THE GHOSTS OF HELL'S KETTLES

By malcolm mowbray

Following an apparent breakdown on his old motorcycle beside the local legendary haunted ponds of Hell's Kettles Mickey Marwood and his small gang of Malk, Babs and Val are drawn into a web of intrigue by the ghost of a man who was murdered there. Being a believer in ghosts Mickey and Malc are forced into a dire situation as they are tricked into becoming involved with the ruthless leader of a biker gang leading to them being on the outside fringes of the law and murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Nov 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781794873162

Book preview

It all started here........

1

What the heck........ I yelled as I was thrust forward flat onto the petrol tank, both hands still holding tight onto the rubber grips, elbows bent double, my upper chest crashing down hard onto the speedometer as I nearly went over the handlebars. Even in the confusion of the moment I heard the screech of tyres as Malk my best pal slammed on the brakes of his bike just behind to avoid crashing into the back of me. WHAT WAS GOING ON???

My old C-10-L, 250cc side valve B.S.A. I had bought from ‘Tiny’ had always been a bit finicky in starting, but it had never just cut out in mid run as today. Regaining my composure I pulled in the clutch, struggled upright to coast to a halt at the side of the main road, Malk fighting for control of his bike skidding past to pull up just in front of me. Not bothering with the centre stand I just propped my pale green motorbike up against the curb with obvious disgust. Dismounting I removed my crash helmet with one hand, rubbing my chest where I had landed on top of the speedo with the other, I was going to have a lovely bruise that was for sure. Dismounted, Malk approached me with a look of black anger on his otherwise normally red face. Removing his crash hat he stomped forward swinging it like a battle axe as if he was about to beat me to death with it.

What on earth are you playing at he yelled excitedly, you could have killed the pair of us.

I didn’t do anything I hollered back, the bike just stopped of it’s own accord, it’s never done that before.

Has the engine seized up he asked in a more civilised tone probably realising I hadn’t tried to kill the pair of us on purpose I looked at him with obvious incredulity, we both knew that the engine was so worn it was next to impossible for that to happen.

I don’t know what happened, it just stopped I repeated hotly. Muttering and chuntering to himself Malk went to hang his skid lid on the handlebars of his bike before turning his attention to mine, he may have been a plonker but he knew about engines and things mechanical so I let him get on with trying to find the fault. Meanwhile I was content to just lean back against the wooden fence set back from the main road by the wide grass verge, idly watching the light flow of traffic pass by between Darlington and Croft, one of our favourite motorcycle runs. The small field behind the wooden fence was bordered on the far side by a line of trees, just in front of which were the ponds of Hell’s Kettles. Hidden from view by the fringe of tall reeds the beautiful clear blue of the main pond was mostly unseen, the legend and myth surrounding these small bodies of water unappreciated by passing traffic. Malk’s maroon 250cc B.S.A. C-11-G with a more modern overhead valve engine was parked in front as he crouched down by the side of my dead steed, fiddling with this and that before leaping aboard it, kick-starting furiously, dripped sweat spattering the petrol tank as he desperately attempted resuscitation. I just slouched back against the fence soaking up the summer sunshine and let him get on with it. After all what are best pals for???

PSSSST.......PSSSST the faint whisper entered my ears. I stood upright, looking around in surprise, there was nobody here apart from us two. Was there???

PSSSST, Mickey, over here. I spun round searching for the source of the voice which appeared to come from the field behind, still nothing in view.

By the pond, over here the voice commanded. Curiosity getting the better of me I climbed the fence to make my short way over the grass towards the two ponds where I had fished in my younger days with my Dad and Uncle Len. Legend and myth had it that the weeds lining the sides of the crystal clear, major pond was the hay from a wagon which had been swallowed up when the ground opened up beneath the ancient farmer, his horse and his load due to a catastrophic subsidence centuries ago. I paused at the reed fringed edge looking around for any friend who was maybe fishing there amongst the tall, waving fronds, the water was such an astonishing blue it could have been scooped up from the Indian ocean before being poured into the resulting deep hole, it looked so out of place! I continued the slow scrutiny of the water’s edge, there was nobody else around! Very odd!

Psssst, psssst, over here. You are Mickey Marwood aren’t you?

I was, but more important, who wanted to know, was this a set-up for ‘candid camera’ and I would be on the telly? Searching the supposedly ‘bottomless’ pond the only thing I could see besides clear blue water and reeds was a wispy column of light mist rising from the surface in the far right hand corner which struck me as a bit odd because mist doesn’t normally rise like this on a hot afternoon, but nature can be quirky at times. Squinting in the bright sunshine reflecting from the rippling surface I was amazed to see the spiral of hazy mist split apart, a smaller wisp separating from the main body, rising like an arm to wave at me.

What yer doin over there then? Malk bellowed, standing up from his road side fiddling and sounding pretty het up.

Errrr........I don’t know, I thought I saw something over here so came to have a look.

"Yeah, well while you’re idling over there I’m grafting here on your bike trying to sort it," came back the sullen reply.

Tell him to check the H.T. lead at the spark plug end, the voice from the waving arm hissed at me. I merely stared over the water, speechless, what was going on???

Tell him it’s the spark plug lead the voice insisted louder.

I think it’s the H.T lead at the plug end I repeated over my shoulder. A few seconds lapsed before Malk’s incredulous voice came back to me.

How did you know that was the problem? he shouted, You know nowt about bikes but you’re right, it is loose, easily fixed though.

Lucky guess I hollered back over my shoulder.

You were right it was loose, I repeated over the gently undulating water, feeling a right idiot talking to a column of mist, but it had started this bizarre conversation. The wispy arm formed a clenched fist, punching the air overhead signalling success.

How did you know what the problem was? I muttered quiet enough so Malk couldn’t hear me apparently talking to myself.

Davey said to contact you, I had to get your attention so made the bike stop, you remember Davey Brocket don’t you? How could I possibly forget the eternally tormented ghost of the suicide victim finally put to rest by our gang last year in the sandy cellar below the furnaces of the Town Forge*.

"What do you mean Davey said to contact me I asked hoarsely, suddenly feeling very cold despite the summer sun beating down as it dawned on me that the wisp of mist could well be something else altogether different, even sinister! I swallowed hard, a deep depression of impending doom descending upon me. Please don’t tell me you are another spirit in need of help?"

Well actually I am, sort of. My name is/was Winston and I’m looking for a host to help me.

NO, NO, NO. I hissed back violently making Malk look up to see what was going on. Panic overtaking me I turned, dashing across the field to where my trusty steed was now thumping, rattling and vibrating its way along the kerb, having risen from the grave courtesy of the joint efforts of Malk and/or Winston. NO! I didn’t want to even think about the possibility of another ghost to have to deal with, so blanking it from my mind we remounted the bikes, chuffing away to enjoy the remainder of our sunny afternoon run despite the encounter at Hell’s Kettles leaving a very sour taste in my mouth.

That evening after the ride out with Malk we all met up as usual, having been involved with the ghost of Davey Brocket affair the whole gang was well aware of the potentials in encountering ghosts, spirits, phantoms or whatever one wished to call these other world phenomena. However I was still very reluctant to reveal my mysterious afternoon encounter as I didn’t want to even think about it, the Davey Brocket episode being enough spookiness for one lifetime as far as I was concerned. Luckily Malk was still of the opinion that today I had suffered some sort of brainstorm or sunstroke in the middle of the field which is why I had been talking to a pond, so I was happy to let him continue as it avoided any awkward questions. Our small gang of Malk, myself, Babs and her sister Val continued to meet up on an evening outside the beloved fine food emporium that was the chip shop in Burnside Road on the way into Firthmoor Estate where we all lived. The ever expanding housing estate still offered a wide choice of partially constructed buildings for us to use as gang H.Q, the upside being that every time we had to move because the house/H.Q. was nearing completion and closed to intruders the closer we all were to our homes, the downside however was that we were getting further and further away from the mouth watering aromas wafting out of the chip shop. You can’t win ‘em all I guess!!!

Having shared a couple of bags of chips between us we wandered down what would eventually become Holgate Moor Green where we paused outside the latest gang H.Q. Normally if we had things of worldly importance to discuss we would slip inside this as yet, unlocked, part built house to sit on the hard wooden planks used by the builders in the room temporarily designated as their canteen, but more significantly by us as a boardroom where all great decisions were made. Tonight we had nothing other than the mundane to discuss, I didn’t want to mention the occurrence at Hell’s Kettles as I wasn’t sure it had actually happened, and if it had I definitely didn’t want to be tangled up in this bizarre world where Winston whatever-his-name-was claimed to come from. WHY DID HE PICK ON ME??? We went home instead!

A year has passed since the gang had set the ghost of Davey Brocket to rest, Malk and myself, now at the grand old age of sixteen were still working at The Town Forge which if nothing else was different. Due to Malk’s glorification of his unusual occupation when he had just started there, and being seduced by the grandiose job title of Junior Operative Steelmaking Technician I had succeeded in joining him working on the steel smelting furnaces. Just what the work entailed remained a bit of a mystery as his descriptions had been a little hazy to say the least and although I had the dubious feeling that all he wanted was someone to hold his hand, the grandiose job title won me over in the end.

The work on the furnaces however had proved far too hot for me and I soon regretted my decision, every day burning and scorching appearing to be the norm. Malk grumbled about it constantly as much as I did but at least I had the gumption to do something to rectify the situation. He was either too thick to realise that he was becoming permanently red like a cooked lobster or he had contracted the same malady that seemed to affect all of the furnace men-MASOCHISM!!! So when the crunch finally came after facing the open furnace door (2000 degrees inside) and I was scorched to the point of screaming, my so called protective leather gloves having become so hot they had wrinkled and shrunk onto my hands, burning remorselessly onto my skin (as I couldn’t get them off) I refused to withstand the intense heat any further and asked to be moved onto something cooler. The management, understanding that this furnace lark was not for everyone transferred me down into the scrap yard which was noisy and incredibly dirty work where I had stayed, bored to tears since last year, but at least it was a whole lot cooler.

Several weeks ago, having just clocked in Heave-ho-Bob, the chargehand had sidled up to me, commanding rather than suggesting that I follow him, wherein we descended the external steel staircase off the staging where the furnaces and time clock were. We clattered down the metal treads of the external stairs, through the wide open, huge roller shutter door, crossing the internal railway track that ran past the rear of the furnaces, into the foundry department next door, and on to the distant department of the fettling shop. With a deep feeling of trepidation for what was to come I followed the limping form of Heave-ho, passing between two widespread, huge steel girders supporting a short overhead crane track high up in the roof. Entering a small square area off to the side of the long casting pits in the main department we arrived in a gloomily lit section of floor space where the ingot heads and top plates were moulded. Heave-ho Bob turned to me simply stating You’ll start here son to learn this aspect of the casting process then we’ll move you around a bit, make a change from the scrap yard eh!!!

With that he just turned and left me to get on with whatever it was I was supposed get on with! Not knowing what to expect having been just dumped I wasn’t sure whether to be glad or sad and feeling like a small, abandoned child dragging a threadbare ‘Teddy Bear’ I just stared at the front of a giant wooden packing case turned onto its side with the open face forming a bus stop style shelter, these things seemed to be everywhere, where did they get them all from? The furnishing of the shelter consisted of one wooden plank along the back wall on raised piles of bricks forming a bench and a series of six inch nails hammered haphazardly into the ends of the box to provide coat hanging facilities.

The inhabitants on the basic furniture consisted of three middle aged men, Arthur, who, when I introduced myself just looked up from his morning newspaper and grunted. I introduced myself to the second man, a hook nosed guy who, if my sleuthing capabilities did not mislead me could have been a Scotsman especially as he went by the name of Jock. He at least had the civility to let his newspaper drop to his knees as he looked at me, greeting me with Och, aye laddie, welcome whilst patting a vacant place next to him on the bench, his broad Scottish accent confirming my super detecting abilities. Teddy, the third man was quite small and evidently of a nervous disposition, dropping his newspaper as if I had just poked him with a sharp stick instead of offering a greeting. Leaping to his tiny feet and with an over-the-shoulder alright son? he scurried away behind the wooden crate, disappearing into the main casting pit area, tunelessly whistling marking his progress. Strangely, although Teddy appeared of minute stature when sitting down, he was even smaller standing up, a miracle of human development I guessed. With the basic stranger/me introductions done and Heave-ho-Bob having left me to my fate I took up the offered seat next to Jock as I didn’t know what else to do. Jock once more became instantly engrossed in the racing page of his morning rag while I hesitantly inspected my new surroundings. Either side of the small area some thirty feet from the floor overhead crane tracks ran the short length from the tin wall twenty feet on my right, over the rail lines, ending just above the time clock and number one furnace  now unused, everything in the small work space was grey, off grey or black. Another bleak working area!!!

So here I was presumably in another boring, repetitive job but at least it wasn’t taxing on the brain so I had lots of time to dream about my heart throb Babs, if I could get Hell’s Kettles out of my mind, the quandary of what to do after that episode was driving me mad. Outside, the works hooter warned all of the day shift workers that it was time to trade in newspapers for tools and make a start on their chores. With obvious annoyance Arthur and Jock threw their news sheets down onto the plank reluctantly rising to commence the daily routine, no doubt looking forward to once again hearing the glorious wail of the works klaxon signalling lunch, but that was four long hour’s away. Arthur beckoned me to the tall, vertical steel tube with pivoting steel arm projecting horizontally over most of the working area. Capable of being rotated through a full circle the arm supported an electrically operated block and tackle which could be moved manually along its entire length of about twenty feet, my fingers twitched at the very thought of playing with this little hoist, one of these would definitely be on my Christmas list. The large overhead crane spanning the entire width of this small section of the department was used for other heavier or out of reach lifting jobs as and when needed which wasn’t very often, however it did provide a reading room for Algie the ‘spare crane driver’ who supposedly never did anything all day except sit/sleep/read up there in the cab.

To my great delight, given the yellow control box to operate the hoist then following instructions I placed a head mould, which looked like a big steel bucket without any base, onto the floor followed by a tapered, circular wooden plug lowered into the centre. The result was like a three feet high solid wooden bucket inside a larger empty steel one, leaving a five inch gap between them all around, this being the area to be filled. Pointing to two filthy and battered wheelbarrows, Arthur told me to go with Jock to the ‘ganny shop’ so following in Jock’s footsteps, pushing a wheelbarrow apiece we made for the huge wide open roller door at the end of the staging that lead out into the open works yard. As we passed by the bottom of the near vertical steel stairs leading up to the time clock I couldn’t help being drawn into looking down into the ladle pit where the apparition of Davey Brocket had disappeared beneath the ladle ages ago. Not really paying much attention to what Jock was doing I walked forward whilst looking backwards with the inevitable result that we had a bit of a coming together. Unfortunately, expedition leader Jock had decided to stop the caravan of wheelbarrows, and me being otherwise occupied, I just ploughed straight into him, folding his legs from behind the knees causing him to tumble backwards, flopping down hard into my disgustingly filthy wheelbarrow. Caught off balance by the sudden load dropping into the slimy barrow I managed some Jock juggling for a short while until inevitably one handle slipped out of my grasp, the whole thing dropping to the ground, tipping sideways, spilling Jock out onto the dusty, concrete floor.

Soiled, highly excitable and mad, Jock scrabbled to his feet, eyes aflame, nostrils of his hooked nose flaring like blow holes in a volcano as he reached out in a wild attempt to grab me. Careful to keep the two wheelbarrows as a safety barrier between us I slowly circled to my left with Jock following my every move, we were gyrating like a pair of wrestlers about to grapple, his spread hands and clawing fingers trying to clutch hold of me in what appeared to be a serious attempt at ripping my arms from my shoulders to beat me to death with the soggy ends. Freddie the monkey man from the furnaces, standing just behind us inside the huge doorway was shaking his head and laughing raucously at my predicament, unconcerned for the dire danger to my life and limbs. Jock, with his ire fully up, was spitting and shouting as he raged in such a broad Scottish accent that I couldn’t understand one word of it, although I did grasp the general idea that this was to be my final day on this earth.

Freddie the monkey man was from Hartlepool, and when I worked briefly on the furnaces he had nearly strangled me up against the steel girders because I asked him in all innocence ‘WHO HUNG THE MONKEY’ (but egged on by Malk who I will never forgive for suggesting it). After two other guys pulled him off me I spent the rest of that day boiling with infuriation at Malk for having set me up with such dire consequences. Because of that incident I guessed that Freddie owed me no sympathy and even if he did lack any sense of humour, he no doubt possessed bags of worldly wisdom as befitting his years. This became immediately apparent as he appeared to understand most of Jock’s broad Scots accent, (amply lubricated with showers of spittle flowing in my general direction). Presumably seeing my blank expression as to what was actually being said, Freddie kindly decided to assist me by shouting English translations of Jock’s wild threats and abuse, most of it coming to me in the form of delayed paraphrases generally cast aspersions on the legitimacy of my birth, the benefits of the birch whip, the scourge of the Sassenachs and the possibility of being hung, drawn and quartered. The sideline commentary from Freddie further egged Jock on, his face gradually turning beetroot red with excitement, his words drifting away as he began to run out of profanities or breathe, although he managed to continue the assault by spittle alone, some reaching me over the barricade of the two upturned wheelbarrows. He could qualify to spit for Scotland in the Olympics!

The huge volume of swear and curse words he uttered were indeed a learning curve, I wouldn’t have understood them if it hadn’t been for the excellent and graphically detailed translations by the laughing monkey man. Malk, who had come over to the end of the stage to see what all the commotion was about stood howling with laughter at my plight, no doubt he would make the most of it in this evening’s meeting with the rest of the gang. Rotten Git in advance!!! Perhaps in a burst of sympathy at yet another oddball situation Freddie the monkey man must have decided that I was naturally dysfunctional and so on the spot chose to help me rather than hinder. Turning allegiances he began shouting encouragement to me rather than Jock, although his charity obviously didn’t stretch as far as intervening to put an end to my precarious predicament. Still laughing out loud he kindly left me to my fate at Jock’s hands to go and do other non life saving things, Malk just looked on with great interest wondering what the outcome would be as we two gladiators continued to circle the wheelbarrows, me vehemently protesting that it was all a hapless accident.

Arthur, who presumably had watched us leave and must have witnessed the whole farce finally arrived to my aid by standing between the upturned wheelbarrows, holding us apart at arms length. All the time sniggering he winked at me as he proceeded to tell Jock that he had personally seen me trip over the slightly raised rail track where it entered the factory building. It was an accident he continued, which was true, and Jock should go immediately up to the managers office to file a report and complaint about the ‘very dangerous’ state of the rail track. Knowing full well that Jock and the management never saw eye to eye on anything it was a dead certainty that he would not follow through with that option, preferring to forget the whole thing. He was right, Jock calmed down, even walking over to look at the rail line as Arthur pointed and gesticulated at nothing in particular, but with enough conviction to persuade him that the source of the problem was indeed at his feet. Kicking at the offending rail line with his heavy work boot, Jock’s big pointed nose pecked up and down, stabbing at the supposed problem as he agreed entirely with Arthur that it had all been an accident and the rail line was indeed the culprit.

Och aye laddie, he offered me in the way of a half hearted apology, take more care the next time, aye? I was more than happy to accept that I was very clumsy and it was all an accident, letting the matter rest there. SAVED BY KING ARTHUR!!! When we finally made it to and from the dingy little hut where Austin made the required mixings Arthur was waiting, hands on hips in a pose of great impatience.

What kept you then, we haven’t got all day y’know? he demanded, knowing full well that we had not been too long and that as per usual Jock, being highly volatile as he was, would snap at the jibe. He was not disappointed as the Scotsman let forth with a tirade of swear word that would make a stone statue blush, when finally finished his tirade, red in the face and breathless from his exertions Arthur gave me a mischievous wink and secretive thumbs up, he had once more been successful at Jock baiting. Bites every time, Arthur whispered to me from behind the back of his hand as we walked away to take a tea break in the wooden crate-cum-hut.

After refreshments Jock, constantly muttering and still agitated had cooled down to an almost self controllable state, so we continued our work, strained as the atmosphere between them was. Assisting Arthur and Jock to shovel some of the grey coloured mixings into the gap between the mould and the plug, small amounts at a time, we rammed the material down until it was firm using long metal rods with a small flat plate welded to the end, continuing until it was filled and hard packed to the top. This took almost until lunch time, Jock and Arthur’s anticipations of a break being heralded a few minutes later by the factory hooter, and so everything was immediately dropped for a return to the hut, tea, nose bags and newspapers. Tomorrow the wooden plug would be removed leaving the part dried rammings firm inside the mould, this would subsequently be transferred to the large oven half way down the main department to be thoroughly dried. After clocking off I consumed my lunch sitting with Arthur, Jock and Teddy on the hard plank in the packing case-cum-canteen, conversation as always during nose bag time was zero, the others spending the whole hour with their mouths full of food and their eyes full of newsprint making for a very boring break.

*‘The Ghost of Davey Brocket’- Paperback from Lulu Press.com and Amazon. E.book Lulu, Amazon, Apple, Barnes and Noble and Kobo.

2

Right, cried Arthur after lunch was over, this afternoon we’ll make up the top plate to go with the head we did this morning. Jock dragged the overhead arm round to a pile of steel top plates, raising one and swinging it round to place it onto a raised steel table just in front of the crate/hut/canteen. Top plates looked like large, flat doughnuts with a flange around the inside bottom edge. A thick steel rod was placed into a locating hole in the centre of the table, then with careful manoeuvring and measurement, the plate was positioned with the rod exactly central. Next, a wooden paddle, similar to a sailing dinghy’s rudder was lowered over the central steel rod. The inside of the top plate and outside paddle edge being concave, a considerable gap was left between, this gap would be filled, then by swinging the paddle round and round on its central pivot, high spots were skimmed off the lower areas