Keppelberg

By Stan Mason

An ex-soldier living in Cornwall gets an invitation to his sister's house in the north of England. He drives there but loses his way and ends up at a remote place called Keppelberg. It appears to be very strange to him, being set in Victorian times, and he is unjustly asked to leave by the police. He continues his journey to his sister but he remains curious about Keppelberg and goes back to find out more about it. The inhabitants do not make him welcome and he is incarcerated in jail. However he escapes to undertake his own investigation and what he discovers both astonishes and shocks him. For example, why are there no old people living in Keppelberg?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AUK Authors
• Release date: Nov 5, 2015
• ISBN: 9781785383120

Book preview

happening.

Chapter One

As the darkness fell, my tired eyes followed the white lines in the centre of the road with pain searing through my head. I could easily have drifted off into never-never land and crashed the vehicle anywhere along the highway for I was morbidly weary of driving ready to welcome the warmth and pleasantness of a deep sleep. It had become extremely dark that evening through the preponderance of heavy rain clouds. Indeed, my driving was seriously affected by the steady stream of rain which torrented down continually battering the windscreen of the car for the last hour.

It had been my intention to head directly north to the village where my sister lived However, by the time I started to approach that area in the north I was almost exhausted with fatigue. It had been a long journey lasting over eight hours and, to my misfortune, I had misjudged the issue on two counts. Firstly, I failed to assess correctly the length of time it would take me to get to my destination. I believed it would take far less but what was I to know? Secondly, as a result of my arrival in Britain only two days earlier, I forgot all about the light which faded at five-thirty in the early evening. Subsequently, before I had the chance of finishing the journey in the light, the odds were well and truly stacked against me To make it worse, despite the plethora of signposts signifying the names of villages, towns and cities I had passed on the way, I soon realised that I was totally lost. Some time had passed since I left the motorway and I had followed the signs along many smaller roads only to end up at the start of a very wide sandy lane which led to a village bearing the unwelcoming shingle proclaiming Keppelberg. I stopped the car and removed a torch from the glove compartment and studied the map to find out my location. I was a few miles north of Newcastle. However, although the map was highly detailed, there was no reference to a village by the name of Keppelberg.

I started the car again and drove up the sandy lane until reaching a proper road following it until coming to the main street of the village. To my surprise there was a multitude of shops, around fifty of them in all, located on each side of the road. I pulled over to a large area which I believed to be a car park and stopped to rest. Although it was fairly early in the evening, the village was in total darkness. There were no street lights shining from lamp-posts, nor was there any illumination from the shop windows. It was then that the clouds began to drift and the moon shone through to offer some respite but it was still far too dark for me to start looking for a hotel. Ultimately, I leaned back in the front of the car and lay there as comfortably as I could resting my weary pate on the headrest. It had been a tortuous day with regard to the immense amount of traffic on the roads and I was extremely tired. Yet despite my fatigue and a strong desire to go to sleep, I could not find a way into the arms of Morpheus. The pundits say that one’s life flashes in front of their eyes the moment before they die. Well, in my case, I lay back as comfortably as I could in the car reflecting the past which ran through my mind as though I was watching a film in the cinema.

I had spent the last six years in the army, being demobilised only two days earlier. When my sister Mary, who lived in Bishopstown, learned of my release, she telephoned to invite me to her house to celebrate the event. More importantly, she hadn’t seen my for at least six years and desperately wanted to hug her little brother. Although the family lived in Cornwall, she had met a Yorkshireman who had been left a house in the Will of his late aunt. He had gone to Cornwall on holiday and they had met on the beach at Falmouth. It was love at first sight and it wasn’t long before they were married and he whisked her away to his new home in the north. It was a long distance from Cornwall and, as I had joined the army signing on for six years, there was little contact between us during that period. I had been attached to the 4th Fusiliers Regiment in Plymouth which ultimately was sent to keep the peace in Iraq.

I had been posted on the outskirts of Basra for a period exceeding two years. The situation in and around the city had been extremely volatile with most of the Arabs hating the British. There were numerous terrorists in abeyance rumoured to have been sent by the Syrian authorities, while land mines had been buried absolutely everywhere. Insurrectionists hid around every corner and religious sects of the Islam religion, such as the Sunnis and the Shi-ites, who disliked each other intensely, had to be kept apart. It was a time-bomb waiting to explode in everyone’s face and British soldiers had to bear the brunt of it. As it happened, I was awarded a medal for saving the lives of four soldiers who would have been killed by a land mine but for my intervention. A British armoured vehicle struck a land mine at the side of the road. The explosion was of such force that it turned the vehicle on to its side. There were five soldiers aboard... the first one being killed instantly. The others lay within the vehicle, badly stunned or unconscious. I was walking about ten yards away when it happened and I threw myself into action, starting to pull the injured away to safety in a ditch. I was unaware at the time that I was under a rain of fire from terrorists shooting at me from the near distance. I managed to pull all four soldiers to safety having been hit by six bullets in the back. Fortunately, I was wearing a back-pack which contained my tin plate, mug and cutlery. When I examined them later, there were five badly dented bullets in the plate and one in the tin mug. They had not only saved my life but that of four soldiers. To my mind, I considered that I was only doing my duty... helping to save the lives of my colleague. As far as I was concerned, the award granted was way over the top. They kept calling me a hero but I didn’t feel like one. Fame was not on my agenda... nor did I feel that there was any future for me if I stayed in the army, especially as the unit would have had to return to Basra at a later date to monitor and separate the Arabs in their own country. I was determined not to be a target again or another victim. So I resigned at the end of my six-year contract with the Ministry of Defence to end up in civvy street. Consequently, I was now a noncommissioned civilian with no prospects or employment in sight.

Sleep was extremely difficult to come by in the cramped position in the front of the car and morning seemed to take its time in arriving. However the hours eventually passed and the early light broke through the darkness so that everything in the village became much clearer. When I opened my eyes, I found myself parked in the main shopping area opposite a large board which boasted. ‘Keppleberg... population 1100’. With nothing else to do while I was waking, I sat thinking about the numbers analysing the situation concisely. Fifty shops for such a small population seemed to be far too many especially as they did not stock or sell electronic equipment. If there were only eleven hundred people in the village, it meant that each shop catered for twenty-two people. That didn’t sound right. Surely some of them would have gone out of business through lack of trade!

Some very old bicycles were being ridden into the area and people began to mill about. I climbed out of the car to approach a woman passing by holding the hand of a young boy.

‘Excuse me,’ I asked politely. ‘Can you tell me the way to Bishopstown? I seem to have got lost.’

She stared at me bleakly and pulled the child away as though I was going to snatch him from her.

‘I’ve no idea!’ she snapped rudely, causing me to be surprised at her totally negative attitude.

I then saw a young man who had just arrived on his bicycle to ask the same question. He stared at me blankly for a few moments before giving me the same answer. I was starting to become angry.

‘Where’s the police station?’ I demanded, determined to find the way to my sister’s house.

He shrugged his shoulders aimlessly as if unwilling to tell me anything that might help me.

‘Down the road,’ he muttered almost under his breath. ‘Don’t worry. The police will find you!’

I wondered what he meant by that comment and made my way back to the car to study the road atlas once again. There had to be some mention of Keppleberg on the map somewhere. I turned to the appendix which held the names of all the villages, town and cities at the back without success and then turned my attention to the grids on the map searching carefully but I could not find it. Jus as I felt like throwing it out of the window, there was a knock on the side-window. The man from whom I had asked the way was perfectly correct... the police had found me!

‘May I ask what you’re doing in this village?’ Asked the constable bluntly. I was surprised to note that his uniform was one long discarded by the police force.

‘I’m lost,’ I told him before thinking about his opening question. ‘Is there any reason I shouldn’t be here?’

He smiled at me amiably although I could see by his eyes that he found the comment less than amusing. ‘Where are you headed for, sir?’ he went on politely.

‘I’m looking for Bishopstown,’ I responded hopeful that he could provide the answer for which I was searching. ‘I got lost in the dark and ended up here.’

The policeman nodded before moving slightly back from the car and pulling himself up to his full height. ‘I’ve never heard of the place you mention,’ he continued flatly. ‘I suggest you go back the way you came and seek advice from someone in the next town.’

‘No one here seems to know anything,’ I complained bitterly, taking out my frustration on the man.

‘That’s because we’re very singular, sir,’ he retorted sharply. ‘We’re a small village that likes to keep itself to itself.’

‘What puzzles me is that all these shops caters for just over a thousand people,’ I advanced audaciously. ‘It seems a lot of them for such a small community.’

‘The people in this village like to be served well,’ stated the policeman curtly. ‘Now, sir, if you’d like to get on your way, there are other people who wish to use this area.’

I looked around to see a dozen bicycles parked on one side of an area almost the size of a football field which made his comment completely irrelevant. I was about to continue questioning him, although his unfriendly attitude caused me to become highly suspicious, but I quickly realised it would be pointless. He seemed very eager to get rid of me... far too eager! It was a free country... why should he be so insistent that I leave? I had the feeling that this was no ordinary village. There was something about it although I could not put my finger on it. In addition, I was most surprised that no one could tell me the direction of Bishopstown and although it could hardly be any distance away no one seemed to have heard of it.

I started the engine, noticing the expression of relief on the policeman’s face, and drove slowly out of the village, staring a the row of shops as I left. There was something very strange about the place as well as the attitude of the people. Perhaps the villagers were over-cautious about strangers as they lived in relative isolation from the rest of the world. It aroused my curiosity although it was really none of my concern. It was also none of my business as I had other fish to fry. I had come to the north on a mission and that’s what I intended to accomplish. Without delay, I drove to the next village where the postmaster told me the exact road to take to Bishopstown.

When I arrived there, my sister, welcomed me with open arms. To her I was a hero, having been awarded a distinguished medal by saving the live of four soldiers. I tried hard to play down the incident but she was so proud of me she wouldn’t listen. I parked my suitcase in the guest room and chatted with her in the lounge, both of us rendering stories of what had happened to us during the past six years. In the evening, there was a party to which she had invited over twenty people, mainly to show me off, and I became nominated as the war veteran from Basra. Tim, her husband, had been charged with preparing a feast fit for a king. Consequently, the food was plentiful, the wine ran freely, while the other guests appeared to be very amiable. However my mind drifted to the events of the day and it beleaguered me. Later that evening, I took my brother-in-law to one side with a problem that was beginning to obsess me.

‘Tim,’ I began seriously, ‘what do you know about a village called Keppelberg!’

‘Keppelberg,’ he repeated, as though trying to recall the name from the archives of his mind. Then he shook his head slowly. ‘No... never heard of it.’

‘But it’s only about twenty miles from here,’ I bleated in despair. ‘You must know of it.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he returned. ‘Can’t help you. Never heard of it.’

I was seriously concerned at his response. The village was barely twenty miles away yet he claimed never to have heard of it. That was incredible to say the least! I proceeded to ask the same question of my sister only to receive a similar reply. The village didn’t seem to exist yet I had found it on my way to my sister’s house... a village with eleven hundred people and over fifty shops. How did they get any of their supplies delivered there if it didn’t exist? It wasn’t on the road map nor had anyone ever heard of it! It caused me to become far more curious. I had come across it in the darkness of the night and I was the only one to know of its location. Could it be another Brigadoon that only surfaced for one day in every hundred years? That was a fairy tale. It was not only improbable but impossible. It was incredible to conceive such a thing in this day and age. Then I thought about the population count of eleven hundred people... not one thousand-one hundred and-eighty-four or eleven hundred-and-twenty-eight but exactly eleven hundred people. How strange was that? I found it difficult to remain impartial when dwelling on the facts. There was a lot more to learn about the people of Keppleberg... of that much I was certain.

The following day I purchased a satellite navigation system which I locked on to the windscreen of my car. Now, at last, I could identify the names and directions of all the towns and villages in the region. I would be able to plot exactly where I was going. It was my main intention to return to Keppleberg. The device actually recorded its name so, after saying farewell to my sister and her husband, who were clearly dismayed at my sudden swift departure, I climbed into my car and drove back the way I had come. It took me well over half-an-hour to find the village again. Not surprisingly, the satellite navigation system failed to record the name of the place or the road leading up to it. Keppelberg was a closely guarded secret The term ‘curiosity killed the cat’ came to mind but I was determined to investigate to satisfy that curiosity and to find out why it had exactly eleven hundred inhabitants.

I drove into the wide area which I considered to be the car park although I was the only car there. It wasn’t long before there was a tap on the side window and the same policeman appeared.

‘I thought I told you to leave here yesterday,’ he said solemnly.

‘I did,’ I returned dryly, ‘but I can’t fight the forces of destiny which somehow forced me to return.’ I pointed to the large area around me. ‘I’m not impeding anyone or causing any traffic problem.’ I advanced boldly. ‘So what’s troubling you?’

‘This is a private village, sir,’ he snorted. ‘We don’t accept strangers visiting of their own accord.’

‘It sounds like the place where I live... Cornwall.’ I commented with an element of amusement in my voice. ‘People are very much the same there.’

He stared at me as though I had made an insolent remark. ‘Would you mind stepping out of the car, sir,’ he managed to say politely with a serious expression on his face. I paused for a moment and then complied with his request wondering what his reaction was going to be. ‘I’d like to see the documents proving that you own this car, if you don’t mind, sir.’

I opened my wallet and produced my driving licence which I showed to him.

‘This only tells me that you can drive a car, sir. I want to see documents relating to the ownership of this car?’

‘Hold on!’ I protested. ‘They’re at my home... in the South West. Surely you don’t expect me to carry everything with me!’

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to come with me, sir,’ he told me point-blank.

‘Am I under arrest or what?’ I demanded angrily as he took a firm hold of my arm. ‘What’s your number, policeman?’

I looked at his collar to see a silver badge with the number seven. I felt extremely degraded at being treated in this ridiculous manner. After all, I had done nothing wrong!

‘This way, sir,’ ordered the officer politely. He led the way behind the shops and we walked down a street until arriving at the police station. We entered and he took me directly to the Desk Sergeant who was reading a report.

‘This man, Sam Ross,’ began the arresting officer, ‘cannot produce the document proving that he’s the owner of the car he’s driven here. What do we do about it?’

‘A couple of days in the cells should teach him a lesson,’ declared the Desk Sergeant roughly.

‘Hey!’ I shouted irately. ‘You can’t do that! It’s not lawful! I’ve done nothing wrong!’

‘I don’t see that you can do anything about it,’ uttered PC7 bluntly. ’We don’t allow lawyers to come to the village to defend miscreants ’

’Miscreants!’ I echoed loudly. ’You’re supposed to follow the rules of the law. You can’t imprison me simply because I cannot produce the documents you want.’

’We can do as we like here, sir,’ claimed the Desk Sergeant confidently. ’But I’ll tell you one thing we’ll do. If you leave this village immediately, we’ll forget all about it. In other words... we don’t want you here!’

’Why not?’

’Because you can’t... and that’s an end to it!’ stated PC7 sharply.

’Okay!’ I warned him foolishly with an adamant tone in my voice. ’Lock me up at your peril but, at the end of the day, you‘ll have to face the consequences.’

‘Very well,’ muttered the Desk Sergeant without emotion. ‘Come with me!’ He picked up a large set of keys and led the way forward beckoning me to follow.

I suddenly realised that I had put my head in a noose. It was the result of a rush of blood but it was too late to do anything about it. I would have to go through with their game and endplay them when the final whistle blew. They would find themselves in a heap of trouble when the information that a hero soldier, decorated with a medal for bravery, had been incarcerated for no reason whatsoever. The national Press would make a meal of it.

The Desk Sergeant led me to a darkened passage in the police station and unlocked a cell door holding it open for me to enter. I did not resist and watched him locked the door behind me before his footsteps faded away into the distance. I was absolutely furious at the ill-favoured treatment and I would insist on an inquiry and make them pay for their deed. How was it possible to get into such a mess in a law-abiding country? I looked around the cell... it was hardly worth the effort. It was dank and dismal, six feet by four. It had an open window in which had been set three stout steel bars and I noticed that the dampness was rapidly eroding the outside wall. There was a bed of a straw mattress which had seen far better days, an ordinary wooden chair and a bucket which smelled of urine. It was very reminiscent of the prison in which Arab suspects were held in the vicinity of Basra before being interrogated. How long I would remain in this hell-hole was anyone’s guess. The village seemed to be remote from the rest of the world and I didn’t recall seeing a telephone on the front desk. The local police here seemed to be able to decide on the punishment to be meted out to any individual without recourse to the law. Not even the army would go to such desperate measures and they would not be tolerated in Iraq for fear of exposure to the rest of the world or subsequent resentment and reaction.

I became annoyed at intervals during the day when food was brought. It was sparse and barely edible. Then, after a very uncomfortable night on the flea-ridden mattress, the Desk Sergeant came to see me.

‘Are you prepared to leave the village and never return?’ he asked as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

‘I’m going to bring the law down on your head!’ I shouted angrily. ‘You’re going to pay for this in no uncertain terms!’

‘I asked you a simple question,’ he went on solemnly as though I hadn’t replied.

‘I’ll leave here when I feel like it!’ I reacted irately. ‘But first I’m going to the national Press and the television networks to tell them of your illegal actions. That should open up this village to a few strangers. You’ll feel the weight of the nation’s might on your shoulders... you wait and see!’

‘Then I have no option but to hold you in this cell for another twenty-four hours to see whether you change your mind,’ he told me calmly.

‘You’re in deep trouble. I hope you know that,’ I continued fiercely with every fibre shaking in my body at the injustice.

‘If you insist on causing trouble,’ went on the Desk Sergeant, ‘we could