Pilgrim Page 2

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  ARTICLE FROM ‘THE CHALLOCK READER’ - FRIDAY, 14TH APRIL 2000.

  ‘RITUAL MURDER AT OLANTIGH PRIORY.’

  Police were called to the old priory on Olantigh Road, Wye, last Friday. This followed a tip-off about an occult group engaged in human sacrifice and ritual murder. A raid of the establishment produced the bodies of two adults and their eleven-year-old son. All were bound and suffered fatal knife injuries, during what appears to have been a drug-fuelled orgy of hedonism and violence. A search of the priory grounds unearthed a fourth body, the victim of an apparent brawl between members of the obscure sect.

  A spokesperson for Kent Police refused to reveal the identity of their informant. They stated several arrests were made at the scene.

  Independent enquiries by this newspaper uncovered rumours of several prominent individuals tied to the group. The force urged caution in making wild speculations based on hearsay. They stated that public comments, naming anyone without evidence, could damage reputations and livelihoods. Such suggestions may give rise to the threat of legal action for defamation and potential prosecution.

  Names of the deceased have yet to be announced. The police investigation continues.

  * * *

  Emma Lambert walked into the rear kitchen of her Godmersham cottage, studying a copy of ‘The Challock Reader’ she’d picked off the doormat. Tense furrows across her brow caused her husband, Charlie, to pause from buttering a slice of toast at the breakfast table.

  “What is it, Em?”

  Emma dropped the paper beside him. He continued buttering as he read a story on the front page about ritual murder. “Cripes. You never know what’s happening, right down the road.” He caught the unblinking worry in his wife’s face. “You don’t think…?”

  Emma rubbed both hands on her apron. “I don’t know. That poor child witnessed something awful. What with those robes she was wearing... Olantigh Priory is a few miles upriver. It might account for how she got so wet.”

  Charlie put down his knife. “Could she have escaped that nightmare? We’ve not drawn more out of her than a name in almost a week. That and the girl's claims she's no family looking for her. How can we broach this? We should have handed her to the authorities before now.”

  Emma rested against the back of a dining chair for support. “I suppose. But you’ve seen how she reacts when we suggest taking her in. That girl seems mortally afraid of the state, or people in power.”

  Charlie plucked one of his hedge-like black eyebrows. “She can probably read. Must be around nine, I reckon. Why not leave the paper lying on the table when she comes down? If she reacts to seeing the story, it may give us a clue.”

  “That’s sneaky. Good, though.” Emma positioned the paper in such a manner it was clear without appearing placed. She reached out to call up the cottage staircase. “Victoria. Breakfast time.”

  A minute later, soft footfalls of their cautious guest sounded on the creaking stairs. The girl appeared in the kitchen doorway, clutching her blonde ponytail for comfort in a mirror of her mother’s old habit.

  Charlie beamed and pulled out a chair. “Good morning, Victoria. Have a seat.”

  Victoria almost crept up to the table, each step enacted as if traversing a minefield. She let go of her hair when Charlie patted the furniture. “Vicky.” Her soft word came not much more than a whisper.

  “Pardon?” Charlie leaned closer, unsure whether he’d reached the point in life where it was time for a hearing aid.

  “Vicky.” Her repetition proved louder. “You can call me Vicky. Most people do… Did.”

  Emma opened the fridge. “Would you like some milk to drink, Vicky?”

  “Yes please.” Vicky sat on the wooden chair. Her eyes fell across the newspaper article. Colour drained from already pale cheeks as its cold, printed words sank in, resurrecting the horrors of the previous week with renewed force. She pushed away from the table and hurled herself into a ball in one corner of the kitchen floor.

  Charlie hurried to help her. He struggled to keep the child from hurting herself. Both tiny hands flailed in a wild fit of post-traumatic stress. “It’s okay. Shh, Vicky. You’re safe now. Emma and I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

  The girl stilled.

  A rap at the sturdy front door from their horseshoe knocker made Emma jump. Two ominous figures fidgeted beyond a compact side window. She wandered into the hall, calling back across her shoulder. “It’s the police.”

  Vicky surged into another fit, restrained by Charlie’s strong but caring hands. Slight of build, the man concealed considerable upper body strength. He and his wife had run a bakery their entire career until retirement. A lifetime of kneading copious amounts of dough kept both Lamberts in trim. Making bread for themselves and their friendly young neighbours (who’d lent them spare girl clothes for Vicky), ensured that tradition of strength continued. “Get rid of them, Em. She doesn’t need this, whatever they want.”

  Emma opened the door.

  A male officer tipped his peaked cap. “Good morning, Madam.” A firm-bodied, female redhead next to him delivered a professional smile that caused her freckles to dance.

  “Good morning. How can I help?” Emma hoped they didn’t want to come in.

  “We won’t take more than a moment of your time,” the policeman continued. “We’re out conducting house to house enquiries about a possible missing child.”

  “I see.” Emma held the door firm enough to keep prying eyes from nosing through to the kitchen. “Boy or girl?” Emma almost said, ‘is she local?’ but caught herself in time to avoid a suspicious gaff.

  “Girl,” the female officer joined in. “Nine-years-old.” She handed a piece of paper across. It featured a printed picture of Vicky taken and cropped from some family album. “Victoria Hanson.”

  Emma clutched the handout, fighting hard not to let her fingers tremble. “She’s a pretty young thing. Do her parents live nearby?”

  Both police officers swapped uncomfortable glances. The man went on. “Ashford.”

  “When did they report her missing?” Emma asked.

  Further discomfort made itself known in the shifting body language of her visitors. The policeman cleared his throat. “I’m afraid there was a family tragedy. We’ve been unable to locate the girl, who may have run off in distress. So, we’re canvassing the area as a precaution.”

  Emma bit her lip. “You’re some way from Ashford, aren’t you?”

  “The tragedy occurred nearby,” the redhead replied.

  “Nothing to do with those awful occult murders up the road, I read about in the paper this morning?”

  The male officer tapped the picture in Emma’s hands. “If you could keep an eye out and call us, should you find her wandering.”

  Emma folded the paper and inserted it into her apron pocket. “My husband and I will remain vigilant over the child’s wellbeing. That little girl needs to be safe.” Emma had no intention of turning their guest in. There was more going on than met the eye here, and poor Vicky had lost both her parents and an elder brother. An unsettling realisation caused her to flush. What if they knocked next door and spoke to the neighbours who’d loaned them the girl clothes? They knew nothing about Vicky’s situation and would disclose her whereabouts to the police. “My neighbours have a lot on this morning. They don’t wish to be disturbed. If you give me another of those handouts, I’ll be sure they get it, later.”

  The redhead passed her a second flyer. “Thank you, Madam. We appreciate your help in this. Good day.”

  Emma watched them amble along the lane, avoiding the house next door.

  Charlie looked up as the front door clunked shut and Emma reappeared. She gave him a knowing nod to signal their suspicions were confirmed.

  Vicky lay in his arms like a limp rag doll, where he crouched on the floor to comfort her.

  “What are we going to do now, Em?”

  Emma lowered to her haunches and stroked Vicky’s hair. “
We daren’t hand her over, Charlie. I’ve a nasty feeling about all this.”

  Charlie sighed. “Are you sure it’s not because we couldn’t conceive? You always wanted a daughter. She’s not ours, you know.”

  “We could raise Vicky for a time, couldn’t we?” Emma asked. “Until she’s over the worst of her trauma.”

  “I suppose we could teach her at home. What about when she’s older? We can’t hide her forever, Pet. The longer we wait, the more difficult the questions we’ll have to answer.”

  “Let’s leave it a month or two. I’m sure we’ll think of something. We might claim she’s an unregistered birth from that tinker camp down the road. A child abused then escaped in search of freedom and safety. It wouldn’t be the first time something like that has happened. That lot will move along before autumn. I won’t miss them nicking everything that’s not nailed down, either.” Emma stroked harder.

  Charlie watched his wife stare at Vicky with motherly eyes. “You want to adopt her, don’t you?” He reached out to pat his wife’s arm. “She must play along if you intend to pull a fast one like that on social services. Not that it would be difficult for her to appear traumatised, poor love.”

  Vicky remained motionless and silent in his arms, staring into space.

  2

  Troubled Teen

  “April 2019 and we’ve never had so many people on our books. This is progress? Homelessness is at epidemic proportions now.” A well-dressed, middle-aged brunette woman tapped away at figures on a computer spreadsheet. Above her cramped, untidy office desk the organisational logo ‘Hands of Hope’ featured open palms shining light upon a silhouette sat in a cardboard box.

  Over her shoulder, a pair of flat yet seductive blue eyes stared without blinking from the heart-shaped head of an eighteen-year-old girl. Pouting lips combined with that gaze in such a way she could be feeling anything from desire to revulsion. Her subject would have no clue which. She brushed long, grey-dyed hair with streaks of purple away from her left eye, then shrugged. “It keeps us in a job, Betty.”

  Betty Chalk swivelled her office chair around. “That it does. What have you got on today, Katie?”

  Katie Tomlinson might not have been an obvious choice for her role working at a homeless charity. The hours were sometimes unsocial, the pay lousy. But it delighted management when she turned up fresh from school with a desire to perform social justice. The slender - if difficult to read - youngster showed an effortless talent for connecting with their rough-sleeping clientele. Most warmed to her whenever they visited the drop-in centre off the street.

  “I’m hoping Jeff will appear for lunch service. I’ve got a perfect opportunity that might interest him.”

  Betty adjusted a pair of enormous glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose. “Oh? What’s that?”

  “A grounds keeper position. Some of my recent friends own an old country manor. They’re looking for help to maintain its extensive gardens. The job includes on-site accommodation.”

  Betty’s face lit up. “Oh, perfect. He was a gardener for the council before his wife died of cancer, wasn’t he?”

  “That’s it. This is work he knows, plus a roof over his head. Do you think he’ll go for it?”

  “We can hope. How long has he been dry, now?”

  “Jeff hasn’t touched a drop in six months. The charity’s rehab program worked wonders for him.”

  Betty rocked a little in her seat. “He’s such an affable man. You always see him helping his peers with form filling or advice. Losing your job and home after falling into an alcohol-fuelled depression is a cautionary tale to heed. God save us all from a pain that leads to begging for booze money on the streets. Do you think your friends will mind that he’s homeless?”

  Katie shook her head. “On the contrary. They’re keen to have him over for a chat.”

  Betty pressed her palms together. “They sound like excellent people. Let’s hope he finds the confidence to accept. Though, I’ll miss seeing him around here if he does.”

  A ragtag assortment of homeless souls drifted in off the streets of Maidstone near lunchtime. They hunkered over steaming bowls of soup, tearing chunks from crusty bread at long trestle tables.

  Katie lingered near the serving hatch to study the crowd. Her eyes fell upon an athletic man at the end of his thirties. Auburn hair swept across his head, shortening at the sides. An understated beard, the colour of golden straw, clung to a face strewn with laughter lines. Scars of effortless joy from happier times with his late wife. A ruddy complexion - more pronounced than others nearby - spoke of someone who’d spent most of his time outdoors, even before the streets of Kent’s county town became his dwelling. Katie pushed through the dispersing crowd, now finishing their repast and migrating back to the not so great outdoors.

  “Hey, Jeff. How’s it going?” She flicked her hair aside, then sat down at the table opposite.

  Jeff’s face brightened. “Hello, Katie. I’m doing okay. Mustn’t grumble. How are you?” He pushed his empty bowl back, wiping it clean of tomato soup with one last piece of bread. A cup of tea followed it down his gullet while we waited for her to respond.

  “I’m fine.” Katie unfolded a piece of paper containing a picture of a magnificent medieval manor. “I’ve some excellent news for you, if you’re up for a gardening job?”

  Jeff’s mouth fell open. “Are you serious? Where?”

  “It’s a rambling country pile called Hirsig House, over in a quiet valley near Otterden. About midway between here and Canterbury.”

  Jeff fidgeted on the bench. “How will I get there, out in the sticks? Does it have a bus service?”

  “Not to the house itself. The good news is, the job includes accommodation in a small groundskeeper’s cottage. You’ll have use of a van, so if you need to travel somewhere that shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Jeff raked his scalp with an uncertain hand. “I’m ready to work. I know I am.” He spoke the words more to himself than Katie, then looked straight into her face again. “Do these employers know I’m homeless?”

  Katie folded her arms, one corner of her mouth lifting. “They do.”

  “What about the booze? Do they know I had problems with…?”

  Betty approached, unable to contain her enthusiasm for this potential, positive change in the man’s fortunes. “Jeff, you’ve been sober half a year. That’s more to your credit than ours. You had the determination and willpower to make some necessary changes, and you did it.”

  Katie showed him the picture. “It’s a beautiful spot.”

  Jeff gripped the paper as if his life depended on it. “How did these people hear about me?”

  “Some friends of mine own the estate. I mentioned you in passing, when they asked if I knew anybody with gardening experience.”

  Jeff’s face darkened. “It almost seems unfair.”

  Betty sat down beside him. “What seems unfair, Jeff?”

  “I get a life-changing chance like this, while Jazz lost his life this morning.”

  Betty gasped. “How?”

  “They found him floating face down in the Medway. Crispy said Jazz was smoking something iffy last night. I guess he tumbled in off the embankment.”

  “I’m sorry,” Betty replied. “All the more reason to give this job your best shot. Do it for yourself and for Jazz.”

  Jeff’s eyes watered. “I will.” He gritted his teeth. “How do we make this happen, Katie?”

  “I’ll chuck in a phone call to arrange an interview. Nothing formal. They want to meet you and have a chat. I’ve already told them about your previous work at the council.”

  “Thank you.”

  Katie stood and flicked open a contact from her mobile phone directory.

  Jeff took a deep breath, unable to tear his face away from the photograph, lest it vanish like the fading end of a beautiful dream.

  Katie stepped down off the bus in Tovil that evening after work. She lived with her parents on a new housing estate
near the river. Headcorn Close resembled every other cul-de-sac in ‘County Park,’ all named after Maidstone’s surrounding villages. Their three bed semi appeared smart, though lacking in character. Developers crammed so many habitations onto this plot of land, sitting in your own back garden felt like appearing on stage at the London Palladium. Every angle lay overlooked by upstairs windows from the neighbours. Katie rummaged in her pocket to retrieve a set of house keys. Handbag slung over one shoulder, she clutched a box in a shiny plastic bag beneath her other arm.

  Peace enveloped the house. Katie unhooked her handbag and plonked herself down at the dining room table. Only a faint electrical hum from the fridge broke near total silence. A subdued glimmer of excitement tainted those emotionless eyes as she unwrapped the box. A shiny new tablet computer slid free in her hands. She peeled back a film sheet protecting its screen in transit.

  Metallic clanking from a key sounded in the front door. Katie snorted and ignored the noise, attention focused on her new toy.

  “Katie?” Her mother’s voice moved from hallway to kitchen. “Katie, are you home? Oh, there you are.” Martha Tomlinson appeared in the dining room archway. A rounded woman with an ever hopeful expression, her smoky grey eyes hid beneath a mop of light brown hair dallying with her shoulders. Split ends and tangled locks suggested a long overdue fugitive from her local salon. At forty, Martha hadn’t given up on her appearance, but her mind was easily distracted by whatever matter occupied her focus. She studied her only child, fiddling with an expensive new gadget. “What have you got there?”

  Katie didn’t reply or acknowledge her mother.

  “Katie, I’m speaking to you. How much longer are you going to keep treating me like this?”

  Katie sighed. “It’s a tablet computer, okay Mum?”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “At a shop, where else?” Katie snapped.

  Martha inspected the device. “That looks expensive. How did you come by the money?”

  Katie flicked the empty box aside, then fixed her mother with a thousand-yard stare. “I have a job, Mum. In case you hadn’t noticed.”