Beastly Child

By Nigel Woodhead

In the ancient shire town of Summerwell, trade in occult goods is brisk. Why are its children so afraid of the dark?
Something has been awakened in their midst. A great crime from long ago. And a lonely child.
The town's sleepy face belies its buried powers.
For thousands of years, the site of a terrible cycle of death and rebirth.
It is time to apply the old remedies. An eye for an eye...

• Language: English
• Publisher: FishesEye
• Release date: Jan 13, 2010
• ISBN: 9781301924790

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Beastly Child

A Supernatural Novel by Nigel Woodhead

Published by FishesEye Publishing

Copyright 2009 Nigel Woodhead

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Beastly Child

All over Europe the peasants have been accustomed from time immemorial to kindle bonfires on certain days of the year, and to dance round or leap over them. Customs of this kind can be traced back on historical evidence to the Middle Ages, and their analogy to similar customs observed in antiquity goes with strong internal evidence to prove that their origin must be sought in a period long prior to the spread of Christianity. Indeed the earliest proof of their observance in Northern Europe is furnished by attempts made by Christian synods in the eighth century to put them down as heathenish rites. Not uncommonly effigies are burned in these fires, or a pretence is made of burning a living person in them; and there are grounds for believing that anciently human beings were actually burned on these occasions.

Sir James Fraser

The Golden Bough, 1922.

1.

March, 2002

Go on, dare you. Call the Gimlet Boy.

Rupert felt the older, larger boy poking him in the back with the stick. He turned to the other children in the clearing, tears welling up in his opaque grey eyes.

Yuck, isn't he ugly, whispered one of the girls in the circle.

Even uglier than the Gimlet Boy, added her friend.

Not that ugly, silly. No one's that ugly.

Please. I don't want to, whimpered Rupert. I'm frightened. Let go of me, please!

Go on, do it, ordered the older boy.

Rupert felt the stick poking his ear. He grabbed at it, but it was out of the narrow tunnel of his vision. The other boy side-stepped and tripped him up. He fell in the mud, the first tears forming in his eyes.

Cry baby Rupert, scaredy cat of Gimlet, chanted one of the girls.

Cat Weasel's a scaredy cat.

The others took up the taunt.

Why won't one of you call him? sobbed Rupert, blinded completely now by the hot salt flowing out of his eyes.

The others were silent.

He'll like you, reasoned a fat boy with long hair. You're one of his kind.

Maybe they're related, giggled the blonde girl.

Perhaps Gimlet'll take him under the ground. Forever! The girls squealed with excitement at the prospect.

To live under the hill like Rumpel Stiltskin!

Call the Gimlet Boy. I won't tell you again.

Rupert's legs were already stinging in the cold, damp evening air. They had made him take his trousers down, so he wouldn't be able to run away when the Gimlet Boy came. He felt a sharp pain as the bossy youth brought down the stick in a whipping action on his bare thighs. He was used to their bullying, but this game was different. He was terrified, partly of the savage new turn their taunting had take. And partly of something else, something be began to sense, approaching. And he very badly wanted to go to the toilet. He put his hands to his crutch, half to protect himself, half to restrain himself. He was ashamed...

It was getting dark. The fog that had hung around on the edge of Summerwell all day was beginning to find new strength as the sun sank in the sky. The girls fidgeted. They should be home for their tea already. They were missing Blue Peter.

Rupert held out his arms to protect himself. All right, stop hurting me. I'll call him.

The others were silent now, expectant, although unsure still of exactly what to expect.

Go on, Weasel, get closer to the stone. So he can hear you.

Rupert shuffled forwards, his trousers around his ankles.

No, that way, glass eyes. The stick prodded him back on course.

Rupert edged towards the sarcen. There was a thick smell in the air, like ozone at the seaside - the charge you got before a thunder storm. He took a deep breath.

Gimlet. He said the word quietly and stood, his head hung down, resigned to whatever might happen to him.

Again, hissed the fat boy.

Gimlet. Come and play with us. We want to be your friends.

The others retreated a few yards, to the apparent safety of the bushes, their hot breath rising in the mist like a dozen plumes of incense.

Please, Gimlet. Rupert shuffled uneasily from foot to foot, conscious of a warm wetness trickling down his leg.

They stood waiting, listening to the wind.

But there was another voice, now. They all heard it, but it came from no direction. It was like reading a book, without saying the words - a skill some of the younger children had yet to master.

You woke me. They heard the voice in their heads. Who wakes me?

Then they saw something, coming forward out of the mist. Afterwards, in the years that followed, on the rare occasions when someone broke the taboo and brought the subject up, none of them could agree exactly what they had seen that night. A face in the darkness by the stone. Just a face? Impossible. Most were still deeply confused by what had happened. Several cared not to recall at all, and had moved away from the area.

Perhaps he had been wearing dark clothes. They couldn't remember seeing much else. But that face. That was something to remember. Oh, God, yes. That brought it all back.

A boy's face? Well, sort of. Not any normal kind of boy. For a start, the shape of the head was twisted, the features warped. As it had approached them, they could make out the features. It was all wrong. Mixed up. The eyes were wrong. And the upper lip was split, like a rabbit maybe. And above the sunken nose, he was glaring at them. At least, something was glaring.

I think I'm going to be sick, said one of the girls.

Me too, said her friend.

They leant on each other for support, coughing up their lunch, trying to wipe their faces clean with tufts of long grass. Something compelled them. They turned reluctantly, unable to flee, daring to look back.

How hideous he was! He was utterly, unspeakably ugly. None of them had ever seen a child like that. The effect was hypnotic.

Rupert stared too. Yet to him it was a revelation. For eight years he had believed himself to be cursed. The unluckiest boy in the world. And now this. Far, far worse. He wiped away his tears, to see more clearly. Then he heard the voice again, softer now. The voice that was the antithesis of the face. But surely they were linked? A voice like liquid honey and soft ripe fruits. the accent and the words themselves were strange, old-fashioned, but the meaning was clear.

You, the blinding boy. Your eyes. Come closer so I can see you.

Rupert advanced. Some of his fear was seeping away now. There was some kind of a bond between them.

He felt a hand come out to touch his face. He recoiled slightly but stood his ground. It was rough, bony, claw-like. It touched his eyes. Like the doctors did.

They tease you about this? The voice was more intimate now. Just for him. He knew the others could not hear it.

It seemed to Rupert that the Gimlet Boy's lips had not moved at all. Yes, he replied.

They are jealous. It was a statement, not a question.

Jealous? Rupert had not thought of it that way.

Of how much you can really see.

I. I don't understand.

Then you must learn. Learn to use your sight.

I don't know. He felt awkward. He couldn't think of anything else to say. Will you show me?

Shall we play then? asked the Gimlet Boy, his hare lip twisting up into - if not a smile, then a grimace at least.

Rupert smiled. He was beginning to get the picture. Oh yes. Such pictures! His head was full of colours, shapes, textures, desires, laughter. And then the screaming started behind him. He turned to his school mates, pulling up his trousers.

I wish - he said, pausing. There was no need to finish. He knew what the Gimlet was going to do. The Gimlet knew what he wanted.

All right, that's enough, said the boy with the stick.

The girls rubbed their eyes. They itched so.

Make him stop. Please stop.

Rupert walked towards them. The Gimlet was with him.

It's not funny. Stay away.

The smell of ozone again. The children were shrieking, crying, whimpering. They cradled their faces in their hands. Rupert moved his head from side to side, eager to see through the dark tunnels of his sight, to know what Gimlet had done. He knelt down beside one of the girls and peeled her hands back. Her eyes were weeping. She looked up and screamed.

But not the hot, clean, salty tears Rupert had wept moments before. Instead, thick, yellow, mucus, oozing out of boils in the corners of her eyes. The children began to scatter, half blinded, running back through the woods to their homes. Rupert stayed. He had no urge to do anything.

And the Gimlet had gone. Rupert thought he could still hear a sort of laughter. Very faintly, so faintly it was hard to tell from which direction it came - indeed whether it came from any direction at all. He wasn't sure he liked using his new sight. He could see bad things. Or rather he could see the same world he had always known, and now knew it to be made up of bad things. Bad things to come. he looked beyond the ancient stone, and saw into the distance, the future. So many bad things to come. Sometimes seeing through a tunnel was a blessing.

He determined he would put his sight to sleep. For a long time.

But something else had been awakened that day. Something that would not return to sleep so readily. For between its long periods of twilight, like any growing creature, it needed to feed.

*********

2.

Any Time Now...

The offices of the Summerwell Recorder were situated above an estate agent's, on a side road leading off the High Street. The town's population, and a sideline as a desktop publishing bureau for local businesses, were just sufficient to merit its existence.

The Recorder had been set up the year before by Barry Lewis - a fugitive from the latest round of redundancies at a regional publishing group - the same people who were now only too happy to print the paper for him. Buying the hand that you feed, as Barry liked to describe it. He'd been running it virtually as a one man operation, but was gradually beginning to take on full-time staff as well as the odd freelance. He was happy to give them a fairly free hand on the editorial side - as long as the Recorder was just profitable and provided the occasional story that could be syndicated up to county or national level, there seemed little point in interference. He was printing the paper for love, not lucre. As he put it, if he wanted money that badly, he'd have been printing that instead.

Barry blew a ring of cigarillo smoke towards the window. It's not exactly a media empire, you realise, he said. In fact it's really only the new technology that makes it feasible to produce a paper on this scale.

I think that might make a pleasant change from hot lead and rusty typewriters, Carol countered, aware that interviewees were meant to sound positive. It wasn't exactly what she'd been expecting after three years in college and a successful cub posting on a large provincial paper.

What I'm saying is, it may take a while to establish a stable circulation. So I'd be looking to you to generate some good front page stories as well as regular columns. What's politely called creative licence. The Editor sat back, waiting for the candidate to take the initiative.

Sounds like a great opportunity, said Carol, turning over possible questions in her mind.

It's what you make of it. There's plenty going on here if you take the trouble to scratch the surface.

Just what does happen in sleepy Summerwell, Mr. Lewis?

It may not seem like the most exciting town in the country, mused the Editor. No riots or mass murders here. That must be obvious. He stared out of the first floor window towards the marketplace. But if you came to work for me, you'd get plenty of breadth, and freedom. A good second posting if you want my unbiased opinion. You'll have to do the odd bit of muck-raking now and then. But it might be in the farm yard rather than the local Conservative club.

That would make a change. They both laughed. Carol took a sip of her coffee. Interviews didn't normally make her nervous, but her throat was dry, and she was sure it was coming across in her voice.

Actually that's roughly why I applied for the job. She smiled disarmingly.

Anyway, stay here a year or two and who knows - you'd have a good portfolio to take back to the big smoke, or wherever. Any thoughts about where you'd like to be in five years' time?

What do they say - a year's a long time in politics? I've always found the future difficult to predict. Sometimes the unexpected opens up new doors.

Yes, that's fair enough I suppose. I never thought I'd get the chance to open up my own shop. You strike me as quite ambitious, which is just what I need right now, even if it means I can't keep you forever. He drew heavily on the cigarillo. On the other hand you might get to like it here. Have you ever lived in a small town?

I was born in the Dales, said Carol. We lived there for about ten years, then we moved to Manchester.

Childhood's most important. Those are the experiences that shape a person. The most vivid memories for most of us. Once a country type, you're always a country type, I reckon. But what do you feel? Do you think you could relate to Summerwell - and the people here? I have to warn you they're not exactly the most sophisticated of readers.

I think I'd be able to hack it, she replied. It certainly beats the sort of stories I'm allowed to write on the Echo.

Well, I'll be frank with you. I get a better gut feeling about you than the others I've seen so far. I'm tempted to offer it to you right now. How soon could you start?

I'd have to give notice, and it might take me a few days to move down here.

Around a month then?

Carol took a deep breath. Yes, I'll make arrangements then. Thank you very much. The interview seemed to have gone very quickly.

My pleasure. I can just about manage single-handed until then. It'll stay in broadsheet format until you start, then I'll start to concentrate on drawing in advertising, doing the layout, that side of things. Gradually we'll start increasing the number of pages.

Are you taking on anyone else?

I need a staff photographer too. There's a lad who used to work for a studio in Beresford - no formal training, but he's done quite a bit of freelance work. I think he'll come onboard as a part-timer at first. And we'll take it from there.

3.

The shop was part of a Victorian terrace - surrounded by the sort of family or one man businesses that hardly attracted a glance from passing drivers. The previous shopkeeper had died suddenly, and times being hard as ever and rents high, finding new tenants had not been easy.

The site had been empty for nearly eighteen months when the new owners came. They came quietly, one Saturday afternoon in late November, as the light was fading outside. Three of them. One of them, a bearded man, unlocked the door while his two female companions stood aside to let him enter. He paused, and anyone who had been watching would have seen him take a small metal flask from his coat and sprinkle a few drops of dark liquid on the threshold.

But no one was watching. No one from the windowless Baptist Church with its huge, illuminated blue cross, on the other side of the road. No one from the last shoppers hurrying to get home with their weekend groceries and Christmas presents. And in a moment the man and two women had disappeared inside.

Where it was already dark. Only the faintest trace of blue from the cross fell in lines across the floorboards, where it was swallowed up by the dust. Several tea chests stood in the gloom, waiting to be unpacked.

This is perfect, don't you think? said the man. It feels so perfect. I knew at once this was the right place. I could feel it.

The older woman gestured across the road. What about the neighbours? Won't they mind?

Mind? They are kind enough even to have given us a beacon. That's Christians for you. He laughed softly while the two women watched him. They had answered his ad for part-time assistants in the Recorder, the new local paper: New Age Shop seeks interested staff. It seemed they had to start by being interested in cleaning.

So what do you want us to start with, Jake? asked the younger of the women, brushing her long hair out of her eyes.

The man walked slowly around the shop, thumb and forefinger feeling his beard. He turned to them.

First I'd like it clean, Karen, he replied. Spotless. I want this to become a temple, a place of light. I'm not going to give the opposition any grounds for complaints. This has got be a respectable business.

And you're going to be living upstairs, are you?

For the time being. I'll be in the shop most of the time, apart from when I go to collect stock. And you two will be doing shifts to help out. At least that's the plan.

It's a great idea, said Karen. There's definitely a market for it - just you wait and see. Sarah gave her a sharp look. She stopped abruptly. Jake, if he had noticed anything did not probe any further.

Anyway, I'll leave you to get started, he said. I have to take the van and get the rest of the opening stock. I've left you a set of keys for the weekend. When you finish, lock up and throw the keys through the letter box. We don't want unwelcome visitors undoing all your good work now, do we?"

The women put their coats to one side and unpacked their cleaning things. The man stood by the door silently for a few moments, watching them, then let himself back out into the street, pulling the door shut silently behind him.

Fancies himself, doesn't he? Karen took off her coat and threw it onto the counter.

Hush, don't speak like that, replied her companion. He's got ears everywhere, that one, you mark my words. I can tell. Don't tease him so much. You've got the job. Didn't you see the way he looked at you just then?

I thought for a moment he was waiting to see us go down on our knees, her friend went on, in a stage whisper.

He should be so lucky.

All that stuff about temples. Still it's a job, isn't it?

They both laughed, slightly less than confidently. The shop had a stale odour, as if something had been walled up there for a long time. They set about sweeping the worst of the dust up from the floor.

What do you think then? asked Karen, holding a bin liner open.

I think, Sarah said slowly, I think someone else may be interested. Talking of beacons, our friend here just might have his uses.

Outside, still standing by the door, Jake turned towards the cross and smiled, his eyes filled with reflected blue flames. Soon the Baptists would be losing their monopoly on neon. He had ordered a sign of his own. The Season of Saturnalia was at hand.

4.

It was early afternoon, a market day. A black car pulled off the motorway, and drove along the B road into Summerwell. It travelled towards the town at a steady twenty eight miles an hour, much to the annoyance of the tail of cars that built up in its wake.

The driver of the car directly behind was close enough to read the single, slightly faded sticker in the Avenger's back window.

'A Sword for the Lord,' proclaimed the words in fiery serifs.

Bloody Jesus Army, cursed the driver, already late for an appointment to demonstrate some sales samples. He overtook aggressively as soon as a straightish stretch of road allowed, gesturing with thumb and forefinger made into a ring in front of his rear view mirror.

The black car followed on at its own pace, ignoring the horns and full beam headlights of the other cars trying to overtake.

There would be time enough for infidels later.

The car reached the High Street dropped into second gear. The drivers behind crawled along in a kind of funereal procession, a gloomy cortege of vehicles already resigned to their fate as followers - various shades of despondency visible on the faces of the passengers.

Yet the face of the man driving the first car was totally without expression. Like a mask. A death mask, terribly pale in the winter sunlight. Like someone who has spent far too long indoors, following unhealthy pursuits.

The traffic lights changed ahead. The man braked, taking the opportunity to glance down at the letter beside him on the seat, confirming the location of his lodgings.

'We hope you will enjoy your stay with us in Summerwell, Mr. Stone,' he read. He looked up and stared out of the window at the busy market. Someone behind began to use their horn. The lights were green. He put the car in gear and moved off at the same steady pace. His expression had not changed.

5.

Carol's first week in Summerwell left her with little time to orient herself to her new surroundings. Barry had suggested that she start to make time to get to know the local dignitaries, introduce herself, make contacts. And to get to know the local information sources - the Public Library, shopkeepers, market traders, publicans. And the emergency services, such as they were - a police station manned by three officers; ambulance and firefighting facilities had been rationalised by county planners so that the town now had to rely on regional services based some miles away. There was also a small archive of material Barry had gleaned from the county and national press over the last couple of years - plus recent back issues of the Recorder - in the four page broadsheet format they were about to expand. It had all been exhausting. But at least she had found somewhere to live.

After a couple of days staying in a rather run-down guest house, she had found a cheapish one-bedroomed flat to rent. It was on the ground floor of a moderately spacious but dilapidated Victorian terraced house, about a mile from the town centre. The landlord had showed her around, proudly displaying the few paltry pieces of furniture - and had then asked her to sign an inventory along with the lease.

For the moment it was habitable but not comfortable. Carol was planning to supplement the fixtures as soon as possible with a couple of trips to her parents' house to fill up her rusting Citroen. But giving the place at least a token lick of paint was top of her list of priorities for spare time - whenever that materialised.

The Summerwell townsfolk seemed friendly enough - more immediately trusting than the big city dwellers she had grown used to - indeed she had been quite taken aback the first couple of times when complete strangers wished her a good morning in the street.

However, possibly because the town had not boasted a home grown newspaper until now, Carol soon found she was meeting some degree of suspicion when she introduced herself - or rather when she introduced herself and gave her occupation in the same sentence. A number of apparently friendly and articulate local traders had become quite reticent when the magical word journalist came into conversation. She resolved to be a little more circumspect, and rehearsed a number of alternative stories that fell short of being downright lies.

On the Friday afternoon, Barry suggested they should finish work early and go to the pub, along with the new photographer, Rick - to whom she had not yet had the chance to speak more than a couple of words. It also seemed like a good opportunity to get a fuller briefing on the hearts and minds of her new-found neighbours.

They sat at a corner table, near a mock Tudor window that looked out onto one of the town's quieter streets. There were a few other drinkers, most of whom seemed to have been there since lunch time with no intention of returning to their supposed workplaces.

Barry offered cigarillos to Carol and Rick, both of whom declined. He seemed relieved. Well, congratulations, he said. Everything seems to be in place for the first bumper edition next week. All we need now is one big scoop for the front page.

Cows stop cars in busy lane, mused Rick, winking at Carol.

Cream tea cup storm brewing up, countered Carol, realising too late that the second pint of cider was beginning to make her feel slightly light-headed. She was glad she had left the car at home and walked to the office that morning.

The conversation reached one of those natural pauses when everyone waits for someone else to introduce a new gambit.

So have you discovered Summerwell's dark secret yet? Rick asked Carol, in a low voice.

She found the two men looking at her with sudden and unexpected gravity.

Sorry, you've lost me.

Come on, you must have noticed something, Rick coaxed.

I should have warned you, Rick has slight paranoid tendencies, explained Barry. He's convinced there's some sort of organised cover-up going on in the town.

I have noticed they're quite protective, conceded Carol, wondering if this was some kind of test. But small towns are supposed to be like that - all one big family - aren't they?

It could just be that all three of us are more or less recent outsiders, and we notice these things more, said Barry. Sort of exaggerated perspective.

But you don't think so? You mentioned that I'd be doing some muck-raking.

Barry coughed. I have to admit I think it goes a little deeper than meets the eye.

So what are we talking about here? Knitting circles?

You know what, said Rick, talking behind his hand. I think they're all masons. Funny handshake brigade.

Rick's a conspiracy theorist at heart, explained Barry.

I've just got a chip on my shoulder that they haven't asked me to join. But Barry here's got an even better theory, haven't you?

Barry nodded, tapping his cigarillo ash off and taking a long drag before replying. The local farming community seems to be organising itself into a co-operative to be able to market its produce better. I suspect that behind it all there's some kind of European subsidy fraud.

Carol felt slightly disappointed. Would that explain why the local traders are xenophobic as well?

Ah now, you've got me there. Probably VAT fraud in their case.

We could always set up a dead letter box for information, she suggested.

Go on, said Barry. What did you have in mind?

Place a small ad in the Personals - something like Private Investigator seeks new assignments - rewards offered."

So that's what they're teaching at journalism school these days.

It works, said Carol.

You've tried it?

Not personally, but it seemed to work at the Echo. You have to sift out a few cranks, of course. Look for repeated names, patterns.

Yes, and the other thing about this town is that it's full of eccentrics, said Rick. Bet you five pounds there wouldn't be two replies the same.

You're on. Hope you're a good loser. She felt herself warming to her new colleague.

If you win, I'll write it off against the public interest.

Just as long as it helps the Recorder's circulation, added Barry.

You were the one who wanted the big scoop. Carol grinned. You can't be too choosy.

Rick slapped his employer on the shoulder. Well, the choice is cows blocking traffic or organised, international crime. What do you say?

All right then, let's publish and be damned, toasted Barry.

All three raised their glasses.

But I want facts, understood. Hard facts.

Thus, the Summerwell mysteries began with a challenge.

6.

Stone carried his bags up the stairs. He was a large, thickset man, but the bags seemed to weigh down his whole frame, as if something they held was very heavy, or the man was older than his outer appearance. He and stopped outside the dark blue door on the landing, breathing heavily, although his face was still pallid. The lock was stiff, or worn, and he had trouble opening it with the key he had been given. He twisted it patiently, learning the feel of the cylinders and teeth inside. Each lock held its own secrets. Eventually it yielded to him and the door opened.

He carried the bags in carefully, glancing back down the stairs as he closed the door. Later he would go out and check the lie of the land. But first he was going to have a sleep. It had been a very long journey.

It was a quiet house. He was pleased. There was never any sense in noise for the sake of noise.

Yet something in the town was not quiet. The rumours had been persistent. His superiors were becoming complacent, and had discounted their sources for far too long. Already Stone had the scent. The town was infected. The rumour-mongers had been correct, he was sure of that. Since he had pulled off the by-pass he had been aware of the voices, the whispering; as yet very faint, like sounds from a distant shore, but stirring nonetheless. And now they had to be investigated. Someone had to do it. And who better than him. Indeed, who else. It was a dying profession. Too many unbelievers in the world. Stone tested the bed, and finding it a little too soft for his liking lay down on the floor without removing his coat. He soon slipped into a troubled sleep. It had been a long journey.

A few minutes later, Rick arrived home. Someone had parked selfishly in the drive, so that he had to leave his car on the street. The car was a wreck - the black re-spray peeling off around the doors and bonnet to reveal a rusty red beneath. Like congealed blood, thought Rick, shaking his head. He glanced up at the windows, but there was no sign of life within.

Rick entered the house and climbed the stairs without bothering to switch on a light. He paused for a moment on the landing, looking around. Somewhere in one of the other flats, a radio was playing. Church music. Evensong perhaps. Rick sniffed. There was a smell of like pine needles hanging around, though with a chemical rather than natural freshness about it. At least