local lads when they had dared him to
climb up the church tower alone. To prove that he had completed his task, he
had been required to take the weather vane out of its bracket and bring it back
with him. Not wishing to lose face and bring shame on his nationality, he had
reluctantly agreed.
Shortly after he had entered the
church, his companions had seen Alistair and me coming up the lane and had
slipped behind the nearest building to be out of sight. They had waited
anxiously for him to emerge from the church and had still been there when the
ambulance arrived.
The police could only guess at the
reasons for the young man’s behaviour. They assumed that he had crouched in
front of the wall to avoid his silhouette being visible, but had changed his
mind. Perhaps he had thought we could see him, or perhaps he had simply
panicked. No doubt his sudden rush
towards us had been merely bravado, meant to frighten us out of the way so that
he could make his escape. He couldn’t have guessed that our nerves were already
close to breaking point and that his action would produce such a desperate
riposte.
Subsequent post mortems showed that
he had died from the single blow to his head, and that Alistair had suffered a
heart attack. That was what had killed him, not the fall.
Having heard the full facts, including
the story of the ghost, the coroner showed due sympathy to both players in the
appalling tragedy. He made reference to Alistair’s “unfortunate state of mind”
and gave full allowance of mitigation with regard to his action.
He recorded a verdict of “death by
misadventure” in the case of the young man. His reasoning was logical and
predictable, and I was relieved that he had not held Alistair legally culpable
in the student’s untimely death. That would have been an unjustified blot on
the good name of my old friend. But I still have my doubts that the full truth
is known.
I shall always wonder whether the
young man’s behaviour was triggered by the influence of some malicious entity,
and that the same influence was responsible for Alistair’s heart attack and
fall through the trap door. It seems to me that there is a hint of something more
than mere coincidence that both victims had Scandinavian connections. I wonder
whether the Saxon warrior will be content now, and rest in peace for another
hundred years.
On the other hand, he might be
shaking his battleaxe in anguish at the knowledge that he has consigned two
valiant men to an eternity of feasting in Valhalla,
while he remains condemned to the loneliness of his endless vigil. I feel that
someone should explain to him that there are no Saxons and Vikings any more,
and that the smell of Scandinavian blood is no longer a call to arms.
If I believe in him at all, I am
inclined to feel sorry for him. Despite my sense of anger at the possibility
that he might have been responsible for the death of a dear friend and an
innocent young man, I know that the real tragedy is his. Everyone else is
moving on.
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