The Lychgate Page 5

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  Bob was eager to avoid leaving his car in an obvious position outside St. Pega’s. Even the relative seclusion of Chestnut Close near to the building, could lead to awkward questions. All it would take was one wakeful Peakirk resident looking out, if it later transpired the church got vandalised. He hoped to resolve their activities before they went that far. Rectory Lane running south of the churchyard perimeter, formed a T-junction. After several stone cottages and bungalows, the lane ended at a no-through-road into unmade track near some allotments. Carved Halloween pumpkins adorned driveway gateposts along the short thoroughfare. Night lights flickered from their grinning faces, as if they knew what the couple were about to do, and found it amusing. A wooded boundary on the edge of a large field to the right, seemed an ideal place to pull up. No passing traffic to interrupt; no curious, accidental eyes to spot anything suspicious; and privacy enough to help Abigail ‘sharpen’ her focus.

  All windows fogged up on the maroon, Land Rover Discovery. It bounced and jostled with growing vigour on a lonely, muddy track beneath dark, sprawling branches spreading from an uneven row of beech trees. On the back seat, Bob Mason caught sight of the time between the rhythmic rise and fall of the woman straddling his reclined lap: 11:40.

  Abigail juddered, eyelids fluttering in time to a sudden gasp of climax. Her hot, heavy breath laced with the stench of cigarettes, assaulted Bob’s sensitive nose. Moist lips brushed his cheek. The gravelly huskiness of her aroused, mature feminine whisper - coloured by years of inhaling carcinogenic fumes - added extra firmness to his salute. The woman gripped the parcel shelf behind them with both hands, either side of his shoulders. “I’m going to make you come.” She pulled her head back and stared into his eyes, sweat from the glistening nape of her neck re-invigorating her sweet perfume.

  Bob had no feelings for Abigail, and he was sure she shared his lack of emotional attachment. They were two lonely, curious souls who found each other by accident. Or was it some bizarre design of the universe? In the vacuum left by his wife’s departure, she provided occasional company and a way to unburden his carnal appetites without risk of hassle or harm. Were it not for her unquestionable ability to lead him to sites of ancient, undiscovered historical treasures, he doubted he’d continue their arrangement. Bob could live without physical intimacy in his life, if he had to. Though Abigail’s cougar-like, innate sexiness had a certain appeal difficult to dismiss. For all her extra years and uncouth ways, this experienced woman had no trouble helping the historian ‘finish.’ Tonight was no different. Right about the point Bob wondered if the Disco’s rear suspension could take any more punishment, a tightness in his groin heralded several familiar spurts of release.

  Abigail felt him let go. She leaned her head against his left shoulder. “Damn we’re good.”

  “Ah.” A puff of smoke accompanied that reflective purr of satisfaction. Abigail stood outside the Land Rover near the open, front passenger door, drawing on a cigarette. The rear doors hung ajar to help the steam of their union vacate the vehicle.

  Bob leaned over from the driver’s seat and rummaged around in his glove box. A torch clicked on in one hand, its beam beneath his chin presenting a spectre-like visage in the semi-darkness of the vehicle courtesy light.

  Abigail took another puff. “Time for seconds?”

  Bob frowned at her.

  The woman extinguished her smoke. “Okay. You know, Bob, it might be nice if you looked a little less repulsed by the idea.”

  “Sorry. Any more clarity?”

  Abigail inhaled a lungful of damp night air and rubbed her upper arms. “A little. The good news is, the spot is outside the church. No breaking and entering required.”

  Bob hopped down from the vehicle and closed his door. “That’s something. Anything else?”

  “It’s behind the altar end of the building in the churchyard. Somewhere beneath.”

  “How far beneath? I’ve got a shovel in the boot, not a bloody JCB.”

  The woman fished her jacket out of the Landy to ward off an emerging coldness that followed the fading afterglow. “Not far. It’s in a chamber near the surface.”

  “You mean like an exterior undercroft? I didn’t think St. Pega’s had one.”

  “The place is blocked up and forgotten about, but it’s there. I can feel it.”

  Bob locked the car. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  The village of Peakirk lay in deserted silence. Two dark silhouettes slipped into the churchyard, near the stroke of midnight. Fingers of typical fenland mist slithered between the gravestones. An owl hooted from a branch in one of the boundary trees. Unlike his companion, Bob Mason was no smoker. But the air hung so thick with moisture, every exhalation from his mouth formed a visible cloud of vapour. The pair skirted the main structure in a wide curve, keeping close to the canopy of trees. The empty, eleventh century building felt like a sleeping giant they dare not awaken.

  Bob squinted to help his eyes adjust to the velvet cloak of night. His voice came out in a hushed whisper. “Which side?”

  Abigail squatted beside him next to an angled gravestone. “North. Over there. Do you see that odd-shaped mossy pile?”

  Bob clicked on his torch and swept the beam back and forth as they drew nearer. The light fell on a tump which gave the northern backside of the church the appearance of suffering from a goitre. “Are you sure about this?”

  “As sure as I can be without digging. Do you trust me, or would you rather go home?”

  Bob ground his teeth. “Tough choice.” He passed her the torch and gripped his shovel with both hands. “Hold a light on the spot while I shift some earth. Try not to move it about. We don’t want to attract attention from the overlooking houses.”

  Abigail grunted. “I’m not an idiot, Bob. Go on. Put your back into it. You didn’t do much of that earlier.”

  Bob rolled his eyes and pierced the wet grass with his shovel blade.

  Several minutes of digging later, the metal tool clanged against some stones. The historian lay his implement down and felt around the jagged shapes with his fingers. “I reckon they’ll shift without too much persuasion. Can you bring the light closer?”

  Abigail bent down, straining to keep a helpful splash of illumination where her accomplice needed it most. In her tummy, a new vibration almost eclipsed the long-departed waves of orgasm. Yet the experience itself wasn’t unfamiliar. “This is it, Bob. Don’t quit now. We’re right on top of the spot.”

  Bob pulled several large, even stones free. These had been shaped by a stonemason, somewhere in the last thousand years. The historian knelt and stuck his arm through a rectangular hole. “There’s a void. Shit Abigail, you’ve nailed it again. I can move my arm around in there. Pass me the torch. They’d have burned you at the stake for that gift of yours, back when this place was built.” He pulled back and shone a light through the hole. “Yeah. It’s a chuffin’ undercroft all right. I'd say if we shift another four blocks like that last one, we can slip through.”

  Abigail studied the dark, dirty earthen mouth and dusty black chamber at the bottom of its throat. “Oh goody.”

  Bob passed the light back across and displaced more stones with giddy excitement.

  Abigail folded her arms, diverting the torch beam. “How come you never manage that much enthusiasm when you’re pulling my knickers off?”

  Bob shrugged. “This is the discovery of a new hole. Keep the light on that spot, would you?”

  Abigail jabbed him with one firm, aggressive foot. “Bastard.” She corrected the beam position.

  Several stones later and Bob pushed himself headfirst through an opening the size of a manhole cover.

  For a moment, Abigail considered not handing him the torch. But despite her grumpy facade, the pragmatic woman wasn’t bothered about his comment. She and Bob had an understanding. It had been an okay evening: A decent free meal with booze, a few fags, and a passable leg-over. Whatever he found down there didn’t interest her much.
The thrill of the chase kept Abigail in the game, not the mouldy bits of ancient tat they recovered.

  “Ow.” Bob rubbed his head as the torch clattered through the hole and struck him on the temple. He picked it up from a rough stone floor covered in soil. “Are you coming down?” he called.

  “Call me unadventurous, but I’ll wait here. Besides, you might need a hand up.”

  “That’s a point. Okay, hang on.” Bob soon found the extremities of the tiny chamber. It could accommodate four adults standing shoulder to shoulder, and not much else. A few carvings in the stonework gave the appearance of ancient graffiti. The historian knew them to be just that. This long-forgotten pit contained nothing but a squat stone plinth, on which rested a rough, metal box. The man squeezed the barrel of his torch into a gap in the stonework like a temporary spotlight. The cold lid of the box lifted clear in his excited hands. Inside lay a folded piece of faded cloth, still in reasonable condition. Lack of air and moisture had been kind to the textile. On top of it rested a thick leather belt with a metal tongue clasp. Nothing about the items stirred any awakening of significance in the historian’s mind.

  Abigail’s head poked through the hole. “Okay, curiosity killed the cat. What have you got there?”

  “It’s a folded piece of cloth - ready to be used - and a belt.”

  “Wow. St. Pega’s?”

  Bob shook his head. “The cloth might have been hers. That's not an impossible idea. But she wouldn’t have worn a belt like this. I’m guessing the items belonged to one of the church founders. A bloke, most likely. Won’t know the exact age until I get this stuff carbon dated. It’s old, though. There aren’t any inscriptions on the box or walls. Can’t be a shrine. That’s why I suspect it’s nothing to do with Pega. The stuff was just left here when they holed the chamber up. No intrinsic or religious value, I imagine.”

  “Oh.” Abigail’s face fell. “Bit of a damp squib then?”

  Bob put the lid back on the box. “This is heavy, but I’ll try to pass it up through the hole to you. No sense leaving it here.”

  “Yeah. Can’t explain it to the vicar, can we?” She took the box through the opening. A set of car headlights swept along Chestnut Close and came to a halt outside the churchyard gates. Abigail whipped her head around then poked it back into the hole, panic tensing the muscles. “Fuck. It’s the old bill. Give me your hands, Bob.”

  The historian reached up to grasp Abigail’s offered grip. Both feet scrambled against the dusty chamber walls, a rising burst of adrenaline providing his second wind. He wriggled through the opening into the churchyard, as a pair of torch beams darted back and forth along the front path. The pair of midnight, clandestine treasure hunters doubled-over and darted between gravestones for the western boundary. Abigail was first through a thorny gap in the hedge, clasping the shovel and extinguished torch. Bob slid the ancient metal box through and followed close behind, heart pounding.

  Twenty feet away, those searching lights fell upon the excavated earth and hole. Their movement ceased and two gruff male voices rumbled out of the darkness.

  “Check this out, Clive.”

  “What the heck? There’s a chamber down there, Mike. Do you think it’s a grave?”

  Mike shuddered. “If it is, I hope whatever made that hole was trying to get in, not out. Crap, I hate Halloween in this job. It’s the only thing worse than a full moon and Friday the bloody thirteenth.”

  “You reckon it’s kids?”

  “Dunno. Can you see in?”

  Clive stuck his head through the opening. “Empty. We’d better look round to see if anyone’s about, then give the vicar a ring. Control room said the caller claimed they could see a torch moving about in the darkness.”

  “Well someone’s been here, Clive.”

  “No shit. Come on then.”

  “Yeah. The sooner we get out of this joint, the better. Place gives me the willies.”

  The police officers conducted a circuit of the churchyard perimeter. Their scanning lights caused Abigail and Bob to each hold a long, tense breath and press themselves into the thick, wet grass beyond the hedge.

  Several minutes later the police car pulled away. The breathless culprits who had initiated this midnight drama, crept back to Bob’s concealed Land Rover beyond Rectory Lane.

  4

  Year Zero

  “Bob? The Dean has asked to see you after your next lecture.” A quiet, attractive blonde female admin assistant tapped the historian’s upper arm as he entered the university foyer.

  “Thanks, Sharon. Did he say what he wanted?”

  “No. Oh, I had to do a class swap and put a sessional in J13. He should be finished in about ten minutes. Hope that’s okay?”

  Bob grinned. “I’ll still have to wait another five for my students, if they’re true to form. Thanks for letting me know. I’ll get a coffee in the cafeteria.”

  The academic settled down with a cappuccino and connected his laptop to the public Wi-Fi hot-spot. An e-mail pinged up from the lab he’d sent the cloth and belt to for analysis a week earlier. He clutched his mug in both hands and let out a whistle. “Older than I thought by a good couple of centuries.” The man sipped his drink. Those items would make an interesting addition to the library display case. This place is always looking to rotate their treasures and keep things fresh. Should grease some wheels with the Dean. I wonder what he wants? A glance at the cafeteria clock told him it was time to head over to J13 for his next lecture. He found a part-time sessional disconnecting his laptop from the class AV systems. A few student hangers-on drifted out of the room.

  The man noticed his arrival. “Sorry about this. We were delayed getting started in the second half.” He stuffed his computer into a leather case.

  Bob put his own bags down. “Don’t sweat it. Late coming back from a tea-break, were they?”

  The sessional grunted and donned a thick coat. “Those that bothered coming back at all.”

  Bob chuckled. “Welcome to the wonderful world of higher education.” He indicated some blue marker text adorning one of the class white boards. “Are you done with that?”

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  The historian picked up a square, grey sponge block and wiped the surface clean.

  The man gave him a friendly nod and marched out of the classroom.

  “Bob. Come on in.” A door bearing the nameplate: ‘Wallace Simons - Academic Dean’ swung wide. A bright-eyed man around five years younger than Bob, ushered the historian into a plush, top floor corner office. It was crammed with impressive, mahogany bookcases, leather chairs and a substantial desk. The luxurious workspace overlooked a courtyard fountain near main reception. Bob wondered how many of the copious, hardback scholarly volumes Wallace had ever read. They weren’t his books. The man’s predecessor - Henry Blakeston - left them behind after suffering a fatal heart-attack, six months prior to his due retirement date. Bob missed Henry. He was an old-school, no-nonsense educator who commanded respect. Yet the wise fellow cared for every member of staff and faculty with a subtle warmth that made people feel valued. His successor was a ladder-climbing careerist, eager to jump on whichever trendy bandwagon would take him farthest in the least amount of time. Anyone who got in his way was acceptable, collateral damage. Bob had already got his fingers burnt.

  “Wallace,” he acknowledged the man and stopped upon making eye contact with a dour-faced woman wearing an ash grey pantsuit. Her dark red hair was pulled back in a bun so tight, it appeared to stretch freckles staining both cheeks, whose favourite past-time must have been sucking lemons.

  The Dean followed his stare. “Ah. Allow me to introduce you to Judy Crane, our new Diversity Director.”

  “Diversity Director?” Bob repeated the last two words like a fading echo. “Wasn’t having a Diversity Manager with their own team enough then?” He tried to crack a faint laugh and diffuse a pervasive, tense atmosphere that hung about the office. A piercing stare from Judy’s eyes suggested someone remov
ed her sense of humour at birth. She was not amused.

  “Take a seat, Bob.” Wallace indicated a squat, solid chair opposite his desk.

  Judy pulled an identical one around, so she too faced from the Dean’s side of the wooden barrier towards their new arrival.

  This arrangement of furniture - conducted for obvious psychological effect - set alarm bells ringing in the lecturer’s brain. Bob considered mentioning his recent historical find, to score some brownie points (with details of their origin edited out). On quick reflection, he held off for now to see what was going on.

  Wallace took his seat next to Judy. “As you know, I like to foster an open learning environment on campus.”

  Bob tilted his head. “So did Henry Blakeston. But he did it without spending money on management programmes. Henry lived by the golden rule and expected nothing less of anyone who worked or studied here.”

  Wallace cleared his throat. “Yes. Well, I hear he was a very nice old man. But,” the Dean waved a triumphant finger to stress his point, “times move on. Our diversity manifesto helps ensure the university complies with all relevant legislation on equal rights, discrimination, etc.”

  Bob nodded. “Yes, we’ve all done our level three certificates in it now.” He sat back in the chair. “I’m not disparaging your work, Wallace. It’s great that anyone can study here without fear of suffering or being penalised for their race, gender, sexual orientation, religious belief or whatever else. And that it’s backed up with proper policy, rather than an unwritten agreement of behaviour.”