Chapter 18
Badock’s Wood
8.28 p.m.
Mill Tut is situated on the edge of the umbrella of trees, suggesting that just beyond is the start of the woods. The sun had set and the Bronze Age burial mound was lost in darkness. It wasn’t even a silhouette against the tall trunks and foliage which formed the backdrop.
Elliott and Jude approached the burial mound on their BMX bikes. The fourteen-year-old friends were fearless and unafraid of the woods, even when the place was shrouded in darkness. They knew of the murder that had taken place there in September 2009, although both boys were too young to remember it happening. They were also aware of the strange stories about the burial mound. During the past few years the place had become legendary, and had been a magnet for the curious, including inquisitive school kids like Elliott and Jude.
Jude skidded to a halt alongside the stainless steel monument, which overlooked the burial mound. He pulled out a pack of ten Embassy Number Ones, and ripped off the cellophane. Elliott pulled up alongside and smirked as his best friend pulled two cigarettes. Jude put one between his lips, and handed the other to Elliott, who placed it in his mouth and struck a match. His eyes crossed as he looked at the flame between the cigarette and his face.
“Are you gonna light it or what?” goaded Jude, who had started smoking the previous week. Tonight was Elliott’s initiation to the disgusting habit, which would cost both boys a fortune, and shorten their life expectancy.
They dropped their bikes and sat on the bench next to the monument. Jude laughed when Elliott coughed violently.
“Don’t worry mate, you’ll get used to it. Don’t forget to take back!” said Jude.
“I did take back, that’s why I’m coughing,”
Jude finished his cigarette, and irreverently flicked the smouldering butt onto the path. He pulled out an extra strong mint and popped it into his mouth.
Elliott continued to endure his first smoke, and put on a brave face as he pretended to enjoy it.
“If you’re gonna be a pussy, just put the thing out,” taunted Jude.
“No, no I’m okay. I like it,” lied his friend.
The two boys sat on the bench. Elliott was bent forward and examining the glowing embers at the end of the cigarette, whilst Jude looked towards the woods. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of a dim light. He looked to his right, in the direction of the burial mound, and saw a pale blue incandescent glow surrounding the hill.
“Woss-sat?” cried Jude, in his broad Bristolian accent, whilst pointing at the hill.
Elliott looked up, but in the second he lifted his head, the strange glow had vanished. He saw nothing other than the shadows of the woods. When the sun had set, the woods were so dark that even the shadows had shadows. He would never admit it, but he wasn’t quite so fearless as his best friend.
“What was it?” asked Elliott, in a quavering voice.
“The hill, it was glowing.”
“You’re shittin’ me.”
“No I ain’t, it was all lit up!” exclaimed Jude. Excitement apparent in his voice.
The two boys sat in silence. Elliott sensed by Jude’s voice that he was not lying.
“Listen,” whispered Elliott, “woss that hummin’?”
Neither spoke as they concentrated on a low, almost subsonic hum, which came from the direction of the hill.
The burial mound became masked by the same pale blue glow Jude had just seen. It was like a glowing mist, which shrouded the small hill. The glow was about an inch high and stopped at the slope where the burial mound met the flat ground surrounding it.
“I’ve never seen nothin’ like that before,” exclaimed Elliott, dropping the unfinished cigarette by his feet.
“Come on, let’s take a look,” said Jude, as he stood up and pulled his BMX from the grass.
Elliott hesitated, he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to get too close to whatever was making the humming sound and strange glow.
“Come on pussy, he who hesitates,” taunted Jude, standing astride his bike.
“Shit! That thing’s haunted. You know what they say about this place, let’s get out of here.”
Jude ignored his friend and cycled away. First he headed away from the burial mound, and after fifty yards he stopped and faced the mound.
“Ready?” called Jude.
Elliott made out the shadowy figure of Jude in the near distance. Then he heard his friend’s voice loud and clear.
“GERONIMO……!” shouted Jude, as he pedalled with all his strength towards the hill.
Elliott felt a breeze as Jude whooshed past him heading for the burial mound. He hit the slope at such speed that his bike effortlessly trundled up, and over the grassy mound to the top. Jude pulled a wheelie and was about to descend the other side when his bike stopped. The back wheel was on the ground at the top of the hill, and the front was in the air. Jude sat on his bike gripping the handle bar. He was dead still, like a photograph. Elliott stared at his friend, who was illuminated by the glow, and tried to work out what had happened. Jude had frozen mid-wheelie at the top of the hill. Elliott got on his bike and warily cycled towards the hill, not wanting to get too close.
“What you doin’?” shouted Elliott.
Jude didn’t reply. Elliott cycled around the hill, and saw his friend hanging in the air. Jude looked haunting as he remained motionless and lit by the misty glow.
“Stop it, you’re scarin’ me,” called Elliott. He pulled up close to the edge. He saw that the glowing light was made up of a fine mist, as if it was a very pale dry ice effect. His friend had a look upon his face as if he was about to scream.
“Jude, get the fuck off that thing, you’re givin’ me the shits …… come down.”
He dropped his bike to the ground and ran around the hill.
The glowing mist ceased, and Jude continued his wheelie down the other side of the burial mound, screaming as he went. He reached the bottom of the slope, pulled on his front brake too hard and went careering over his bike. The right side of the handle bar dug into his groin as he launched into the air. He landed on his side, and the bike bounced passed him, just missing his head. He writhed and shouted with his hands between his legs, as the pain stabbed through his groin.
“What the fuck just happened?” shouted Elliott.
In the darkness, he made out the form of his friend squirming on the floor. Jude didn’t answer. He knelt by his friend’s side and placed his hand on his shoulder.
“Are you okay, can you get up?”
He put his arm around Jude, and helped him up into a sitting position. Elliott pulled the box of matches from his pocket and feverishly lit one. Jude’s face looked petrified as the sulphurous glow of the match lit his face. His mouth hung open like in Edvard Munch’s painting of ‘The Scream’. His body shook, and he rocked back and forth.
“Mate, speak to me, what happened up there?”
Jude said nothing. Tears welled and flowed down his face. The match burned out and Elliott pulled another from the box. He lit it and stared into Jude’s face. Then he noticed his friend’s hair. In the dim light of the match it was hard to tell. He moved the flame closer to Jude’s head, without getting too close to burn him.
“Fuck!” yelled Elliott, when his eyes had adjusted to the light.
“Your hair’s white!”
Jude ran his fingers through his hair.
“What happened? Talk to me…… you’re scaring me,” cried Elliott.
Eventually, Jude spoke. It was barely above a whisper, and Elliott struggled to hear what he was saying.
“Did you see them?”
“See who?” asked Elliott.
“People, hundreds of people…. thousands of them, all trying to reach for me.”
Elliott shook his head. “I only saw you…. come on, let’s get out of here.”
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F
orty-seven minutes earlier.
Howie was poised on the edge of his chair in the flat in which he lived alone. His elbows on his knees and his chin on his knuckles, rocking back and forth. He thought about the meeting with Markland.
“I’m such a bloody idiot!” he cursed out loud to nobody.
He was annoyed with himself. He’d handled things badly. He’d gone charging into the man’s office, on his very first day at work and had ranted on about his missing friend, who in fact wasn’t missing at all.
He should have never admitted to Markland that it was he who’d put the notes through his door. Howie had been acting like a stalker. Over the past few weeks he’d been hanging around Markland’s house, waiting to catch a glimpse of him and ask for his help. But whenever he’d seen him leave his house or get out of his car, Howie just didn’t have enough nerve to approach him. He was a shy person at the best of times. He’d hoped the notes he put through Markland’s letter box would have intrigued the ex-detective enough to make him want to meet Howie at the woods. He’d been wrong.
But what were the odds of Markland working in the same school as he? Howie thought that it had to be more than just coincidence. He was sure that the two of them had been brought together for a reason.
Howie had to get Markland to come to the burial mound in the woods with him to see the things that he’d seen. The hill in the woods had invoked a vision so clear that Howie was certain it was real and meaningful. He’d seen hundreds and hundreds of versions of his friend’s face. James Trafford had been everywhere and all around him. Each face appeared a little different to the next. Howie remembered it with crystal clarity. He knew that Markland had experienced much more than he when he’d been in the woods dealing with the Walker murder case. Howie was certain that Markland would be able to interpret what the vision meant, or at least give him some guidance. But Markland had made things very clear that he would never set foot in Badock’s Wood again. Howie had seen the look in the man’s eye and knew he wasn’t going to change his mind. The only way Markland would return to the woods was if he was dragged there against his own free will.
James had done so much for Howie over the years. He’d been there for him when he was a kid. The two of them faced their teenage years together, and experienced the awkwardness of growing up and dealing with girls for the first time. In their twenties they remained close, and James had been a rock for Howie when he’d developed pneumonia and almost died when he was twenty-four. Both Howie’s parents had died when he was twenty-one. Other than his sister, he had no family. He considered James his brother. He was also close to James’ father. A few years later Howie was honoured to be James’ best man. He’d been livid beyond belief with James when the marriage fell apart over the stupid affair. It was the only time he’d felt distant from James. He’d liked Helena, and it had been because of Howie the two of them met in the first place. Eventually, the two men had rekindled their friendship and things were back to the way they used to be.
Howie was intent on helping his best friend, and he was sure there was something a lot more sinister happening than James just losing his memory.
Howie had always been a follower and never a leader. He wasn’t a high flyer, or a go-getter. He was unlikely to find a job which would earn him a fortune. It was part of his character he hated, but it was just the way he was made. This was why he needed Markland to guide him and help explain what the burial mound was trying to tell him.
He pondered just how he could entice Markland back to the woods.
Then it came to him.
If he couldn’t bring Markland to the hill, he would bring the hill to Markland.
From what he’d read about the hill, he knew that It was a five-thousand-year old pile of soil, in which were buried crumbling bones, broken pottery and other artefacts.
He jumped up, grabbed a long serving spoon from the kitchen, a couple of plastic bags and headed to his car.
Twenty-five minutes later, he pulled up on Doncaster Road. It was dark and he was apprehensive about going into the woods alone. The place gave him the heebie jeebies in day time, and it looked creepier at night.
He got out of the car and followed the street lights to the path, which eventually lead to the entrance of Badock’s Wood.
Out of the darkness appeared two boys on bikes pedalling so furiously they made him flinch. He moved to one side to let them pass. He wasn’t fast enough, and one of the boys ran into him, fell from his bike and tumbled to the ground.
“Oi, watch what you’re doing,” snapped Howie. The pedal of the bike had caught his shin and ripped a hole in the leg of his trousers. Both boys were too panicked to speak. The boy who hadn’t fallen from his bike continued to Doncaster Road as the other struggled to climb to his feet.
“Slow down kid, what’s the rush?” asked Howie rubbing his shin. He looked down upon the boy’s face and saw how scared he was. Howie saw that the boy’s hair was orange. It took a second to work out that it was actually white. It was the glow from the street light that caused it to look orange.
“There’s somethin’ in the woods.” spluttered the boy. He grappled with his bike, pulled it from the floor, climbed on and followed his friend, who waited for him where the path met Doncaster Road.
Howie watched the two boys disappear as they sped along the road towards Southmead. He paused for a second and thought about what the boy had said. ‘There’s something in the woods….’, to what was he referring? A gang? A ghost? He stared into the woods and considered whether it was wise to go there on his own. He bit into his lip and thought about turning round and heading home. Perhaps he should return when it was daylight.
“I have to do this,” he whispered.
He straightened his back, stood tall and marched towards the burial mound. It was so dark he barely made out where the hill was. He passed the stainless steel monument and could see the rise in the ground ahead of him. He looked over his shoulder and checked that he was alone. Whatever had frightened the boys didn’t seem to be around now. He quickened his step and scurried to the edge of the burial mound. He pulled the plastic bags from his trouser pocket and the serving spoon from inside his coat.
Howie knelt down, placed his hand on the slope and found the ground to be damp. The grass surrounding the hill was dry. There hadn’t been a drop of rain for over a week. Howie dismissed the thought, gripped the spoon and thrust it into the soil. The ground was hard and the spoon bent as he tried to stab it into the earth. He grunted, and moved a few feet up the slope and tried again. The ground was like rock, it was like breaking through hardened clay. Howie had intended to use the spoon to scoop up a few plastic bags of soil. Now, he wished he’d bought a trowel with him instead. He climbed to the top and prodded the ground with his fingers. He found a huge boulder sized rock embedded deep into the top of the burial mound. Around the rock the soil felt a little loose beneath his nails. He scratched away and was satisfied that it was workable. He looked for the serving spoon, and tutted to himself when he realised he’d left it at the base of the slope. He scurried back down, retrieved the spoon. He was annoyed with himself for not bringing a torch. The spoon scraped the top soil, but was only scuffing a few grains. Howie cursed and kicked at the soil with the toe of his boot. A jarring pain shot through his big toe. He’d kicked a rock which was adjacent to the boulder. The smaller rock was about nine inches in circumference and embedded in the soil. Kneeling down and placing his palm against the rock, he found there was a tiny bit of movement. He pushed it back and forth and the rock budged a little more. He wedged the long handle of the spoon beneath the rock, and was able to dislodge it from where it lay and move it to one side. The soil beneath the rock was loose and he was able to scoop it up with his hands. Using the spoon, he dug enough soil to fill one and a half plastic bags. He was about to plunge the spoon in again, when he heard a rumbling noise. It sounded like distant thunder, very deep and very low. It was so low, he felt
it more than heard it. He knelt on the stubby grass, and felt the hill vibrate through his knees. The rumbling became a little louder
It’s coming from inside, he thought to himself. He bent forward, and placed his ear to the ground. The skin of his cheek made contact with the ground, and a bolt of pain shot through the side of his face. He sat up, rubbed his cheek, and saw that all around was layered in the same incandescent blue glow that the boys had seen.
“Shit!” he cursed. He grabbed the bag of soil, ran down the slope towards the monument and didn’t stop until he reached it. Howie turned around and saw that the glow had diminished, and within seconds had faded altogether.
He sat on the bench next to the monument clutching the bag of soil to his chest. He’d got what he came for, his very own little piece of mysterious Bronze Age burial mound. He wasn’t quite sure what he was going to do with it, but was sure it would help him solve the mystery of what had happened to his best friend.