1916

 “Do you hear that bloody whistle lads? I hear it, have heard it enough already 

Shall we do it one more time, lads? The whistle blows for us. One more time lads! Not for the king- God bless him - or the country. This time we'll do it for the prettiest girl back home. Do you remember her name?

Of course you do. Come on lads…” the sergeant lit a cigarette and climbed the ladder.

The Captain's heart was filled with pride, knowing he had died in the great victory at The Battle of The Somme.

The Great War was over: 1914 to 1916.

II

His father, Major Swan, had given him the name “Manly Sampson Swan”, because he had unreasonably high expectations of him. Captain Manly Sampson Swan had carried that with him for the rest of his life. Sometimes he was glad of it.

Corporal Black had scored a hat trick during the Christmas Truce. That had been the proudest moment of his life.

Things seemed to have been going downhill ever since.

The proudest moment of Captain Swan’s life should have been when he was promoted up from Lieutenant at the age of only 22. But it wasn't.

“There is good news and bad news,” the Colonel told him. “The good news is that you are promoted to Captain. Well done man.”

“What's the bad news, Sir?” he had asked.

“Well the bad news is that the other chap died, isn't it man?”

It was a crisp, frosty morning. The Colonel decided it would be ideal to visit the front. He finished his breakfast of bully beef and rum, then ordered his car.

Close to the third line was a clump of half burnt out trees. The Colonel spotted a young officer sat against a tree smoking his pipe. He ordered his driver to stop and went over.

“What are you doing man?” The Colonel asked.

“Thinking Sir.”

“Thinking about what?”

“The trees, Sir. They have taken an awful beating… Wouldn't it be wonderful if one day they got up and helped us with the war?”

“The trees…” the Colonel paused to think. “Quite right. Please get back to your post, man, after you have finished your pipe.”

“Yes Sir.”

The Colonel continued on his way. Soon he could hear the occasional rattle of small arms fire. Things had been quiet for days. He didn't like it.

“Dearest Manley,

Or should I say Captain Swan?

We were all so delighted to hear of your promotion. I'm so proud of you.

I hope you and your chaps are well, and not too cold. Enclosed are a new pair of socks and a scarf mummy made for you.

Everything is fine at home, the children are enjoying the snow.

Do take care.

Your loving,

Victoria.”

Swan looked up from his letter and saw the colonel standing over him. He stood and saluted smartly.

In his heart, the Colonel thought of Swan as the son he never had (being blessed with 3 daughters) but he would never show it.

After exchanging pleasantries, Swan briefed the colonel on recent events. Basically, nothing had happened for 4 days. The Colonel decided to take action.

Meanwhile, Corporal Black poured his entire days rum ration into his tea and drank it quickly.

Having a little free time, he decided to visit his friend Charlie Stevenson - a snipper currently station on the front.

“You alright mate?” he asked.

“Alright… you got a smoke mate?” Stevenson replied.

Stevenson smoked for a while then decided to talk, “had a bloody awful dream last night mate… was at my post, and it was rough mate. Jerry everywhere… but I was putting them down real easy like. Funny thing was that there was a lady there with me. Jerry corpses were proper piling up, until the lady gets covered in them. Buried under a mound of bodies. But then she bursts up, like a Phoenix…”

Bloody hell mate, not good… What's your body count now?”

“17.”

“A lot. Should I ask the serg’ to give you some leave?”

“No, I'm alright.”

III

Soon, Black had to return to his post. On the way, he almost bumped into an officer at a T-junction.

“Sorry sir,” Black snapped.

“Quite alright…Wait a minute, aren't you the chap who scored a hat trick at The Truce?”

“Yes sir!”

“Look, the Colonel asked me to lead a trench raid tonight and you're just the sort of chap I'm looking for. Could you gather 3 of your best men and meet me here at 2300?”

“Yes sir.”

It's going to be one of those bloody days, thought Black.

2255. Black led Stevenson and 2 Privates (who he knew had been around for over a year) towards the junction. It was bitterly cold with a slight breeze. Black had an axe and as many grenades as he could carry. Stevenson had exchanged his sniper rifle for 2 looted German pistols and a butcher's knife.

Swan and an older officer were waiting for them. Black noticed that both officers had knuckle duster-knives and braces of pistols. Their faces were streaked with boot polish. They seemed to know what they were doing.

For what seemed like eternity, they crawled through filthy mud and under barbed wire.

They had 2 objectives. Objective 1 was to take a prisoner for interrogation. Failing that, Objective 2 was to cause as much damage as possible then retreat.

At the enemy front line they saw a sentry busy brewing coffee. The older officer pounced behind him and knocked him out with his duster. The rest followed him into the trench.

But luck was not on their side. Moments later a relief sentry walked over and called the alarm before taking aim.

“Objective 2!” Swan commanded.

Stevenson instantly shot the sentry between the eyes. A second later, 2 squads of Germans were rushing them. 1 from either side.

Black threw a grenade behind the squad on the left as Swan opened fire on them.

Stevenson and the 2 Privates opened fire on the squad to the right.

The older officer had already been shot in the shoulder. Stevenson caught 2 bullets in the guts and 1 in the neck.

“Retreat!” Swan shouted above the chaos.

Black was the last the leave the trench and left a grenade behind him…

…Which was the only reason why they were able to rush through No Man’s Land and jump into their own trenches. Their men ran to the firing step to check that none of the enemy were following them.

They had all been cut by barbed wire in the rush. One Private had been nicked in the leg by a stray bullet. A medic was called for.

“That didn't go too badly,” Swan managed to say.

“They were damn well waiting for us,”gasped the older officer, as he held a handkerchief against his wounded shoulder.

“Bloody Hello! Stevenson was my mate! He was my last bloody friend!” Black roared out.

He roared out in pain and frustration and against the mindless cruelty of it all.

IV

After 5 hours of sleep, Black was rudely awakened.

“Good morning Corporal. Pack your bag, you're being transferred to the third line for rest. Captain’s orders.”

“Alright, just let me get me tea and rum first.

Black found himself temporarily posted with a Jamaican platoon on the reserve line. This was great. The fellows loved rum and football just as much as he did.

Yet he was relieved, 6 days later, when he was reunited with his own platoon in the central line. However, Captain Swan was the only familiar face remaining. Of all the lads from his factory who had volunteered in 1914, he was the last. There were still lads who he had fought beside once or twice in the last year, but it wasn't the same.

“Good morning, it's the Hat-Trick Chap right?” Swan greeted him.

“Yes sir.”

“I've been thinking, how would you like a promotion to Sergeant?”

“Yes sir… Because of the Hat-Trick, sir?”

“Yes, but mostly because of your actions on the trench raid. I saw what you did as we retreated - saved us all, I reckon.”

“Yes sir.”

“Listen, have a bunch of conscripts arriving tomorrow, need a good chap to lead them…”

“Yes sir.”

“Oh, and one more thing. I seem to recall the conscripts are from your neck of the woods… York, right?”

“Yes sir.”

Bloody hell, Black thought as he walked away, what is it about the man that makes me agree to everything he says?

“Do you know my brother Tom?”

“Tom Wright?” Black asked.

“Yes serg'.”

“ He was a good man. Saved my life once or twice. Sorry son, he caught one a month ago.”

“How about my uncle, Jimmy Stone.”

“Was quick and clear for him, son.”

“Jesus.”

“Drink up lads, we need to relieve the men on the parapet in 7 minutes.”

“Can you tell us about that Hat-Trick you scored?”

“ At dinner time, if you really want. Come on lads, 6 minutes.”

9 young men had been posted to Black, mostly good lads aged 18 who would have volunteered anyway. They were placed on the central line where the main work was guarding the firing step and maintaining dugouts. Love s of standing around, lots of digging. They were shelled on the second evening, but they were well protected.

On the 5th day, they were moved to the front line, where life was more dangerous.

V

At the end of summer, Black was given a month leave in Blighty. But that time, only 1 of his squad remained. 3 men were MIA and 4 had been sent home wounded. He and Ted Jones (the remaining man) were to be mixed in with another under strength squad for the same Yorkshire regiment.

Leave in Blighty was a relief for Black. The boat trip across the Channel was a nightmare, but as soon as his boots touched English soil, he smiled.

He spent most of his time with his parents or alone in the pub. It was hard to talk to people.

On 1 lonely pub session the elderly landlord questioned him as he paid his tab, “son, honestly, do you want think we're going to win this war?”

“Well we have to, really, don't we?” Black replied and staggered home.

“By God and Saint George, we will win this war!” Captain Swan raised his 9th glass of rosé to toast his fellow officers.

He was on 4 day leave in a chateau 40 miles from the front. The next morning he would be sent to the front line, he would regret his 10th glass.

Swan sat in the back of the car with a lieutenant who's name he had forgotten. As the vineyards and farm land slowly became more barren and war-torn, his hangover got worse.

As Swan walked towards the front line, the smell of rotten flesh, gunpowder and shit made him physically sick. After vomiting, he rushed to his dugout and found his bat-man. He ordered a strong coffee mixed with a double brandy. After that, he could deal with the world.

Black stood on the brow of a transport ship and smoked. A second troop transport ship was beside him and a destroyer sailed a few hundred yards ahead - which was reassuring.

Still, he would feel safer on dry land- not that he was in a rush to get back to the trenches.

VI

“There are 2 types of people in this world, Private,” Swan had decided to lecture this bat-man over an early breakfast,” those who have already won the war inside their own hearts and those who have not… which are you?”

“I'm English, sir, and we were expected to inspect the front line 3 minutes ago.”

“ Right you are.”

“Good morning Sergeant Black,” said a tired looking Captain Swan.

“Yes sir, good morning sir,” Black replied smartly.

“Are you ready to get stuck into the Hun, sergeant?”

“Yes sir, but I'd rather be having a nice cup of tea and a smoke with my dad, sir.”

“Quite right,” then Swan whispered, “ try to show a bit more spirit In front of the men for God's sake.”

“Yes sir!”

Then the German offensive began.

First a short artillery bombardment, which was worse than usual because they knew that they didn't have time to go in the dugouts. They could only duck on the firing step as bombs rained down. They were lucky, but the screams coming from around the corner told them that others were not.

By the time they thought it was safe to stand up the Germans were already half way across no man's land.

“Bloody Hell!” Black swore and took aim.

“More than I expected,” Swan said, then calmly addressed his bat-man. ‘ Pop to the next line and ask Captain Hogan to lend us a platoon.”

The lad ran off as Swan threw a grenade the drew his revolver.

Black got off a second shot as the Germans swarmed through the barbed wire. Then it was the time of the bayonet and rifle -butt. A chaos of survival instinct.

Swan had taken a bullet to his right arm, dropped his pistol, and was using his trench-knife in his left hand.

Black found himself backed into a corner, trying to hold off 2 of the enemy.

Swan punched an attacker in the face with his duster-knife, then dodged a bayonet thrust.

Moments later Hogan’s reinforcements arrived. The fresh, uninjured men rapidly cleared the trench.

“Well done men…” Swan gasped as he dropped his weapon and held a handkerchief to his wounded arm. Then he noticed that he had been stabbed in the guts - “Medic! Stretcher Bearers!”

Then he passed out.

Black bandaged Swan's arm and stuffed another bandage in the stab wound. After that, he sat down in the mus, lit a cigarette and waited for the stretcher bearers.

It took Captain Swan over a month to recover. He spent the last week of his recovery time learning to shoot with his left hand.

“Right hand will never be quite the same sir, too much muscle and bone damage,” the doctor had told him.

“That didn't stop Nelson,” Swan had replied.

Black met him soon after in the central line.

“Sir, the Colonel told me you would be sent home. Why are you here, sir? Black asked him.

“He told me to go back to Blighty, but I told him I'm too busy,” Swan replied.

The man is insane, Black thought.

After that the men started calling him Captain 3 Balls, which would have made him proud.

VII 

Almost winter, hope mam sends me some more socks soon, Black thought as he sat smoking on the firing step of the reserve trench. Then he noticed Swan's bat-man timidly approaching.

“The Captain would like to see in his dug-out,” the man said quietly.

Black followed him into a hole 4 yards wide, 2 yards lond and almost 2 yards high. There were 2 crude, narrow beds and a crate between them which served as a table for an oil lamp, a bottle and a pile of books.

“Good afternoon sergeant,” Swan greeted him.

“Sir.”

“I've been meaning to talk to you for a while… but you know how it is,” the Captain continued.

“Yes sir.”

“You have saved my life twice now…”

“Please don't promote me again sir.”

“No, I wanted to give you this,” Swan handed him a bottle of single malt from the crate table. “Nanna sent it to me when I was in hospital. I was saving it for a special occasion, but I decided to give it to you.”

“Thank you sir… With respect sir, I'd rather drink it with you.”

“Jolly good, quite right man. Take a seat. I don't have any glasses I'm afraid.”

“:Not an issue sir.”

“Dearest Manley,

Hope you are in good health and the war is going well 

Thank you so much for your last letter. I know you are ever so busy. The children enjoyed reading it.

I've sent you some tobacco to share with your pals and mummy has sent some chocolate. Uncle Tom sent some brandy.

I think about you all the time. See you in my dreams,

Your loving,

Victoria.”

Manley Sampson Swan did not often cry.

At that time. Black was drinking his tea and rum. The first sip felt like a kiss against his lips. He lit up, then offered a cigarette to the young private who shared his dug-out.

“Cheers serg',” the lad took a drag. “You know, I never smoked before the war. My mam’s going to kill me if she catches me smoking back home.”

“I wouldn't worry about that too much son.”

  VIII

“Something big is coming up, you mark my words,” Swan grinned.

“Yes sir. What makes you say that sir?” Black asked.

“All hush hush, you understand man. Between you and me. Something big! Vast amounts of ordinance being moved to the rear lines. Vast! Going to be a hell of a show.”

“Yes sir. Hush hush,” Black replied and tried to ignore the terrible sinking feeling.

Bloody hell. Bloody loud mouth bloody officer. If 3 Balls has told me then he has told everyone. The Hun have probably already heard. This is going to be an absolute bloody nightmare, Black thought as he walked away. Then he lit up.

Somewhere the sun was shining and a bird sang in a tree - somewhere, but not here.

The End. 

The Fairy Fruit

 He has eaten of the fairy bread,

For too long has he dreamt,

Those he once loved are lost or dead,

Yet his soul, ensnared, is kept,

The stars are black and they have fallen,

The night has come, the mask was cast down,

Yet he still lives, who life was stolen.

Illustration by Ash Turton.

 

THE RINGING OF A BELL, part 3

Illustration by Ash Turton.

 PART THREE

KENDAL. 

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.