The Haunting of Batsford Tor: The Tor prequel and trilogy

The Tor Part One: Whiteshill

Welcome to my little cottage

Come in, come in. I’m so glad you could make it. Sorry to leave you standing outside in the rain, I was in the kitchen and didn’t hear you knock at first. Here, let me take your coat. I should get a doorbell fitted I suppose, but it’s one of those things I never get around to doing. Mr Symmonds is the name, though I guess that’s why you’re here isn’t it?

I hope we weren’t too difficult to find. Were my directions okay? Did you turn off the sat-nav? Good. I know this place can be difficult to get to... elusive, you might say. Sat-navs invariably get confused, sending you along a road out you thought was a road in, that sort of thing. Maps aren’t much better. You’ll rarely find us on them. Even when you do, if you’re not diligent enough we’ll slip past your eyes whilst you’re still looking for us. Turnings will be missed. Extra roads will seem to appear. The Tor can be quite evasive when it wants to.

Anyway, sit down. Move the chair closer to the fire if you wish. Yes, that one in front of the grizzly bear... my, he’s been with me a long time. Moth-eaten old thing, he could do with a dust and a clean. I hadn’t noticed how hard it was raining out there. We often seem to get more weather here, if you know what I mean. Can I get you a drink? The kettle’s just boiled. It’s always good to meet another inquisitive mind; a researcher; a curator of tales such as yourself.

Hmph. Tales. This place is riddled with them. But where to begin? ‘At the beginning’ would make sense, but nobody knows where the beginning is. Even my records don’t stretch back far enough. To all intents and purposes, the Tor at Whiteshill has always been. And it’s not only the distance back you’d have to look through that hinders any research. The depth of the darkness stops many from looking. You’ll need a strong stomach if you want to research that little historical oubliette.

Hmm? Yes, yes you can take notes, of course you can. Pen and pencil? I like that, very old-fashioned. I expected a, what are they called, one of those voice recording things... a Dictaphone, that’s it. Let me decide where to start. Are you sure you won’t have a drink? Okay, then... where to begin... Aha! I know the place.

The journey home

James Immola was enjoying his third pint at The Lion amidst the noise of the bar. Fridays were busy enough for the landlord to employ a second bartender. The landlord himself tended the lounge. In the bar Paul kept the drinks flowing and the pumps clean. A fresh pint sat on the bar between them. Jim picked it up taking care not to spill any, one foot propped on the brass rail running along the foot of the bar. Paul always filled James’ glasses past the pint mark. A score of conversations half-heard drifted through from the lounge area, only to for the jukebox to beat them back.

You going into town, mate?

Jim took a slurp of his bitter. Yeah. From the speaker behind him Phil Lynott’s vagabond voice predicted a jailbreak.

You gonna have time for that before the bus?

Jim checked his watch. Nope.  Another slurp. Gotta finish this, listen to The Clash and T.Rex first. I’ll get the next one. Another 20 minutes won’t hurt. He fished the breast pockets of the denim jacket draped over the stool next to him. He pulled out a tin of tobacco, a packet of Rizla papers and a box of matches. As Paul ventured out to forage for empties, Jim rolled a cigarette. Want one?

The jukebox ran out Thin Lizzy and loaded up The Clash. In the intervening moments the clack of pool balls and the thunk of darts on cork filled the air. Glasses chinked as Paul collected them and put them on the bar. Conversations drifted in from the lounge area. The acerbic opening chords of ‘Clash City Rockers’ obscured the sound of Paul putting the glasses in the washer.

No thanks mate. Not supposed to smoke behind the bar. Actually, yeah, fuck it. Tony don’t give a toss, it’s his missus who’s bothered. She’s out tonight. Paul nodded at the jukebox. Not bad, these. What’s up next?

James scratched at his short beard. He usually wore a goatee, but hadn’t shaved at all for the last few days. T.Rex. It’s about time Tony got some Zeppelin in that thing.

I quite like T.Rex to be honest. He took the rollup from Paul. Cheers. What’s with the face fuzz? Letting it grow?

Yeah, figured I’d see what it looks like. He dipped his head towards the jukebox. They’ll do. Better than fucking disco, anyway. Can’t see ‘em lasting tho.

Zep?

T.Rex. Too poppy. Zep’ll be one of those bands that goes on forever, like The Quo.

Cheers. Paul took the proffered match and lit his rollup, taking three short puffs before continuing. It hung from the corner of his mouth as he spoke. Where you off to tonight, then?

Downhope. Gonna go down the club, see who’s out. He looked around the bar. Not exactly packed out tonight in here, is it.

You’re out later than usual. Most of those who’re going to go have gone. Surprised you’ve been given permission to go out on your own. Where’s Carla?

At her flat. With her parents. I don’t fucking know. I’m trying to make it work, with little Joseph and all, but... You think she’d have calmed down a bit after we got married but she’d as difficult as ever. More so, now. She thinks a fucking ring is the same as a ball and chain around my ankle. Bollocks to that. She wants to move out of the village. I said ‘bollocks’ to that too

Twenty minutes later Jim had gone.

He stepped off the bus in Dowhope high street and walked towards the club. The pavements were busy with people, loud and laughing. It was a warm September evening, but a chill would soon creep in from the countryside beyond. He was heading for an underground joint called ‘The Cave’. Sometimes they had live bands there, sometimes not. It was a few streets away from the bus stop, and Jim slung his jacket over his shoulder as he walked. A fine mist was forming in the air, threatening to descend as fog if given the chance.

After a few minutes he passed the Neer Cafe, a cosy little place situated down a cobbled side street. A few people gathered outside it, hanging around by the door, drinks in hand. Their chatting was loud but indistinct, weaving through the music from the jukebox playing inside. He’d been in there a few times. During the day they served food, always excellent, and in the evenings they played music. They had a host of regulars and it was always crowded and hot; those standing in the alley had probably come out for air. A quick glance failed to show him anyone he knew. Before he walked on he found himself making eye contact with a woman a step apart from the crowd. The weak breeze toyed with the end of her waist-length black hair. She smiled back. He considered going in to the cafe, but after a moment’s hesitation walked on.

On reaching The Cave he met a short queue to get in. It sounded like they had a live band playing. He didn’t recognise the song at first; from outside the club he could only make out the bass, felt more than heard. The queue moved quickly and after paying his entrance money he descended into the club. The cigarette smoke thickened and the music got louder. As he walked down the two flights of steps, middle and higher frequencies were added to the mix. A cover band, but it was better than nothing. A punky ‘All Along The Watchtower’ faded with the last echoes of a Marshall half-stack turned up to overdrive, and as the singer shouted his thanks into the crowd the staccato opening chords of Deep Purple’s ‘Highway Star’ machine-gunned his eardrums. He bought another pint at the bar, which ran the length of the wall perpendicular to the stage, and scanned the crowd for familiar faces. He didn’t see any. Perhaps they were still in the bars. All the ones he’d passed were busy. He decided to walk past the booths at the far side of the club anyway in case he knew anyone sat there. Five minutes later he found himself stood back at the bar drinking his pint, another rollup between his fingers.

All right! This one you might not have heard of, it’s from an American singer, Bruce Springsteen. Keep an eye out for him. One! Two! Three! Four!, and the barrel-chested rock testosterone poetry of ‘Born To Run’ punched through the club like a ’69 Chevy roaring out of a parking lot. Jim’s pint lasted until the end of the song and halfway through a passable ‘Whole Lotta Love’, then he flagged the barkeep and ordered another. He patrolled the club again. Still no familiar faces.

A pint later and he had to piss. He wandered over to the toilets a little less steady than he’d have liked. Every time he came to this place he forgot how lousy the bogs were until he had to go. He traipsed over to the urinal: nothing more than a steel sheet riveted to the wall above a shallow gutter. Somebody had already thrown up in the far end, and the gutter was struggling to drain. He unzipped and emptied, most of what he had to offer landing where he wanted it to go. Some hit the porcelain step of what he thought of as the shooting gallery, but his aim was better than most. He shook off the last few drips, reholstered and walked back out. There was no point in washing his hands. The taps never ran warm and there was no soap.

A tang of sweat, tobacco, beer, a touch of weed and, near the toilets, a faint but pervasive aura of piss and vomit. The club was starting to develop its familiar odour. Jim made his way over to the bar again as the band launched into a furious ‘Paranoid’. The queue had grown. By the time he got served the band was halfway through a Who number. Jim wasn’t sure which one; he wasn’t particularly a fan. He ordered his pint, paid and turned away from the bar. He scanned the crowd again, wondering where everyone he knew could be. As he shuffled his way through those trying to get served he stumbled and bumped shoulders with a girl, almost knocking her over.

Sorry, he shouted, It’s packed here! Didn’t mean to barge!

She looked up. It was the girl he’d seen outside of the Neer Cafe.

It’s okay. I think somebody pushed you.

Sure, probably... listen it’s like a scrum near the front. Can I get you a drink?

She smiled. Okay. Lemonade with soda and lime. I’m driving.

Right, wait here. I’ll be back in five.

Sorry?

"I said, I’ll be back in five. Wait here."

As he returned to her, the band left the stage. Don’t go anywhere, we’ll be back in fifteen minutes!

Thank goodness for that, she said, now we can talk properly. The sound of the crowd chattering rose to take the place of the band, though wasn’t as loud. Then the sound of music came over the PA, T.Rex again. Some people stopped talking, beaten by the music. Others raised their voices to compete. She led Jim away from the bar and onto the dance floor. Jim only ever ventured there to see the band play, and then only if they were particularly good. He tried to dance with her. She smiled at his awkwardness and led him further from the bar. A group of three girls and two lads vacated a booth as they approached. Somewhere in the space between Marc Bolan’s tremulous warble fading to nothing and The Sensational Alex Harvey Band’s ‘Framed’ sleazing its bluesy way out of the speakers, he thanked her.

What for?

He nodded to the dance floor. Not staying there.

She laughed; a sound like crystal wine glasses tumbling to the floor. You looked.... uncomfortable. She looked at him, locking his eyes to hers. It was almost hypnotic. He struggled to avert his gaze despite wanting to, albeit for reasons he couldn’t fathom. They’d just met and he liked her – or at least thought he did. You haven’t told me your name.

Jim. I’m sorry, I don’t have yours either.

She laughed again, something she appeared to do freely. That’s because you hadn’t asked. You can call me Rebecca.

Where are you from, here in Downhope?

Batsford.

He looked puzzled. Yeah? I don’t recognise you. How long have you lived there?

Again she laughed. Almost forever, but I really don’t go out much.

The sound of her laughter triggered an unease in Jim. He looked for somewhere to flick the ash from his rollup. The ashtray was overflowing, so he flicked it onto the floor. Then he realised he needed somewhere to put the butt. He stubbed it out on a wet beer mat and dropped it on to the pile in the ashtray. Then he started to roll another. He gestured towards her, offering her a smoke. She shook her head.

A squall of feedback announced the return of the band to the stage. Hi, sorry we’re a little late back; technical problems, but it’s all good now. After a count to three from the drummer they launched into ‘Wishing Well’ by Free.

Has it been fifteen minutes already? he asked.

Almost twenty-five.

Really? he checked his watch; he wasn’t wearing one. But he had been wearing one earlier, hadn’t he? He wasn’t so sure. How long were we on the dance floor for?

She shrugged. Maybe ten minutes.

I thought we walked straight over from the bar. I remember... I remember... but what did he remember? He couldn’t remember the last three songs he’d heard. He couldn’t remember where the final full pint on the table in front of him had appeared from; he had no idea how he’d gotten into this car. His head was still floating, his mind tethered by the most tenuous of threads. Had his drink been spiked? He couldn’t see how, he’d bought all the drinks. Hadn’t he? And how many was ‘all the drinks’? Enough for the alcohol in his system to make his fingers tingle.

There was no music in the car. Only the steady thrum of the engine and the rattling chassis. With a dizzy head he looked out of the window. Indistinct hedgerows rushed by. Either he couldn’t focus enough or it was too dark to see anything else. He tried once more to count how many drinks he’d had. He didn’t recognise the route, though somehow he knew they were heading back to Batsford. One the third attempt he managed to force a mumble. No response came from the driving seat. He took a breath and tried again, louder this time.

I’ve never been this way before.

It’s a path just for you.

He stared at her, concentrating to focus, awaiting an explanation. He soon forgot what he was waiting for. Trees on either side of the road formed a tunnel through which they drove, reminding him of something from his past. In shadow she seemed much older than he’d taken her for when they spoke at the club. How long ago? She looked haggard; surely she hadn’t had all those wrinkles earlier, she couldn’t be so old... and those eyes, dark and sunken. Almost lifeless. Thoughts rippled through his mind like silvery minnows through a stream, untouchable. The car emerged from underneath the trees, and in the strong moonlight she looked young again. She caught his stare with her own eyes, and her laugh was sexy and reassuring.

She slowed the car and pulled in to a lay-by on the right. The fence to the driver’s side of the car bordered a field at the foot of the Tor. Caution straightened his back and wafted at the fog of confusion.

I didn’t know there was a road this close.

It’s a private road. Let’s go to the top, I know a path.

She led him from the car and over the stile to a ring of brambles at the foot of Whiteshill. He wasn’t sure he wanted to follow, but how could he refuse? She had a noose of silver cord around his neck, one she could tighten at any second. He was still unsteady on his feet – he stumbled over nothing as he exited the car – but he was able to put one foot in front of another. The air was still and stuffy, with none of the breeze there had been when he got on the bus. There was a stale scent in the air, as musty as a tomb. As they approached the brambles he heard scurrying sounds behind them – foxes, maybe, or rats. For a second he had the idea they were following him. The Tor loomed over them in the darkness, like an ancient keep. He could not see the top.

There was no time to stop and think. Rebecca held his hand and took long, confident strides through the brambles, and he had no choice but to keep up. His legs were regaining their steadiness, though whether it was due to the alcohol working his way out of his system he wasn’t sure. He was more and more certain he hadn’t been drugged. Nothing he knew of worked its way out of the system with such speed. The thought gave him the confidence to follow her. A short while ago he’d been too woozy to consider running away from her; now he was intent on following her. All his life the Tor had been there, so close to the village, yet he had never ventured onto it. If she could do so why couldn’t he?

He held on to her hand like a child. There was a path here of sorts. She could glide through without a snag, and as long as he was holding her hand he was able to do so too. Once, as the incline became greater, he lost his grip on her. Immediately several thorns hooked his clothes. She turned and grabbed him and he came free without hindrance. Was it his imagination or were the brambles actually pulling at him? He guessed they were springing back into shape as he pulled at them to free his jacket, but it disconcerted him nonetheless.

On they marched. She was practically dragging him now, and he was struggling to keep up. Several times he asked her to slow down but she ignored him. From the road the ring of brambles looked dense but not deep, yet they’d been walking for minutes beyond count. No stars shone in the sky overhead, though the moon glared down. The air here was oppressive. He heard the scurrying sounds again, closer this time. Then he heard the snarling. His hand slipped from her as he turned to look behind him. Wait, he called, his eyes searching the devil-dark ground for legs, eyes, teeth, anything to give him a clue as to what was following them. Nothing. Frost bit his spine. He faced uphill again. Rebecca was nowhere to be seen. He called after her, Hey! Hey! He’d forgotten her name. His calls sounded muffled, as if he was shouting into a pillow. In rising panic he found himself turning in circles. Where they had previously skulked on the floor and sniped at his clothes as he passed, the brambles and bracken now looked down at him, had become trees. He had seen Whiteshill every day of his life, there were no trees at its feet. Overhead the branches formed a net. He couldn’t see the moon anymore.

The panic he had suppressed for so long broke free of its cage. His pulse sprinted, pumping sweat from every pore. His head pulsed and his throat went dry, and all he could think of was to flee. He turned and ran down the hill, short stabbing side-steps down the treacherous hillside through the tumbling loam, but before he could make more than a dozen steps something swept his leading foot away. He tripped and rolled, thorned branches whipping at him, grabbing at him, cutting his face and hands. They snagged his jacket as he struggled to his feet. He couldn’t pull it free; he let them have it. As he stepped away it hung there like a ghost. But it didn’t matter. He could see the edge of the copse. Beyond it the moon shone down on the road below. He could see the field, the grass eerie and grey before him. He could see the stile, so easy to cross earlier on. What he couldn’t see was the car. His feet slid forwards a few inches, and he had to pedal back to stay upright. He looked down. He was teetering on the edge of a ditch, one he hadn’t crossed on the way up. He didn’t know at which side of the Tor he now stood but he was sure as soon as he reached the road he’d be able to make his way back to the village. He leaped.

He fell.

The ditch was too wide. He barely grazed against the far side before hitting the bottom. The outer wall was too steep and high to climb. He clambered out the way he had come, fighting for handholds amongst the gnarled roots and crumbling mud. He pulled himself over the edge, breathless, back into the jaws of whatever awaited. The sky was clear, the moon distant and out of reach. It looked further away than usual. He dragged his legs out of the ditch and walked onwards, under the cover of the trees and dark greenery.

The moon disappeared again. The brambles were closer, the trees shorter than before and more densely packed. An unruly mob of boughs and branches. They ripped through his clothes as he fought through them, pecking and nipping at his flesh as if it were already carrion. He could hear the scurrying again, a rustling ancient sound like dark scales on leather, all around him. Behind it he could hear laughing, a laugh like shattering crystal, getting louder and louder. He had more cuts now, to his hands, to his forehead, to his legs. The foliage pressed at him from all sides, too closely to push through. He tried to look over his shoulder, to find any semblance of a path. He couldn’t even turn to do that. He could see drops and splashes of his blood glowing a deep red in the darkness, could see it far more clearly than he should have been able to, could see bugs crawling in it, drinking it, the bushes moving over him now, closing around him, thorns cutting and tearing. Vines lassoed his neck, crawling into his clothes, his nose, his mouth, exploring, cutting, scratching, ripping. The vines held every limb and took him off his feet, tilting him until he was horizontal. He was a few foot off the ground, and rising. His struggles became spasmodic as his strength faltered.

He tried to kick out. The vines around his ankles tightened in response, twisting his feet outwards. The pain of ripping tendons shot up his legs and into his kneecaps. More vines, running and seeking, snaked their way up his legs and expanded, tearing the denim apart. His belt snapped like a perished rubber band, and his trousers fell into the darkness below. His shoes went the same way. The vines covered his legs now, from toetip to waist. Slowly, rustling, they constricted, getting tighter and tighter, squeezing, crushing his legs with the same ease they would break his wrists and elbows.

Still the tips of the vines explored. The outside of his body was destroyed, but they wanted more. Around his waist and thighs they explored, scurrying across his skin - and beneath the frayed remnants of his underpants they found a way in, tearing and stretching as they went. His blood had found another way out. They moved around his waist, caressing his groin, crushing his balls, piercing them with thorns that burrowed and tore and caused pain beyond the screams and sobs he was letting out with ever shortening breath. Blood seeped from every cut, soddening his T-shirt until it could hold no more and it dripped, dripped to the floor in lazily congealing strings. He struggled harder, his last fight against what was happening. There was an electric explosion in his left elbow as the joint popped. The two parts of his limb ground against one another as the vines pushed one part forward and another back. His senses cut out for a second and then the agony turned his arm to fire. As he panicked and writhed the vines tightened around his right arm and hand. They twisted his wrist past any point of resistance, shattering every bone inside and he struggled no more. The pain flashed like lighting across his vision and all he could hear were his muffled choking attempts at screaming, as the vines in his mouth grew. At a pace of agonising millimetres they dislocated his jaw, pushing his mandible away from his skull. The pressure in his face grew and grew until he felt a crunch and another pop, and his jaw hung like a macabre decoration. Tears of pain and fury and terror flowed from his eyes and down his cheeks, soaking his face. Leaves turned to drink them as they ran off his chin. His crotch, burning and aching, was a soaking bloodied sponge as the thorns cut him deeper and deeper. His engorged cock, full of blood and throbbing like a blister fit to burst, was erect despite his terror. Still the vines tightened around the base. Scarlet rivulets ran down his arms and legs; his nose flowed freely into his open mouth. Vines wrapped around his torso, squeezing the air from him, clogging his lungs, going deeper with every ragged breath as the vines lifted him, bleeding and gasping, in supplication. To his right a crow perched on a forearm-thick bough of ivy, watching. Above him the branches formed a verdant mask of her face. He released a final muffled scream of snot-smothered agony with breath he couldn’t believe he still had as the vines tightened and ribs splintered; a scream cursed to never leave the hill. Her face leant in, leering, thorns for teeth, growing as she parted her green lips. Inches away from his face now, her ancient breath tumbled dryly over his skin as she drew him closer, leaning, threatening an ivy-tongued kiss, impossibly big now, and he knew what she wanted.

Back to the cottage

That was in the late seventies, of course. I don’t think there’s a nightclub in Downhope nowadays. I might be wrong, true, but I’m fairly sure. I expect you’re wondering how I came by the story, with the poor lad gone. Well, let’s say whilst people may die, their stories don’t; and there are ways of communicating with others most people aren’t aware of. You know, older than the telephone, or even the letter. Believe me if you will. Most don’t. How did you come by my telephone number by the way? I’m ex-directory. Always have been. Yes, even that directory. Mind you, I suppose you can track anyone on the internet nowadays. Anyway, I’m about to toast some teacakes, would you like one? Oh, okay. I hope you don’t mind if I do. I’ll be back in a few minutes.

Ah, there we are. Have you dried out yet? You’ve stopped shivering at least. Well, you came for stories, and stories you shall have. I think... yes, I think we’ll look at the eighties next, and three particularly courageous young boys who stood up to the power of the Whiteshill Tor. Not that they knew what they were doing, mind you, not really. Though I get the feeling one had more of an idea than the others. I’m sure we’ll come to have more to do with him in the future – though which future, I’m not yet certain.

Hmm? No, don’t be ridiculous. Of course the bear hasn’t moved. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a teacake?

Whiteshill

Every child needs an unexplored place, somewhere for the demons and bogeymen to live, where the ghosts are real, where monsters lurk in every corner. A place where the shadows are darker, the shade is colder and hidden eyes watch as you pass.

I wasn’t lucky enough to have any bramble-strewn hideaways or lonely copses near to where I grew up. I grew up in the city, midway between the centre and the suburbs. My neighbourhood was one of terraced houses and small paved gardens. Even so, my unexplored place was on the other side of the high wall surrounding my garden. Our road backed on to another, both of which came together at a triangular point eight or so houses away from mine. In the opposite direction a smaller side road connected the two main roads. In the centre of the triangle was what had once been waste ground, but at the time was used as a small scrap yard. Odds and end of scaffolding were piled next to old railway sleepers. Unidentified bits of scrap metal lay near bricks and paving slabs. It was a haunt for stray cats and dandelions, thorny weeds that conquered small rubble kingdoms, a home for mice and rats. A place of abandoned footballs, for none of the local children would climb the crumbling walls to retrieve their lost property. The yard was easy to get into, but once in there was no clear route out. The near walls were too high, protected by a jungle of stinging nettles, and barbed wire covered the gate at top and bottom. A row of weathered lockups lined the far wall, each with a corrugated steel roof. When the wind was high enough it would whistle under those roofs, and when it hailed -or even rained heavily- I could hear them rattling. At night either of those sounds could keep me awake, terrified by the pictures they conjured in my child’s imagination. From my bedroom window I could see almost the whole of the yard, and although the junk stored in there would sometimes change I never saw anyone enter.

I saw someone leave once, though. It was a dark October evening, only a slight breeze in the chilly air. I heard a noise coming from the yard. Sitting bolt upright in my bed I edged to the window to look out; I could see nothing in the darkness. I convinced myself it was only a cat and crept back to my bed, slipping under the duvet. Before I could settle I heard it again: a creak, the sort of creak I could hear when the wind blew across the yard and under the protruding edge of the corrugated roofs, trying to lift them from the structure. But there was barely a breeze outside, let alone wind enough to trouble the lockups. Anyway, before the roofs creaked there would be the howling, the mournful whine of the wind blowing across and under the roofs, searching for a way in, any weak point that would loosen the rivets securing them in place. Again I left my bed and almost crawled to the window, keeping low in case whatever was out there stalking should see me. I don’t know for how long I stared out of my window into the inky blackness of the yard. I had almost given up watching, beaten by tiredness and resigned to the fact I must have been hearing things. I do know far fewer lights of the houses beyond were now on, and I had begun to shiver in the chill of my bedroom before I saw it.

The dark shape formed its own shadow-within-a-shadow when resting on the roof, impossible to see when still, so well was it concealed by the gloom. But as I watched, disbelieving at first, it crept across the roof, cutting a diagonal path toward the back gardens of the houses opposite. I dared not move. I only saw it because it had chosen to move, and I wasn’t about to let myself become known to it. Entranced I saw it creep slowly, ever so slowly towards the houses. It didn’t change direction, it kept on inching forwards until it was only feet away from the garden it was targeting, almost able to leap up and grasp the trellis up which sweet peas were growing. Then it disappeared.

Immediately it did so I dropped to my bedroom floor. No longer was I cold, though I was trembling more than before. Sprawled on the carpet my heart clattered in my chest like a broken engine, and I could feel the blood coursing every capillary of my fingertips. All this was before the screaming.

The screaming. I write this as a man in my fifties, my children grown, one working and one in college - my dear Andrew. That screaming is separated from me by a lifetime’s experience: summers both hot and rain-drenched, winters long, jobs earned, lost and forgotten; a relationship which became a marriage which became a family; children who are living with partners of their own, and grandchildren an exciting possibility. But the screams that night are as fresh in my mind as if I were writing this in hurried scribbles on my childhood bedroom floor. It’s more real to me than the infant cries of my own children, babies who would not sleep the night without a feed or a nappy change. Those cries are tender memories now, rose-tinted by the joyful years which came after. The screaming was of an animal in pain. Mortal pain, agonising pain without reason or warning. Not the scream of injuries earned fighting for food or territory, but the tortured screams of a wild animal caught in a human trap, a trap it cannot comprehend but which bites through skin, muscle and bone; a trap which bites tighter, the fiercer the struggle to escape.

My bedroom lit up. Every house surrounding the yard turned on a light or two, and the yellow luminescence threw the shadow of a window frame on to my carpet and highlighted the swirled pattern in front of me. I ran the few steps to my bed and dived under the duvet.

Soon there were voices outside. The screaming continued. Once more I left my bed to watch, and within minutes blue lights swept the yard. Still the screams went on. There was a commotion at the entrance to the yard. Someone wanted entry and wasn’t prepared to wait for the property owner to open the gates. A bolt cutter broke the rusted chain holding the gates shut and an ambulance reversed into the yard. The cutters were again used to break the lock on one of the lockups. I shrank, my nose on the windowsill and my eyes focussed on the rollup garage door separating the people outside from whatever was within. A policeman, the same one who had used the bolt cutters, rolled up the door and shone his torch inside until he found a light switch. The white neon light revealed the scene.

I could not believe a man could make those sounds, but there he was, twisted and bloody, screaming in pain. There weren’t any words to discern, it was a desperate noise. The light not only told me what was hidden in the lockup, but also showed the broken skylight through which the would-be burglar had fallen. The officer spoke into his radio, and the ambulance team attended to him in situ; the fire brigade arrived to help move him. I watched as they carried some sort of saw in to the lockup and tried not to listen to the piercing screams, hellish screams of a different pitch, as they cut him free. Until that point I would not have believed a human being could scream any louder than he had before they started using the saw. Once he was released, two paramedics put him straight in to the back of the ambulance and within seconds he was gone. The police remained on scene for a while after, but for how long I could not tell you. I went straight to my bed, a little scared and a little nervous, but very tired.

Later, I heard one of the people living in the houses opposite was a driving instructor. Every Friday morning before his first lesson he would deposit the previous week’s earnings into his bank account – he kept a week’s worth of cash amounting to several hundred pounds in his house overnight. One of his students had caught wind of this and planned to break in and steal it. He waited on the corrugated roof until dark, watching the home until all the lights were out. He intended to crawl across the roofs and sneak in to the home through the back garden, locate the money and leave via the front door. Unfortunately for him the skylight he hadn’t noticed whilst focussing on the house was only a thin Perspex sheet, poorly secured. He fell through, landing on the contents of the lockup – some scrap metal, some garden machinery, and other junk. He broke both his right shoulder and his jaw upon landing on the concrete floor. He was lucky not to fracture his skull too. He impaled his right leg on some cast-iron railings which had been part of a fence. He arrived at hospital with a piece of it still spearing his calf.

Friday

Every child needs an unexplored place. That was mine. For the children of Batsford, Whiteshill was theirs. The small tor lay to the west of the village, surrounded by a fortress of brambles. No path led from the village to the hill, and for those few children who played in the fields at its feet -briefly, before cold winds of unidentified fear chased them away- no path could be found to the top. There once must have been, for it was crowned by a small ring of standing stones to the side of a narrow farmhouse, faded yellow with an uneven roof of what looked to be ancient wooden tiles. Dark wooden beams supported the structure.

Batsford was a small village, no more than a few dozen streets to either side of the high street – a rather grand title for a road containing a Spar-cum-post office, a chip-shop-cum-Chinese takeaway, a butcher’s shop with a hairdresser on the first floor, and a part-time chemist. The village had two pubs also, one at each end of the street. The Lion, closest to the main road, lively and full of juke-box energy until the revellers left for the bigger draws on offer a bus ride away; and the far more sedate Lamb Inn, referred to as ‘The Mutton’ by those too young yet to drink there, where the older contingent spent quiet nights drinking dark bitter and cheap wine – quiet until the weekend cabaret and karaoke nights tempted the men to wear ironed shirts and the women to dust off their youthful dresses.

The high street itself was an adjunct to the main road running between the two local towns, Taunston to the north and Downhope to the south. The eastern end of the high street led away through narrow roads to the countryside beyond.

The summer holidays promised to be typically British. Periods of sunshine punctuated by gloomy, overcast days. The last week of term had been hot and bright, the last days lethargic at best until the chaotic, triumphant final exit – for six weeks, at least. But September was a lifetime away, and neither staff nor students allowed the distant approach of another term to cloud their mood.

Eddie Morlock walked home from school with his two best friends, Martin Remus and Tony Lee. As was usual at half-past three, the noise of hundreds of students leaving the grounds disturbed all the birds foraging on the fields and pathways, looking for any leftover scraps of food dropped during the lunch hour. Flocks of seagulls and pigeons took off when the doors opened. Above the three boys a lone crow hovered. The walk to school that crisp, dewy morning should have been a cold one, but the excitement of the last day of term meant it could have been snowing, hailing and blowing a gale and they would have practically skipped there. As the day warmed their moods continued to heighten also, and by the time the clock had crawled around to three-thirty (why couldn’t they have a half-day on the last day of term?) they struggled to contain their exuberance. Nobody in the school completed any meaningful work during the last few hours of the day. Most were already making their way out of the grounds when the school day officially ended. At the sound of the final buzzer they all ran out of the main gate and on