Illustration by Ash Turton.
PART THREEKENDAL.
She could tell from the look on his face that this was not what he had been expecting when she invited him back to her home after a few drinks. She ignored the look on his face and continued.
“It’s a bottle of holy water, it can protect you,” she explained.
She handed him a small glass bottle the size of a hip flask. It had a silver neck and lid which were decorated with celtic crosses and knotwork.
“How much of it do I drink?” George asked.
“You don’t! Merely carrying it should protect you, if you see one of the Enemy again you can splash water at it.”
“I see, cheers.”
“And I know you can’t carry this all the time, but you can wear this all the time. An unbroken ring of silver. It will protect you and you can think of it as a holy knuckle duster.”
He grinned as she handed him the narrow ring, then his face lit up with pride as he put it on his little finger. He leaned forward to kiss her, firstly shyly, then passionately but with a gentleness greater than his massive shoulders and hands would suggest possible.
This pleased her greatly, until one hand slowly reached up her blouse.
“No, not now!” she pulled back sharply. “But you can sleep next to me tonight if you like.”
He nodded sheepishly and took off his boots.
She was pleasantly surprised when she woke the next day to see him fully dressed and making cups of tea.
When he saw that she was awake, he kissed her on the cheek and stroked her hair. She slowly got out of bed and sat at the table next to him. They both were still sleepy and didn’t have much to say. Awkwardly, he started looking through her pile of books. Most of them seemed to confuse him.
“Oh, King Arthur! I loved those stories when I was a lad,” he said at last.
“Yes, they are beautiful stories, but there’s a lot of symbolism in them also….” she replied.
He wasn’t sure what to say to that, he thought for a while.
“How about we go up Serpentine for a walk after breakfast,” he suggested after a while.
“Where?”
“Serpentine Woods… you know… Coffin Woods? I forget, you’re not from Kendal. You know, the woods just behind Fell Side, on the hill, it’s not far from here.”
“Serpentine? Coffin? Why do they have such morbid names?”
“I’ll tell you the story if you go there with me.”
Trails curved and interlinked crazily up the sleep slope where the woods grew. Wild masses of oak, yew and ash were occasionally interrupted by short, jutting limestone cliffs. The slope and trees prevented you from seeing far and the paths crossed at absurd angles, yet George navigated effortlessly. As they walked he explained how, after a great plague, the woods had been used as a mass burial site. This didn’t seem to bother him at all, but he did mention how only a madman would come to the woods after dark. She made a mental note to investigate the area one night.
“... and this place I reckon you’ll like the most. We call it the fairy spring,” he continued proudly.
Under the shade of a huge yew tree, a spring trickled down a moss covered cliff into a circular pool made of roughly cut stone blocks.
The area radiated timeless calm. For a moment, she was transported back to reading about Morgana La Fey in her childhood.
Wordlessly, she embraced him.
As they kissed, Helen was far from happy
In the Town Hall’s little, messy staffroom, she was frantically trying to call her friend. Her free hand- which held a cigarette- shuck terribly as she listened to the phone right again and again. After the fourth try, Helen gave up. She went out onto the street and lit another cigarette.
On the busy, sunny street, it didn’t seem so bad. She would just stay above ground cleaning for the rest of the day, there was plenty to do upstairs.
The other girls wouldn’t mind me doing their job for them. It'll be alright. But I have to see her soon. I could go to The Globe in the evening. That would be nice.
She didn’t feel like working. It had been such a nice day, and now she was stuck doing the 5pm to 10pm shift in that stuffy pub. Everything smelt of stale beer and cigarettes and it was so gloomy. The pub was full and half the customers were already drunk. If she was lucky she’d be able to leave by 10.25.
Suddenly Helen burst in with a cigarette in one hand and a pie in the other. She looked panicked for a moment, but as soon as she saw her friend, her face returned to its usual cheer.
“Bloody hell, I’m glad to see you, can you get me a pint of lager and lime, I need it!” Helen blurted out.
She sank half her pint in one go and finished her pie, then started talking- a lot.
With frequent swearing and pausing only to sip from her pint, Helen told how the cellars of the town hall were always so cold and it made her miserable to work down there. Then this morning (it was embarrassing to say but she swore it was true) she had seen a ghost. She couldn’t describe the ghost, other than it was really, really scary.
“Ghost can’t hurt you,” she said, pouring her friend another drink and REALLY hoping that it was only a ghost.
“That’s what my boss said, but he doesn’t have to work down there alone all day,” said Helen.
“Alright… try to make it as bright as you can, keep all the doors open… There might be a ghost, it’s an old building, or it might just be cold and dark… Could you take a radio down there to cheer you up?”
“Maybe… but there are the tunnels too, that’s the worst bit, the room with the locked trapdoor down to all the tunnels… miles and miles of bloody tunnels…” Helen was getting upset.
“I’ve heard about that, but I thought the tunnels under Kendal were just a story for kids,” She said.
“No, they are real,” the tall, gaunt policeman had silently joined them and decided to speak, “I’ve been down there, years ago. Don’t recommend it.”
“Really? You’ve been down there?” Helen’s curiosity got the better of her fear.
“Aye. Once. There are bad things down there, but I didn’t see any ghosts, so don’t you worry about that,” then he walked off without another word.
This seemed to improve Helen’s mood. For the rest of the evening she was happy to gossip about that policeman, and George and a ‘fit’ clerk she had met at work.
She was exhausted by the time she finally got out of The Globe. She walked home as fast as she could, thoughts flashing through her head like a storm. Helen- Ghosts- Policeman- George. It was too much. Fortunately she fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.
Moments after she fell asleep and only a hundred yards from her home… a purse snatcher ran from the scene of his crime, leaving a distressed, drunken, teenage girl in his wake.
He jumped nimbly down a short fight of steps and kept going.
Not far now, round the corner, two more alleys then I’m home, safe and sound…
Then a blinding pain in the face that knocked him on his back.
It was as though he had run into a brick wall. But that was impossible, he knew the streets like the back of his hand.
The horrible reality of the situation dawned on him after he received a brutal kick in the ribs, followed by being relieved of the purse. Looking up through bruised eyes, he saw a narrow, tanned face with icy blue eyes bearing down on him.it was that policeman. Shit.
He had run round the corner into an expertly placed truncheon.
“Remember, I’m always here lad, always watching, all the bloody time,” the tall, gaunt policeman said, then kicked him again.
He walked off to find the victim of the crime. Then he could go home. It had been a good day.
He arrived in Kendal on the train the next morning.
The first thing he noticed was the overwhelming greyness. Grey cliffs, grey buildings, grey sky.
The second thing he noticed was the absence of the smell of the sea. It smelt of smoke and animal shit. There was not a hint of the familiar saltiness of the Liverpool coast.
Immediately he began to miss the sea.
Why would she choose to live here?
He took another moment to look around him and get his bearings- rows of grey houses, factories, a ruin on a hill.
He started walking into town, trusting his instincts to guild him.
She woke up in the afternoon, looked at the clock and cursed.
She had slept in. Quickly, he washed, then made tea and boiled an egg.
She walked to work rapidly. With every step thoughts flashed through her head. She needed to call Helen on her first break to check that she was ok. George was coming to see her near closing time.Suddenly she stopped dead in her tracks. Something was different. The air was a very pale blue between the clouds. The air smelled different, but very familiar. No time to ponder it, she was already late for work.
“Yeah, I think she’s alright,” the town hall clerk said, “I saw her at morning tea break, but haven’t seen her since then,”
“Ok, if you see her, please ask her to pop in The Globe when she finishes work.”
“Aye, will do.”
“Thanks.”
“Alright, see you.”
She hung up, finished her tea and went back to work at the bar. She really hoped that Helen would pop in later. For now, she had to focus on her work. Fortunately it was a quiet night. It was raining heavily, so not many people were out. Two old men sat in a corner drinking stout and a younger man was practising darts alone. Apart from that it was empty, so quiet that she could work on her poem.
Helen didn’t turn up.
By 9.45 the pub was empty so she swept the floor and went home.
As soon as she got home, she rang Helen, but there was no answer. Then she ate supper and called George. He didn’t have much to say, just complained about the weather and planned to meet her at the weekend. It was reassuring to have a down to earth conversation. She tried to call Helen and again there was no answer. Her mum must be out somewhere. Hopefully Helen was with her. She decided to visit the town hall the next day.
That Policeman was not having a good evening. Helen’s mother had come into the station at about 2100 hours and was clearly very drunk. She insisted that her daughter was missing and that he send out a ‘search party’. She tried to explain that it was too soon to report her as a missing person, and she should call the station if Helen was not home in another 24 hours. Her mother wouldn’t listen, or leave. He reassured her that it was normal for young women to spontaneously stay with friends. Then he called the hospital to check that she wasn’t there. Then he sternly asked her to leave and stated that he had more important things to do. He went to check on the prisoners and write a report. When he came back, she was still there, sipping from a hip flask. Eventually he promised to file a report and that he, personally, would look for her tomorrow. Only then did the woman stagger home.
She woke just before midday, had tea and porridge, washed, then tried to call Helen’s house. When there was no answer, she decided it was time to take things seriously.
In addition to the usual weapons, she packed a small bag with a torch, candles, a lighter, chalk and a small jar of salt. Then she walked over to the town hall. For the first time in many years, she wished that the man from Liverpool was with her.
First she went to the staff room to ask if anyone had seen Helen. No, they hadn't and the manager was not happy. She behaved as though she was going to leave but quietly went downstairs to the first basement.
Immediately she knew why people didn’t like working down there. It was unreasonable cold (she knew well what this could signify) and the outdated lighting cast odd shadows where there should be none.
The first cellar was large and contained piles of spare furniture for special occasions. The room next to that was smaller and had a long row of old filing cabinets and some antique chairs. The next door led to a steep, narrow stone staircase. There was a lightbulb, but it flickered. She started using her torch and moved her dagger to her belt before descending.
The stairs seemed to go down forever and the tiny, uneven steps forced her to walk at a snail’s pace. The air grew dramatically colder and damper. She had the unnerving sense of being watched, but she did not yet directly feel the presence of evil. She walked until she finally reached a wooden door which she fumbled to open.
That room was a large cube. The bare stone walls were damp but apart from that it was clean. Ofcourse, Helen had cleaned it only a few days ago. There were piles of mouldy wooden crates and nothing more. On the opposite wall was a solid iron door with a huge bolt.
The cold was intolerable. She almost heard footprints, but too faint to be sure, it could be dripping water. She looked carefully at the door. There were no locks, only the bolt. Its only purpose was to lock out something. First she shattered salt in front of the door. Then she made a circle of salt on top of the highest crate and placed a lit candle in it.
Taking a deep breath, she dragged the massive bolt across and pushed the door open.
This room had no lights but a little shone through the door. Looking around with her torch, she saw that this room had never been cleaned. Mould, moss and rat shit were everywhere. The only feature was a stout trapdoor with another massive bolt. She lit another candle on the driest patch she could find and began struggling to slide open the rusty bolt.
“I cannot let you go down there-” a voice boomed.
She turned to see the tall, gaunt policeman, lantern in hand, looking down on her from the iron door.
“You can’t stop me!” she snapped.
“Let me finish,” he said. “I can’t let you go down there alone. I’m coming with you.”
In a moment her frustration was replaced with relief.
“Can you help me with this bolt?” she asked.
The stench in the tunnels was horrendous. Damp and the droppings of rats and bats (which shattered at the approach of their lights) and something else sickly sweet. It was by following that smell that they soon found Helen.
Rats had already started to gnaw at her. There were strangulation marks around her neck.
She knelt down beside her friend, grasping her cold, bloody hand, and wept.
The policeman methodically took out his notebook and started to write neatly in pencil. Only after a couple of minutes did he seem to remember the woman.
“This is a police matter now. Her mother will be informed. Please go home, rest, meet George… G
But please go home,” he told her.
Silently, she stood and walked away. As she climbed the steps she could hear him talking on his radio. The unnatural cold had left the tunnels.
They wanted me to see that, she thought.
When she got home she took her notebook and simply wrote;
“There is no God.”
Then she lay on her bed and cried.
After just over two hours, she was roused from her bed of misery by three loud knocks on the door. She quickly washed her face and opened the door to find that policeman.
“Yes?” was all she could say.
“Alright? I came to check up on you,” he said as gently as he could, which was not very gentle.
“Thanks, but there is nothing you can do for me,” she replied.
“In that case I must inform you that in a few days you will be invited for formal questioning- as a known acquaintance of the deceased. Is there anything you can tell me now? Any thing that might assist us?... Anyone you may have wished Helen harm?”
“No. There is no PERSON who would have wished her harm. No enemies or rivals or ex boyfriends.. And I can tell you that your investigations will never find the true killer. I have nothing more to say to you. Goodbye.”.
“I reckoned so. If you won’t talk to me, maybe you’ll want to talk to him.”
As the policeman left, George appeared meekly from behind the door. She immediately fell into his arms.
The next morning George cooked her breakfast and then they went for a walk up to the castle.
As they walked hand in hand up the steep hill, he noticed the look of surprise on her face as the crumbling walls and towers of the ruined castle slowly came into view.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never been here either?” he asked.
“No, I don’t get too much time to myself,” she replied.
He thought about this for a moment and decided to just keep walking. Soon they stood in the centre of the old castle. One tower and the keep were almost intact. The rest was a jigsaw ring of broken walls and hints of buildings.
“It’s so beautiful,” she said. “Do you know much about its history?”
He told her a great length as they walked a circuit. On top of one high wall, a man was sitting with his back to them as though he was gazing down on the town below. His long, white hair blew in the wind.
It cannot be him, it’s impossible.
She decided to keep walking and listening to George. Before long they were back at the spot where the gates used to be.
“Where would you like to go next?” he asked.
She squeezed his hand, pleased with how hard he was trying to distract her from her grief.
“To be honest, I’d like a drink… anywhere apart from The Globe.”
“There is a nice larl pub at the bottom of the hill,” he said and gently led her.
Dawn light appeared through the paper thin curtains.
She lay with her arms and legs wrapped around George. It had been good- really good. Not quite what she had expected, but then she had never really known what to expect. Helen had gossiped about second hand accounts, but that was all.
Poor Helen.
George was still sleeping and she wanted him to stay that way. He looked so peaceful.
She wrapped the blanket closer around herself, suddenly feeling cold.
The shadows began to lengthen.
Not now, surely not now!
“She died because of you…” the voice whispered in her ear,” and this is how you mourn her?”
“No…”
“And how will you defend yourself now? Where is the purity that guarded you? You are no longer as pure as the ringing of a bell. You are a broken thing. Dirty, soiled and lost.”
She tried to move but her limbs were as cold and solid as ice. She tried to talk but her mouth was bone dry.
“Helen was first. George will be next- while you watch. Finally we will finish you. We have been waiting a long time for you, we can wait a little longer to savour the moment,” it hissed inside her head.
And then there it was, sitting on her dining table. It pointed at her, just as it had done when she was a child.
She focused all of her energy into her right hand, trying to raise it to form a warding sign. She could not. Her weapons lay on the floor, mixed up with her clothes, not that it mattered when she couldn’t move.
It reached out to her with impossibly long arms.
The door flew open and the old man was standing there. The man who had carried her from the ruins long ago. He stood shirtless, long, white hair flowing- the runes of his barbarous Gods scrawled in purple on his muscular body.
“I am Deus Ex Machina. You did not think I would abandon you?” he asked her.
He took a step forward, taking in the scene and understanding all.
“Morgana! Stand up, in the eyes of the Gods of our ancestors you will always be pure,” he called out.
At that moment, George woke up but was paralysed by shock.
The demon stood, clenched its clawed fists and grew until its head touched the ceiling. Darkness swamped half of the room where it loomed.
Far away, church bells rang out for morning service.
She gathered the strength to raise one hand.
“Get the bastard,” George managed to mutter.
An image of Helen’s smiling face flashed before her eyes. Then an image of her mutilated corpse. Deep in her soul, she heard bombs falling over Liverpool.
With the agility of a panther, she leaped from bed and stood to face the monstrosity.
“Where is my sword and where is my cup?” she demanded of the universe.
A chalice of golden fire appeared in her left hand, a sword of burning silver in her right. Her face radiated light and her naked body was aglow. The bells continued to ring, the sound clear in the silent room.
“The Earth belongs to us,” she stated.
Then she thrust her sword where the demon’s heart should have been.
All darkness left the room.
THE END
LIVERPOOL, 1974
“Sometimes I still remember that night,” George said wistfully as he sipped his whiskey. “Did it all really happen? Sometimes, it is like it never happened at all.”
She looked out of the window at the narrow street where children played. Then up above the crowded roofs at the cloudy sky. Where the Gods live.
“Yes, sometimes,”she said and stroked his hair.
But for her, it was never over.
