The Watchers (20 page)

From
The Mind Possessed: A Personal Investigation into the Broad Haven Triangle

by Dr R. Caxton (Clementine Press, 1980) p.35

I soon discovered historical evidence that established some basis for the community’s enduring belief in supernatural manifestations. In 1190 the monk Gerald of Wales spoke of spirits that are not visible but present all the same. They ripped up clothes and entered houses that were bolted and barred. And in 1927 a husband and wife from the village saw an object fall into St Brides Bay. A boat was dispatched to search for it. Nothing was found.

Almost ten years later the same thing was seen again. This time the local police were involved. Shortly afterwards Chief Inspector Reginald Jones reported that he and a colleague saw something emerge from the sea near Stack Rocks.

In the witness’s own words, ‘At first I thought we were seeing a ship on fire on the horizon. But then it rose out of the water like a blood-red sun, a good deal larger than a full-sized harvest moon. It remained at sea level, then suddenly took off at a fantastic speed towards the Atlantic. Afterwards, there was a terrible flood.’

Of course, in such a superstitious community events like these were thought to be connected . . .

– 28 –

Saturday 12 February, 1977, Ram Inn, Little Haven, 1 a.m

As I showered, I thought of Araceli and found myself wishing we had been friends when we were younger. It would have helped me knowing there was another young person as lonely as me shut up in the hotel on the hill with no one but her mother for company, the mad woman on the hill.

Mum was involved with the Rotary Club. Local business owners, some of the elders.
Araceli had also told me that Mr Daley was a member, but after my confrontation with him on the stairs that was a difficult idea to swallow.
They raised money for good causes
. I wondered vaguely what
good causes?

Araceli hadn’t invited me to stay but of course I had offered. Why not? There were plenty of vacant rooms. But she had refused, insisted she was fine up there.

I towelled myself dry and went to the window in the bedroom. A light at the top of the Haven Hotel was still on. For a few moments I contemplated phoning just to check she was all right, but would that look too keen? Heaven knows, I didn’t want to scare her off. What I really wanted was to keep her close, to understand why she was at the forefront of my considerations, to know why that concern felt so legitimate. And while I couldn’t help but interpret that concern as physical attraction, I knew at the core of my being there was a deeper bond here.

I pulled on some underwear and a T-shirt, sat down at the desk facing the window and flicked on the radio.

Selina’s notebook wasn’t particularly thick, but still it felt weightily important. Two words scrawled on its inside cover sent a thread of worry worming into me: ‘
Caveat Lector
.’ Let the reader beware.

That sort of poetic flourish was typical of Selina. In other circumstances it might even have brought a smile to my lips.

I flicked further into the journal and stopped at a page headed ‘Brawdy’.

The secret US facility is small but perfectly placed – remote, low-density population. The Americans seem to be doing much to ingratiate themselves with the locals: collecting clothing, cleaning up beaches, riverbeds and cemeteries. They’ve even purchased equipment for the local hospitals. But the American presence on British soil continues to attract criticism from the usual sources. Many suspect the facility at Brawdy is part of a regional defence network. The secrecy surrounding the facility has made it the target of several anti-nuclear protests led by the Campaign for the Accountability of American Bases. Bestford needs to be careful in discussing the facility in public.

I looked up from the text. The radio was murmuring a song. I turned up the volume. Barry White was singing about his first, last and everything. Coincidentally one of Selina’s favourites. I forced myself to flick further into the journal. I knew what I was looking for, was certain it would be here. It was. ‘The parallels between the sightings here and the incident at RAF Croughton are undeniable now. Colonel Corso has agreed to speak to me in private before he gives evidence to the inquiry. He needs to hear what I learned yesterday.’

*

As I turned the page, somewhere in the recesses of my mind hidden connections were threading together. Then my eyes fell on the hurriedly scrawled heading ‘Interview with Martin Marshall’. ‘Perhaps it was because he wasn’t feeling well; the boy looked weak, washed-out. His slow responses suggest the flu – or something. He also had hearing problems, difficulty remembering things.’

The notebook proceeded to tell the same story I had heard that evening from Martin, but it also detailed the sense of darkness and hopelessness that had overwhelmed him after his encounter.

I wondered whether he might be on drugs or lying, but if he was acting, this boy deserves an Oscar! And as for substance abuse, it’s possible that he was delusional, I suppose, but it’s clear to me that something happened on the base that night. Some sort of commotion – an explosion. People in the closest village heard it.

Martin has made a sketch of the figure he witnessed. My plan is to show it to Colonel Corso and perhaps encourage the two of them to meet.
But Martin was hostile. He said he would never forget the figure. ‘Its face was made of shadows.’

Six pages from the back I found more notes referencing the man who was supposed to be our star witness, Lieutenant Colonel Corso.

This is far worse than I feared. According to Colonel Corso there exists a highly secret report associated with the UFO sightings – associated with someone called Jack Parsons. This report fell into the hands of a group of people who call themselves the Parsons Elite. Who are they? I have no idea. The report warns that UFOs – whatever they are – are dangerous. Deadly. But who wrote this report? Who leaked it?

I looked up, feeling the colour drain from my face. I silenced the radio, feeling my heart rate pick up. Something made me turn round. Feeling no longer alone.

I checked the window and then went to the door to check it was properly shut. Rattled the door handle three times then ran my fingers along the edge of the door, checking it was flush against the frame. It was. I knelt and peered through the keyhole to make sure there was no one outside in the corridor. There wasn’t. The only thing of interest in the corridor was a malfunctioning light that flickered and blinked at me, as if to say,
You’re crazy, Robert. You know that? Crazy!

I squeezed my wrists against my eyes and said out loud, ‘This has got to stop. Soon you won’t know what’s real and what’s not.’

When I finally made it into bed, I flicked off the light and the swell of the sea brought me back to the present. I lay there in the pitch black picturing Araceli’s haunted face. Was it possible? Aliens in this remote, unimportant corner of the world? Except it wasn’t unimportant. Not to the Soviets. From behind the Iron Curtain, predators were eyeing this little corner of the world.

I tried to distance myself from these thoughts, but it was useless. Nagging doubts kept my gaze riveted on the door handle as cold uncertainty crept in. Some things I couldn’t doubt, like the lights I had witnessed cartwheeling in the sky over Brawdy. They were real, and everything about that aerial display was unnatural: the impossible speeds, the sharp turns, the breathtaking acceleration no human pilot would ever survive.

I started to shake. Paranoia was affecting my judgement, and I had responsibilities – to Araceli and her daughter, who were vulnerable, to Selina, and to the admiral, who had sent me here to solve this mystery. Didn’t they deserve someone who was equal to the task?

My thoughts returned to Frobisher’s tale about the glowing object that had crashed into the sea centuries ago; to the Jacksons, who had died while walking on the cliffs; to the mutilated animals; to the silver-suited figures stalking the countryside. And to the Black-Suited Men with skin like wax and eyes like fire and ice.

From
The Mind Possessed: A Personal Investigation into the Broad Haven Triangle

by Dr R. Caxton (Clementine Press, 1980), p.50

That winter the Havens slept beneath glaring stars. In farmhouses and hotels, on the sea and in the fields and on deserted country roads the darkest imaginings were coming true. By the weekend that preceded the sky watch, the twice-daily buses from Haverfordwest had emptied; the fishermen from Milford Haven who for decades had come to St Brides Bay for their catch kept instead to their own patch. Even the Saturday afternoon excursion from the home for the elderly in Pembroke Dock turned its back on Broad Haven’s finest fish and chip shop. Something had gone wrong in this part of Pembrokeshire. Outsiders couldn’t tell you what, exactly, or why – only that they believed with conviction that the Havens had turned bad.

– 29 –

Saturday 12 February 1977, four days until the sky watch . . .

By half past eight the sun had passed the horizon and was glimmering weakly on St Brides Bay. Over breakfast at the window table in the Nest Bistro I watched the cockle women in their shawls heading for the sands. When I had finished and stepped outside, a grizzly fisherman unmooring his bobbing vessel raised a courteous but wary hand in my direction, and I played my part, waving back confidently.

I didn’t trust him. After the previous night’s confrontation with the landlord I wasn’t sure who to trust. Except perhaps Araceli and Frobisher. And the admiral? An hour or two earlier I had written him a short note telling him about the sinister people in the village – my suspicions that they might be connected, somehow, with the unusual sightings. I wrote too about the incredible light display above RAF Brawdy and Selina’s notes referencing a secret report associated with someone called Jack Parsons.

The gulls were shrieking overhead. The wind gusted. I felt so lonely here, so cut off.

As I passed the post office, I saw Ethel Dunwoody’s bloated distrustful face peering out at me from the window. I remembered how the
ROTARY
pin she had been wearing had caught my eye, and that made me wonder who else was a member.

If there was one thing I had learned from my committee work in Parliament, it was that small groups of people with influence have a funny way of pursuing the agendas that matter most to them. Idly I wondered what had mattered most to the members of the Havens Rotary Club, and to Araceli’s late mother. Someone would know, but I would have to ask around and hope I got lucky; people in the Havens weren’t exactly forthcoming.

‘The Rotary Club?’ My informant was a middle-aged man coming out of the Nest Bistro. He looked around as if to check no one was listening then dropped his voice to a confidential tone. ‘To be honest, they’re a bit odd. I reckon they think they’re like the Masons or something. Self-important bunch the lot of ’em, but I suppose they have some influence.’

‘Know much about their charitable work?’

‘Well I think they raised some money for the lifeboat.’

I was beginning to think I would get nowhere until a young woman stretching after her run along the beach suggested it might help me to check out the information board outside the village hall.

The noticeboard was covered with coloured leaflets promoting the sort of occasions you’d expect in a remote community like the Havens: parish council meetings, book clubs, after-school private tuition and dog-walking services. There was still one leaflet promoting the eventful public meeting at the school. Someone had defaced it with a crude drawing of an extraterrestrial. It looked exactly as you would expect – right out of the movies, with a tiny slit for a mouth, almond-shaped eyes and a large pear-shaped head. An alien face.

Funny
, I thought. Except it wasn’t. Because none of the menacing humanoids seen in the area looked anything like this picture. Those figures had no faces. Those figures were broad and seven feet tall, with silver clothing that rustled when they walked and shimmered in the moonlight. Those figures could vanish in an instant, walk through fences and traumatize a young man’s mind.

This thought was troubling enough but it wasn’t what made the shiver run up my back. That came a few moments later when I spotted what was I looking for, hidden away in the bottom right corner of the noticeboard. A single card. Tiny writing. ‘The Havens Rotary Club thanks you for your support. This year we will continue to support the lifeboat appeal, as well as new equipment for the school. Work continues on the Stack Rocks Fort renovation project to create a visitors’ centre but remains in its very early stages. We would like to remind anyone thinking of visiting the rocks that landing there is difficult and that the fort is in an extremely dilapidated, dangerous condition. All donations gratefully received. Our next meeting is on 2 April at . . .’

Stack Rocks again. This was what it was really like, knowing that your worst suspicions weren’t paranoid imaginings – however much one hoped they were – but real. Stack Rocks Fort was connected to the Happenings – somehow – and so were the individuals who called themselves the Havens Rotary Club. I knew that as certainly as I now knew who controlled access to the fort. I knew something else too. Araceli would tell me more. I’d make certain of it.

I decided to go into the post office for a newspaper, and when I pushed open the door and entered the dusty interior found a few of the village women mid-gossip.

‘Mary Dee had a strange phone call the other night. No one there, she said, just heavy breathing. When I got a call I reported it to the telephone company. Our number’s unlisted, so it must have been a fault on the line.’

Another woman chipped in, ‘Well, we had a man call at the house asking questions for the council – so he said. Tanned, looked foreign to me. Wanted to know about Isaac and what he saw at the school.’

My ears pricked up. That didn’t sound like the council to me.

‘Isaac’s not feeling too well today, are you, dear?’ I heard his mother say. ‘Good job the school is closed.’

Isaac was a rotund eleven-year-old. At least nine stone. He was standing next to his mother at the counter as I laid down my morning paper for payment.

Hey, weren’t
you
interested in all that?’ the postmistress said, turning to me. Ethel Dunwoody’s voice was unmistakably hostile, so much so that I decided immediately it would be unwise to tell her too much or to ask about her involvement with the Rotary Club. ‘You find what you were looking for?’ she added.

‘I think so,’ I muttered, trying not to look at her lapel pin.

Isaac’s mother stood staring at me. ‘You were at the town meeting.’

I nodded, smiled. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing you just now. Can I ask what’s wrong with your son?’

‘What’s it to you?’ she asked with sudden hostility.

It wasn’t the response I was hoping for.

‘Well, I’ve met others who have seen these strange craft in the air and close to the ground. I’m interested to know whether there are any physical effects.’ I glanced down at Isaac. Not a handsome child: his dark hair was too long, his skin a sun-starved white. And his stillness was unsettling. He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t even blinked. ‘What I mean is, have you noticed any changes in Isaac’s behaviour? It’s natural for a youngster to be unnerved seeing something so out of the ordinary.’

She seemed to read the insinuation in my question, but with Isaac standing right next to her said nothing. The kid’s eyes had a glassy sheen I didn’t care for at all.

‘You some sort of expert?’

‘Not exactly.’ I paused, then turned to the boy. ‘Isaac?’ I asked lightly.

He turned to look at me wordlessly. I took a step back. It wasn’t just that he looked ill; he was
changed
. His face was . . . older, his skin almost grey.

‘Oh goodness,’ the postmistress remarked, ‘the poor love really doesn’t look well.’ She almost sounded pleased.

I asked, ‘Isaac, when you and the other children saw that object, did any of your teachers see it too? Maybe when you and your friends ran in to get the headmaster?’

He shook his head, and I saw that the glassy sheen in his eyes had vanished. Then he said, ‘If sir hadn’t let us out of class early, we probably wouldn’t have seen it at all.’

That got my attention. Howell Cooper had never mentioned anything about letting the children out early.

‘And why did he do that?’ I asked.

‘Because the priest came,’ the child said innocently.

‘Father O’Riorden?’

Isaac nodded. ‘Sir said they had to talk in private.’

His mother gave me a questioning look.

‘What else did Mr Cooper say, Isaac? After you saw the silver object?’ I was trying to sound unconcerned.

‘Sir said we should rest and that we should keep our minds open because that’s when we hear them best.’

‘Hear who, Isaac ?’

‘The voices. The voices from the sky.’

‘Do
you
hear them, Isaac? What do they say?’

‘That we must be ready. That we must watch the skies.’

‘Oh, not this again!’ his mother said curtly, sounding more nervous than exasperated.

‘Daddy’s heard the voices too,’ the child cut in. ‘Daddy’s not well.’

The postmistress brushed her hands down her apron. ‘Well, must get on. Lots to do!’

My spotlight of suspicion dropped on Father O’Riorden. Why was the priest at the school at the same time as the sighting?

‘Father O’Riorden, what can you tell me about him?’ I asked Ethel Dunwoody.

But the postmistress just shook her head.

‘Right, well. Take Isaac straight home,’ I said, turning to his mother, who was leading the boy towards the post office door. ‘Watch him carefully, OK? He’s had a terrible shock.’

She nodded.

A terrible shock.
Just like Martin Marshall and little Tessa. And, like them, Isaac’s behaviour, even his appearance, was changing in subtle ways.
Perhaps that’s what happens when you observe these UFOs up close
.
Perhaps they change you. Not for the better
.

‘We did try taking advice from Mr Pritchard,’ Isaac’s mother disclosed. ‘He wasn’t much help.’ She didn’t just look worried now; she looked distressed. ‘You don’t think it’s anything . . . sinister, do you?’

‘I’m sure it’s not,’ I replied, offering a smile.

But as the shop bell jangled and the door shut behind them, I had to pretend I hadn’t seen the missing patch of hair on the back of Isaac’s head.