Creeping Terror (5 page)

Rupam was at the window. ‘It’s a police car.’

Moments later, the door opened and Mrs Bailey led in a man in a crumpled dark suit. He was carrying a metal briefcase.

‘Ben Foundling?’ the man asked.

Was this it? Had they come to take him back to the Home, or to some new set of foster parents? He didn’t trust himself to speak, so he just nodded.

The man put the briefcase carefully on the table. ‘I’ve waited a long time to deliver this.’ He undid the
clasps and opened the lid. ‘It’s been kept safe in our vaults at New Scotland Yard for a very long time.’

Inside, the case was padded with dark foam to keep the contents safe and secure. The man lifted out a rectangle of foam to reveal a recess below. Resting in it was a plain white envelope, yellowed with age and addressed in faded black ink. It said simply, ‘Ben Foundling – c/o Gibbet Manor’. The man had taken white cotton gloves from his jacket pocket. He slipped them on, then very carefully lifted the letter out of the case. Ben could see that on the back it was sealed with a blob of red wax.

‘I have strict instructions to deliver this only to Ben Foundling at this address on this exact date.’

He handed Ben the letter.

‘What do I do with it?’

The man took off his gloves and closed the briefcase. ‘That’s up to you. I’ve done my job.’

‘But who’s it from?’ Rupam asked.

‘I don’t know. All I can tell you,’ the man said, ‘is that it’s a Priority One Instruction I deliver the letter and that it’s been in the secure police vaults since 1943.’

T
HE SUN WAS LOW IN THE SKY AND THE SPOTS of rain had turned to a persistent drizzle. Maria and Knight stood in the doorway of the pub, sheltering from the weather and considering their options. The church tower was again a ruined stump jutting above the treeline.

‘We’re sort of flickering in and out of reality. Or rather, the village is. We should tell the others what’s happening,’ Knight decided.

‘Don’t frighten Gemma,’ Maria warned him. ‘She only needs to know we’re stuck here for a bit.’

‘That’s all we really know,’ Knight pointed out.

They had tried the other road out of the village but never even got as far as the army checkpoint. A mass of greenery blocked the road, the hedges seeming to grow across the lane. Maria was scratched all over from trying to push through. But the vegetation formed an impenetrable barrier.

It was the same whichever way they tried – sooner or later, and usually sooner, they reached a wall of shrubs and trees, creepers and leaves …

‘It’s like we’re trapped inside Sleeping Beauty’s castle a hundred years on,’ Maria said. ‘We should have brought my sword.’

‘It isn’t actually yours,’ Knight reminded her. ‘Though I admit you’re more accomplished with it than any of the rest of us. But you’re right. There are a lot of things we should have brought. Hindsight is a wonderful thing.’

‘Can we burn our way through?’

‘Everything’s too damp.’ Knight checked his phone again. ‘And even if we could send for a helicopter, I wouldn’t risk an airlift. Assuming there’s still room to land a helicopter, who knows what’s really up there, circling above us, watching? There could be any kind of demon or creature. We need to get a message out.’ He put his phone away and sighed. ‘Come on, back to the church.’

‘We’ll get wet.’

‘That’s the least of our problems.’ Knight stepped out into the rain. ‘It’s not that bad. Let’s go.’

With a grunt of irritation, Maria followed him.

‘If you’re that bothered,’ Knight told her, ‘you can shelter in the phone box.’

He stopped abruptly and Maria almost walked into him.

‘What is it?’ She followed his gaze to the small phone box on the other side of the road. ‘Like I said, it won’t still be connected.’

Knight set off towards the phone box. ‘It might be – if it thinks it’s in 1943, like those soldiers. Like the pub when Tommy was here. Like the church tower …’

‘You are kidding!’ Maria tried to squeeze into the small cubicle behind Knight, but she was still getting wet from the rain. ‘Anything?’

In answer, he held the chunky Bakelite phone receiver to her ear.

‘Hello? Hello?’ a woman’s voice said impatiently. ‘Is there anyone there? What number do you require? I haven’t got all day. There’s a war on, you know, so unless this is urgent please hang up.’

Knight replaced the handset.

‘Interesting, but I’m not sure it helps. Who do we know in 1943 and what’s their phone number?’

‘We could call the police.’

‘Even if they believe us, they’ll come here nearly seventy years ago. That’s no use. There must be a way,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I must know a phone number that will help. Ah!’ He clicked his fingers.
‘What’s the most famous phone number of the twentieth century?’

‘Er … 999?’ Maria said. ‘Or 1066?’

‘Very funny.’ Knight lifted the receiver again. ‘Hello? Can you get me a London number please? A reverse-charge call, is that the term?’ He listened for a moment. ‘Yes, I can wait. We’re not going anywhere. And the number is Whitehall 1212.’

The letter was old and dry. It cracked as Ben pulled it out of the envelope and unfolded it.

‘What’s it say? Who’s it from?’ Rupam demanded.

‘You should wait for Mrs Bailey to come back,’ Sam said quietly.

She was sitting on the large circular wooden table in the middle of the library. Right where Rupam would have seen her – if she had really been there.

Mrs Bailey had taken the man with the briefcase back to his car. He was obviously disappointed not to discover what was in the letter he’d brought all the way from London.

‘It’s dated 3 March 1943,’ Ben said as soon as Mrs Bailey returned. ‘And it’s a message from Mr Knight.’

(Detective Chief Inspector)

The cellar was cold. Ben could feel the chill as soon as he started down the stone steps that led to the vault. He’d never been allowed through the huge circular metal door that sealed the vault off from the rest of the cellar. As it was, he didn’t relish coming here. He wished Sam was with him, but she had disappeared somewhere on the way from the library.

Outside the vault was a large area filled with computer equipment. This was where Webby worked. Where he lived too, though he insisted it was only for a few more months until his contract ended. No one believed him – Webby had been here for years. It was his job to set up and maintain all the computer and network systems. Agents of the School of Night could get online training, report sightings of ghosts and other paranormal phenomena, send in data gathered on their mobile phones … Webby’s systems monitored, collated and catalogued it all from his base down here in the cellar.

It was packed with computer equipment –
monitors, system units, disk drives, keyboards and mouses. It also smelt.

‘Doesn’t he ever wash?’ Ben asked Rupam quietly as they descended the stairs.

‘Who knows? I’ve never seen him wash. But I’ve never seen him sleep either.’

‘Or eat?’ Ben mused, seeing a plate of sandwiches on a table at the bottom of the stairs. The bread had dried and was beginning to curl.

‘Busy man,’ Rupam said.

Webby was plugged into his music player, tapping out a beat on a computer keyboard. He saw Rupam and Ben and gave them a ‘just a minute’ wave.

‘Satellite’s in position, at last,’ Webby announced loudly, without removing his earphones. ‘Got Captain Morton to thank for that. Had to retask a satellite that was watching the French navy – don’t ask why. But anyway, we’ve been getting real-time images snapped every two minutes for a couple of hours now.’ He pointed to a screen on the other side of the cellar. ‘If you want proper video that costs more, apparently.’

The screen showed an aerial picture of Templeton. It looked as if it had been taken from a helicopter or a low-flying plane rather than a satellite high in orbit above the planet. Ben could
see the church with its broken roof and separate, ruined tower. The road into the village forked close to what must be the pub.

‘Can you see any people?’ Rupam asked.

‘Could if anyone was there,’ Webby said, pulling out his earphones at last. ‘Couple of people about earlier. Went off the side, up the lane, then came back again. They’ve gone now. No sign of Knight’s car.’

‘You can see how overgrown the place is,’ Ben said, pointing to where a hedge seemed to be growing across the lane.

The village seemed to be hemmed in all round by a mass of green.

‘Sleeping Beauty’s castle,’ Rupam said.

Webby spun round on his chair. ‘Never mind that. There’s nothing much to see. I’ve pulled some data and documents off the web, if you want to take a look at what I’ve found.’

Nothing seemed that interesting to Ben. Webby had managed to find various bits and pieces. There were several old Ordnance Survey maps of the area, census data from 1841 through to 1901, and the records from the Domesday Book compiled in 1086.

‘Like that will help,’ Ben muttered.

There was also a scanned copy of a pamphlet about
the history of the church written by the local rector in 1937, which Rupam said might interest Growl.

‘I’d stick it all on a laptop, but I guess there’s no power there.’

‘Shouldn’t think so,’ Ben agreed.

‘And you don’t want to be carrying a stack of batteries round the place.’

‘No, they won’t.’ Mrs Bailey’s voice echoed down the stairs. Moments later she appeared, holding a tray with drinks on it. ‘They’ll have quite enough to carry as it is. I’ve put everything into a couple of rucksacks, though what you’ll do with the sword is another matter.’

‘Sword?’ Webby asked.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ Ben said, helping himself to a glass of milk from the tray. ‘Thanks.’

Rupam had milk too. Mrs Bailey had brought mugs of steaming coffee for herself and Webby.

‘Madam Sosostram will take you to Templeton,’ Mrs Bailey told Ben and Rupam. ‘I need to get in touch with Captain Morton again. There’s an air exclusion zone over the village anyway, but he’s extending that to include the military. The last thing we want is army helicopters and planes crashing into Grotesques or wind demons. And someone has to keep this place in order.’

‘There’s no sign of any aerial demons on the satellite images,’ Rupam said, turning to look.

‘There wouldn’t be. It doesn’t have a filter like your phone. I’ve got some readings here that are a bit dodgy, though,’ Webby said, beating out a staccato rhythm on his keyboard.

‘Careful!’ Mrs Bailey called.

‘What?’ Rupam turned back.

Ben couldn’t see what Mrs Bailey was warning them about either. But as Rupam turned again towards the screen showing the images from the satellite, his hand caught Webby’s coffee cup, knocking it over.

The steaming liquid splashed over Webby’s jeans. Ben expected him to leap up in pain, swearing and angry. But he seemed not to notice, still typing away.

‘I’ll get a cloth,’ Mrs Bailey said.

‘Sorry. But it’s moved,’ Rupam said.

They could all hear the urgency in his voice. Even Webby turned to look.

‘What’s moved?’ Ben asked.

Rupam pointed to a hedge that crossed the road at one side of the screen. ‘Here – it’s moved slightly, I’m sure. And it’s bigger than it was.’

‘I haven’t changed the zoom,’ Webby said.

As he stood up, he seemed to notice the spilt coffee for the first time, brushing it off his jeans with irritation. Ben stepped back as Webby pushed past him. It wasn’t just the cellar that smelt – Ben had caught a whiff of Webby himself. He
stank
. Not the usual pungent smell of sweat, but a sweet, almost sickly odour.

‘I’m sure it’s different,’ Rupam was saying as Webby examined the picture.

‘Can you rewind or something?’ Ben wondered. ‘Then we can see if there’s a difference.’

‘Better than that, I can play back a sequence of all the images since it came online.’ Webby returned to his computer.

‘Like time-lapse photography?’ Mrs Bailey asked. ‘Speeding up flowers opening, that sort of thing?’

The images started to play through, like a jerky video.

‘Not just flowers,’ Ben said.

Rupam was right. The hedge had moved and grown thicker. But it was not just that hedge. As they watched, the vegetation round the edge of the village thickened and moved, pressing inwards. Slowly but surely, the greenery was advancing on the centre of the village, blocking the roads and
fields, cutting it off from the outside world. A mass of trees, shrubs, hedges, ivy – all types of vegetation – moving inexorably inwards.

‘I think we should get going,’ Ben said.

‘What was it in Knight’s letter – the warning from the old woman they met?’ Sam said quietly. She was standing right beside him and Ben hadn’t noticed.

Rupam hadn’t heard Sam, but he was making the same connection. ‘That’s what it means,’ he said.
‘Beware the green.’