Chapter Five

Just outside of Hulke is a large sweeping typically West Country hill. It is a vast curved c-moon shape, smothered in lumps and bumps from various periods of man’s history, and is crowned with a large old Iron Age hill fort, complete with massive ramparts and an elaborate entrance system. This is Silston Hill and it dominates the horizon around it. On the right day, at the right time, when the sun just catches all the ancient ripples on its surface, it seems to come alive, shimmer and appear like some sort of horrendously expensive CGI effect from the latest American blockbuster. But it is real and was one of the major selling points of Hulke to Drood when he first started house hunting down here. It just had a certain vibe about it – it feels right. Drood and Bryan were heading for the quaint little village of Fetchborough and any drive to Fetchborough necessitated a partial drive over Silston Hill. Why the journey to Fetchborough? A hunch of Bryan’s…
“Now this mysterious bird of yours, she don’t say much. But what she does say… ha-hah!” Bryan thumped the steering wheel of his aged Saab as it trundled up the lower slopes of Silston Hill. Drood shook his head.
“I don’t get it, Bryan.” Bryan put a hand to his head, as though exasperated at trying to explain the finer workings of a rack and pinion steering system to a cave dwelling Neanderthal.
“What was the last thing she said to you?” He asked Drood, imploringly.
“She went pop, I keep telling you..!” Bryan sighed dramatically.
“SAID. What she SAID! Before the pop!”
“Er…” Drood wracked his brain again. “The meeting place. Doesn’t make sense now and certainly didn’t make sense then.” Bryan cackled triumphantly to himself and slid a cassette into the elderly stereo in the car dashboard. Peter Gabriel started shouting about being “On the Air” rather enthusiastically, and the crowd in the room with him seemed to enjoy joining in.
“The Meeting Place.” Bryan emphasised each and every syllable. “A pub in Fetchborough.” He looked at Drood with a massive smile on his crazed face; as though this was the obvious answer to everything.
“OK, so some amazing lady from who knows where is going to leave a trail of half clues for me across most of Hulke on a bizarre morning, and then will know about a pub in Fetchborough…” Drood looked deeply at Bryan, who was still smiling and waggling his eyebrows excitedly at his “Eureka” moment. “You are mad. You’re barking. Worse than that, you’re beyond barking. You’re Dagenham Heathway mate!” Bryan let out an even louder cackle and started drumming his hands on the steering wheel in time to the music.
“Of course, a luddite like you is missing another important clue that has led me to my desire to get to ‘The Meeting Place’ in Fetchborough…” Bryan turned slowly towards Drood, seeing if his brain had caught up with Bryan’s. Drood just shrugged pathetically.
“OK smart arse. Spill the beans.”
“That lady you met was like a ghost, yes?” Said Bryan. Drood had to agree that there was something of the afterlife about her. Bryan continued. “Then we take ourselves to Fetchborough, as all linguistic experts will know the meaning of the place name…” Drood turned slowly back to face Bryan again.
“Linguistic expert? You?”
“I know the meaning of old English place names. And I know what Fetchborough means.” Bryan’s feathers had been ruffled. He descended into a slightly moody silence.
“Oh Christ! Go on then, AJP Taylor, enlighten me!” The manic smile and waggling eyebrows immediately leapt back into place on Bryan’s face.
“Fetchborough! Borough of course derived from the Anglo-Saxon burgh which means a fortified place or enclosure, and Fetch which is old English for…” here he paused for dramatic effect, “…a haunted place or the place of the ghosts…” Peter Gabriel stopped singing and the elderly tape machine spat the cassette out rather contemptuously. Silence descended on the car again.
“Are you pulling my leg?” Asked Drood, eventually. Bryan slowly shook his head and Drood felt a distinct chill run down his spine, despite the heat of the day.

Bryan’s Saab rounded another bend in the road and there was the sign for the village of Fetchborough, bidding welcome to all visitors and announcing that the village was twinned with Hanteville on the Breton coast in North West France. The main road through Fetchborough meandered slowly past a small village green with a war memorial on it and on down to the crossroads where “The Meeting Place” stood on one corner and diagonally opposite was the village shop, complete with a large fluffy cat asleep in its front window. Bryan swung the car round to the back of the pub and a large gravelled car park. Running alongside this was a big beer garden, partially full of families, bikers and smokers, all liberally dotted around a variety of wooden bench like tables. They walked inside the old ivy covered building and up to the bar where Bryan ordered two pints of Wadworth 6X from the barman. Two foaming pints of Wiltshire’s finest ale were soon in their hands and they wandered back out into the summer heat of the garden. Drood settled himself at one of the benches and Bryan sat down and immediately produced his tin from his leather jacket, and set to work on rolling himself a fag, an intense look of concentration on his face.
“So, what do we do now?” Enquired Drood after a while. Bryan looked up and slowly round the pleasant beer garden.
“We wait.”
“Is that it?” As plans went you couldn’t fault its simplicity Drood pondered. “What exactly is it we’re waiting for?” Bryan stuck the rolled cigarette between his lips and lit it. He blew the smoke high above the table.
“Something amazing…” he breathed and raised his beer glass in a salute to Drood. “Cheers!”

It wasn’t just a long wait; it was a very long wait. In fact it was seven pints of 6X, two plates of scampi and chips, several packets of pork scratchings, frequent visits to the toilets and two large whiskies waits. It was also now dark and Drood and Bryan were the last two people in the beer garden. They were both extremely drunk as well.
“You know what…” began Drood, trying to roll himself a cigarette from Bryan’s tin and spilling a lot of the tobacco, “I don’t think anything is going to happen.” He hiccupped loudly at the end of this sentence which caused him to drop the cigarette paper on the floor. He bent over to pick it up.
“Patience is a virtue…” Breathed Bryan softly and sipped his whisky. A thought suddenly presented itself to Drood’s drink befuddled mind.
“Bryan, how the hell are we getting home?” Bryan giggled softly to himself.
“I’ll press the pedals in the car and you turn the wheel. We should end up somewhere…”
“Yeah, a hedge probably. Or a starring role with Alistair-bloody-Stewart on ‘Police, Camera, Action’.” Drood finally got the cigarette rolled and now began the task of locating the lighter. “Bryan, you and I are both completely pissed. You are not driving me home. We’ll get a taxi…” A taxi from here back to Hulke on a Saturday and at this time of night would normally have been too prohibitively expensive for Drood to even begin considering it, but he still had the majority of his £250 from the cash point in his wallet and was sure he could cover the cost. From inside the pub came the distant clang of a bell and the voice of the barman informing everyone it was last orders. Bryan immediately began struggling to stand up.
“What you want?” he slurred as he nearly toppled backwards into the darkness. “Pint? Whisky?” Drood shook his head and waved a hand in dismissal. “Both it is then!” Said Bryan forcefully, and swayed off in the direction of the bar again. Drood sat in silence in the garden and listened to that wonderful breathless hush of a summer evening in the countryside. And then there was that sound again. The crackling electronic radio tuning noise he’d heard at the Priory earlier. Only this time it was much stronger and focussed. There at the end of the beer garden, not more than ten feet from where Drood sat, the air began to shimmer again, only this time it seemed more organised and less random. Then with a distinct backwards pop of a sound the lady from the Priory stepped out of the shimmering shape. Now if Drood had just been his usual, relatively sober self on a Saturday night, and nothing of this complete weirdness had happened that day, he probably would have screamed and ran for his life. But as the lady smiled and began walking towards him, he simply smiled drunkenly and waved at her.
“Drood…” she whispered his name, almost in awe. “This is such an honour for me, Sir. I am a big fan of yours…” Drood was puzzled, he took the rolled cigarette from his lips and went to say something, but instead he just burped loudly.
“Sorry…” he gulped. He swung his legs round in an attempt to get out from the bench seat, but somehow overshot his bearings and slumped heavily to the grass on his shoulders.
“Professor Hinchcliffe!” She squealed. “Are you alright?” He was laughing uncontrollably by now and was having great difficulty in getting to his feet. The lady came to his aid and pulled him upright – she was stronger than she looked.
“Professor?” He slurred, breathing beer and whisky fumes in her direction. She waved her hand in front of her face.
“You’re drunk!” She said. “Here…” she reached into her coat pocket and produced something that looked like a torch. She pressed the end against Drood’s forehead and pushed a button on the side. There was a bright spangly noise, Drood felt like someone had just hit him over the head with a jewel encrusted rubber chicken and everything immediately snapped into focus. He was sober!
“What the hell was that?” He asked, rubbing his now non-swimming head.
“It’s a mark three Hinchcliffe-Camfield Alcohol Neuro-Tazer.” She explained. “But most people call it the paralytic converter.” She tossed it from one hand to the other. “Another one of your little inventions Professor!” She said and smiled dazzlingly.

Chapter Four

The silence in the front room of Bryan Camfield’s house was disturbed only by the feint noise of a small piece of paper being rolled between fingers, and the virtually noiseless buzzing of a small fruit fly called Neville. With deft and experienced fingers, Bryan was putting together a spliff of quite prodigious proportions. He had smoked one already and it was doing rather splendid things to the synapses in his brain. This sequel was likely to open up his mind to all sorts of possibilities, but it was likely to prove one spliff too far for poor Neville. Neville had spent the previous 15 minutes flying in and out of the smoke Bryan had exhaled and currently believed himself to be a Sun God called “Piwommi” from 14th Century Peru, rather than the rather plain and ordinary fruit fly that he was in reality. Everything in the room he was buzzing round just seemed so alive and vibrant, nothing more so than the Fair Trade bananas in their bowl which he had been dive-bombing on and off for the previous couple of minutes.
Through Bryan’s muzzy brain he heard a bell ringing. What was it? A message from the other side? The tolling of the bell of lament for all those lost souls over the years? When the sound came again, it turned out to be his front door bell. Bryan slowly ejected himself from his almost unfeasibly squashy sofa and achieved his full height of something like six feet and three inches. He had a shaggy unkempt beard and long well groomed hair, all of which was mostly very dark brown to black, but with the occasional hint of grey sneaking in around the temples. The door bell rang again.
“Alright!” He walked towards the door, muttering and swearing under his breath in a mile-wide Wiltshire accent. He opened the door to the dazzling day light, and there was Drood, a slight sweat upon his brow but looking decidedly pale. “What’s the matter, you seen a ghost or something?”
“Don’t you bloody start…” said Drood. “Can I come in, Bryan? I need your help…” Bryan ushered him into the cool dark room, just as Neville plummeted into the bananas again.
“Well, you know my saying…” said Bryan, spliff between lips and on the point of being lit. “A friend in need…can go screw himself, really.” And he wheezed with laughter at his own joke. His Zippo lighter flared in his hand and he puffed away merrily on his roll-up as Drood dropped into a chair of almost equal squishiness as the sofa. Through the banks of smoke escaping his lips, Bryan could see not a trace of a smile or laugh crossing Drood’s face. “Oh, come on! You’re not still embarrassed about chucking up in that litter bin last night?” Drood wiped a hand across his moist brow and silently shook his head.
“I don’t know, Bryan. I think I’m going mad…”
“Well about bloody time too. I’ve been urging you to do that for years.” Bryan offered him the joint, something Drood would rarely accept. He fairly snatched it from his hand, brought it to his lips and inhaled deeply. Drood let his head loll back a little and blew out the smoke with a low satisfied sigh.
“Let me run this past you Bryan, and then you tell me if I’m in need of sectioning.” Drood handed him back the spliff. Bryan shrugged in a non-committal sort of way, and sat back on the squashy sofa, long legs neatly crossed. “OK, wake up this morning…” Bryan immediately imitated a Muddy Waters blues riff. The look on Drood’s face stopped him in his tracks, and he mumbled an apology before ushering Drood to continue with the story. “Right, wake up this morning, bit of a hangover, as expected. Go down to Mr Letts’ shop, all my usual stuff. Back to the back garden, reading the personals in the Hulke and Silston Gazette and there are a series of messages for me. They are urging me to look in my wood burning stove. In the stove is a hand-written message telling me to check my bank balance, so I check it and it turns out I am a millionaire. I go for a beer to celebrate in the Bakers Arms and there is another hand-written note in there for me telling me to go to the Priory and wait by the north walk to meet someone. I go there and while I am there a beautiful woman materializes out of thin air in front of me, says “the meeting place” and then vanishes. What do you think? Am I going Tonto or is this some sort of wild dream?” Bryan had been nodding sagely through all of this, as though Drood was simply recounting a recent trip to the supermarket; however his reply came completely out of left field.
“Could you buy me a jet ski?” He beamed, spliff jammed in the corner of his mouth. Drood was stunned.
“What?”
“Now you’re a millionaire, could you buy me a jet ski? I’ve always wanted to have a bash on one of them…” Drood let out a sigh of Biblical proportions and let his head flop back on the cushion of the chair.
“Bryan! I really do need your help! I am utterly confused and…” here his voice stumbled a little, “…I’m fucking scared mate…” Bryan nodded slowly again, before reaching out with his long arm to offer Drood the spliff again. Drood shook his head slowly.
“Well, we need to look at this rationally.” And as if to emphasise this point, he gently stubbed out the spliff in his ashtray, but not terminally, it might be nice to re-light it later. “Let’s see what old Lethbridge has to say about this sort of thing…”
“Lethbridge?” Drood looked up and wiped a stray tear away from the corner of his eye. “Who’s Lethbridge?” Bryan was now up on his feet, feverishly running his hands over the spines of the rows of dark musty old books that inhabited the shelves in the dark corner of his front room. These are the largely anonymous looking old books you would see in charity shops and immediately skip past to something else more interesting. But not Bryan Camfield. Bryan collected old books about Hulke and the surrounding districts, but more specifically about the darker and more mysterious side of Hulke’s murky past. He selected one particularly hefty tome from the shelves and brought it down amid a shower of dust and cobwebs. He blew on the spine and coughed a little.
“Lethbridge?” He looked at Drood and then indicated the book in his hand. “Lethbridge.” He said this as though this explained everything. Drood leant forward in his chair and reached for the book. He repeated his earlier question.
“Bryan, who is Lethbridge?” Bryan handed him the book and began to explain.
“Lethbridge was the Reverend Alastair Gordon Lethbridge, parish priest for St Robert’s in Holmes Street and investigator of all things paranormal in Victorian Hulke. A sort of 19th century Fox Mulder.” Bryan gestured towards the book in Drood’s hand. “This was his masterwork, The Dark Arts in Hulke’s Pagan Past, published in 1888. It was also his undoing.” Drood had begun flicking through the book. On the inside there was a photographic plate of the author who looked as much like David Duchoveny as Drood looked like Ursula Andress. His reputation as the 19th century Fox Mulder must be on his ability to work out bizarre happenings than on his looks. He looked more like a cross between Arthur Lowe in Dad’s Army and the Duke of Edinburgh on a bad hair day.
“Why was this his undoing?” asked Drood, looking up momentarily from the ghastly picture of the author.
“As you can imagine, Victorian Hulke wasn’t exactly a very cosmopolitan, easy-going place. When his parishioners read about his book they were not best pleased. He was accused of being a Black Magician and some other very serious allegations are thrown his way.” Bryan inevitably re-lit the spliff and inhaled deeply. He blew smoke out in a long luxurious exhale. “But before he could be de-frocked, or de-dog collared, he disappeared.” Drood looked up again from the book.
“Disappeared?”
“Yep” said Bryan. “Just simply vanished off the face of the Earth and was never heard of again.” He smiled widely and wildly. “Pretty far fucking out, eh?” Drood nodded while continuing to look through the musty book. Lethbridge was certainly thorough if nothing else. He had listed nearly every single bizarre happening and paranormal event to have occurred in Hulke since Roman times. From 52AD when one of Vespasian’s rampaging troops had nearly soiled his toga when being confronted by an apparition on the site where the Priory now rests, to a Miss Gertrude Nathan-Turner who had seen bizarre lights in the sky over the Priory ruins in 1884, and had fallen into a swoon and not recovered for six months. “So you seeing some weird shit at the Priory – it’s nothing new mate.” Drood gently shut the book in his hands. His mind was still racing and the recent introduction of some of Bryan’s illegal substances had started it going off in some quite remarkable directions. But it was the girl he had seen at The Priory – her face and those eyes; they still burnt inside his own mind.
“So what about the girl I saw at The Priory?” He handed the book back to Bryan.
“What exactly did she say to you?” Asked Bryan, as he reached up to return the Lethbridge book to its usual place on the shelf. Drood wracked his brain.
“It was something like an apology at first, for being underhand, or something. Then she told me there was very little time.” Bryan listened intently as Drood recounted this.
“Nothing else?”
“Hang on, she did say ‘the meeting place’ and then went pop.” Drood paused mid-sentence. “Well, not literally. But she made that sort of noise as she disappeared.” Bryan stuffed his tin of tobacco and illegal substances into pocket of his leather jacket, and then slid it over his shoulders.
“Then I guess we’d better go there…”

Chapter Three

“How much?” Drood struggled to see the small black and green screen of the cash machine properly in the morning brightness. He shielded it with his hands and pushed his face as close to the tiny inadequate screen as he could. It seemed to be saying that his bank account, normally as empty as Paris Hilton’s brain, was now chock full of money to the tune of…
£1,000,528 CR That had to be wrong, surely? The machine now asked if he needed another service. A small queue of three people stood behind Drood, tutting quietly to themselves but never quite getting up the courage to actually complain about how long he was taking. Drood reckoned a little cash might be a nice idea, so he tentatively withdrew £250, the most he had ever got out of a cash machine at any one time. Turning to the small irritable crowd behind him, he made a big show of slotting that many notes into his normally starved wallet. Feeling almost giddy with power he walked away from the machine. What to spend his ill gotten gains on first? Beer seemed like a splendid option, even with his constitution still a little fragile after last night’s episode. Could he face the “Flag of Nations” so soon? No, not really, so he turned on his heel and marched smartly down the High Road, turned right into Moffatt Street and headed towards the “Bakers Arms”. This wasn’t a bad little pub, as far as town pubs go, relatively unspoilt and still serving a reasonable pint. Drood hadn’t been in for a while, so hopefully no one inside would know of his embarrassments from the night before. The main bar was nicely empty and surprisingly dark and cool after the piercing sunlight and heat of outside. An old clock struck twelve noon with tremulous chimes as Drood ordered a pint of Directors and settled himself up at the bar on a stool. It was good. No one in here knew who he was and no one was going to bother him about last night. He could quite happily sup his beer and work out what the fuck was going on in his life at the moment, as everything seemed to be going a bit mad.
“Excuse me.” The barmaid interrupted Drood’s train of thought. “This may sound stupid, but is your name Drood?” He sighed heavily. Perhaps his performance last night had been so spectacular that the pub jungle drums had been hammering out their own headlines already.
“Yes” he finally admitted. “I am the said drunken prick, if that’s what you mean.” The young lady looked at him a little perplexed.
“I don’t know anything about that, but there’s a letter here for you.” She handed him a small sealed white envelope. There was some writing on the front, namely “Drood” and “when he comes in at noon”, and today’s date on the back. “I just noticed it while I was cleaning. Wasn’t there yesterday. So, is it for you?” she asked. Drood nodded, almost dumbstruck.
“I guess so…” Who on Earth would leave a letter for Drood in this pub? He could scarcely remember his last visit here; it must be months ago, at least. The barmaid wandered away as Drood slipped silently into his thoughts. He opened the envelope slowly, discovering inside a neatly folded piece of paper of quite high quality with the same immaculate handwriting from the piece of paper in his wood burning stove. Again, its message was equally perplexing.
“Finish your pint, then I’ll see you at the Priory. North walk.” And again, that was it. Perhaps a visit to the Priory might be in order, just to try and make sense of this morning. If someone had some answers then Drood certainly had plenty of questions. He drained his pint and placed the glass on the bar.
“Another one?” Asked the barmaid, reaching for a clean glass without waiting for the answer. Drood stood up sharply.
“No thanks, but buy one for yourself.” And he left a five pound note for her, the most he had ever offered a bar person for a drink. She took the note silently. Drood paused by the door. “And you are now supposed to say ‘thank you’.” She looked at him with Doe eyes.
“Why?” Mumbling to himself, Drood walked out into the dazzling light again.
“Say goodnight to the folks, Gracie…”

The Priory sat in its pleasant green surrounds and almost glowed in the baking heat of this fine summer day. Odd groups of people disported themselves around the well tended lawns that swept down from the High Road, and entertained themselves, either energetically playing endless games of football or knocking a tennis ball about with a cricket bat, and there was even the odd couple spotted about here and there, limbs entwined, oblivious to the outside world and just there, for that moment with each other. Drood looked on, with only a little envy, as a rather handsome young man in a pair of desperately fashionable sun glasses, ran his hand up and down the shapely thigh of a rather nice looking blonde lady. That was how he should be spending his Saturday, in a nice intimate grope with a nubile young lady, not staggering around the periphery of life in Hulke chasing what appeared to be some sort of elaborate practical joke. Just for a second Drood became quite angry, waiting for someone like Bryan or even either Tara or Claire, to leap out of the rhododendrons and go “GOTCHA!” and thus inspiring even more guffaws from everyone else at his expense. But they didn’t. No one appeared. He walked slowly along one of the low crumbling walls, his fingers tracing gently over the ragged tops of the broken masonry. Drood stopped and looked right round, 360 degrees, his hand shading his eyes from the sun, but nothing obvious presented itself to him. His hand slipped into his pocket and removed the envelope from the “Bakers Arms” again. Re-reading the note might help. “The north walk”? Where was the north walk? Perhaps reading one of the fading signs put up by the council some years ago might be a good idea. For once he was right, the sign very helpfully pointed out that the section he was currently standing next to was known as the “west walk”. If he wanted the “north walk” he would have to go about 50 metres forwards and turn right. This was also not as bad as it took him next to some lush green trees that towered over the Priory and offered cool shade. Drood thankfully moved into the dappled darker recess of the north walk and perched himself on what was once probably a very impressive pillar, but was now a not very impressive stump. His feet, now off ground level, kicked gently against the stone of the pillar with the rubber heels of his boots. And then it happened.
There was a crackling noise, distinctly electronic in origin, and something akin to someone trying to tune an unwilling radio. Almost as soon as it started it stopped. Drood looked around with some alarm, but there was no one else in close proximity and everyone in Hulke, even those in the distance, seemed to be going about their everyday business as per normal. Silence. Then it came again, only this time much louder. Even the air seemed to crackle with static. Directly in front of Drood, the foliage on the shade-giving trees seemed to shimmer as if in a heat haze. This seemed to intensify until a faint, almost fluorescent light began radiating in the air before Drood. This formed into a shape, and a very nice shape it was too. A lady, aged about 30, shoulder length brunette hair, pulled back off her face, wearing cute spectacles over big brown eyes and wearing a white laboratory coat, just seemed to materialise in front of Drood and hung a worrying 6 inches above the ground. There was what appeared to be a light aura around her, almost like the old description of St Elmo’s Fire. She looked Drood directly in the eye and smiled, and it was a smile worth waiting for. She started to speak, but when she opened her mouth no sound came out. She was obviously aware of this and mouthed the words “for fuck’s sake” quite brilliantly while feverishly pushing buttons on what appeared to be a very snazzy looking mobile phone in her hand. She was still trying to speak, but still no sounds came through. Drood shook his head.
“I can’t hear you…” he mouthed, miming putting fingers in his ears and shaking his head at the same time. She rolled her eyes in a sort of “no shit, Sherlock” kind of way. This was followed by more feverish button pushing on her mobile phone and no doubt lots of swearing. Suddenly he heard her.
“…stupid bollocking machine…ah!” She looked at Drood directly, scraped an errant strand of hair from her face and smiled dazzlingly. “Can you hear me now?” A dumb smile spread across Drood’s face.
“I can…” And he gave a rather lame thumbs up sign. Those big brown eyes…
“Sorry about all the subterfuge and bizarre messages, but we wanted to make sure this time.” Drood wasn’t really sure what she was talking about and the look on his face must have got through to her. “Never mind, not much time and lots to tell you.” She put the mobile phone thing in her coat pocket and addressed Drood directly. “Now then. The meeting place…” and with a loud backward sounding popping noise she promptly vanished away into nothing. Drood realised that in the past he’d been known to have a bad effect on some women, but they had never just vanished in front of his eyes with a strange popping sound before. This day had begun strangely, had got a lot more bizarre and had now gone straight off even the “weird shit-o-meter scale”. Drood jumped gently down from his seated position on the pillar/stump and gazed as to where the nice lady had been. There was not a trace of her, save for a small, perfectly formed circle of grass that had been trimmed to exactly the same uniform length all over. He squatted down next to this patch of grass and ran his hands through it. It was slightly warm, but nothing more than that. Standing up sharply, Drood nodded to himself. There was only one person he knew who could possibly answer all the bizarre questions that this day was throwing up - the only man in the whole of Hulke who was in tune with the more eccentric elements of the make up of our cosmos. Drood was going to have to go and see a hippie called Bryan Camfield.