Fade to Black

  Copyright 2012 © Steven Bannister

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Acknowledgements:

  Bringing Fade to Black to life has been a singular experience. Since climbing up the slick, grassy side of a strange bump in the Somerset landscape some years ago—not knowing at the time that it was the legendary Tor and that regular flat spots I encountered as I ascended were tracks made by the Druids of antiquity—I suspect I was destined to write this story. Like the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur in Montmartre, something of influence dwells there.

  My thanks go to my family for their support during the writing process. My gratitude also to website and cover designer extraordinaire Simon Brooke of Tiger Media, Claire, Dom, Sharon and Kim (collectively, ‘The Lab Rats,’ if you will) for their honest feedback and encouragement along the way. Finally, many thanks to ‘Amy the Eye,’ whose keen editing, sense of humour and super enthusiasm made editing fun. Be warned, it won’t be long before we go through all this again.

  Cave diabolus redit

  Steve

  Table of Contents

  Chapter one

  Chapter two

  Chapter three

  Chapter four

  Chapter five

  Chapter six

  Chapter seven

  Chapter eight

  Chapter nine

  Chapter ten

  Chapter eleven

  Chapter twelve

  Chapter thirteen

  Chapter fourteen

  Chapter fifteen

  Chapter sixteen

  Chapter seventeen

  Chapter eighteen

  Chapter nineteen

  Chapter twenty

  Chapter twenty-one

  Epilogue

  Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour: 1Peter 5:8-9

  Chapter One

  Glastonbury, southern England

  Eighty-seven-year-old Albert Mortlock shuffled once more from the bench in his tiny farmhouse kitchen to his living room. His hip reconstruction from four years ago had not yet healed. An over-full teapot in hand, he sank with a low groan into his favorite chair, a 1931 chesterfield original.

  It had commanded the corner of the room by the wooden-framed window since the day it had been delivered. Like its owner, it was cracked and grey with thin, leathery skin bulging in the wrong places. It had been his father’s chair and Albert had been forbidden to sit in until his father had passed away. Fifty-one years he had waited, but that was his father—rules were rules. He frequently found himself thinking about his father and how hard he had made his life and Albert’s. He kept fretting over how it wouldn’t be long before he joined his father in that other world. And he had no desire to see the bastard again.

  The fiddly, time-stained glass panels of the window ushered in the yellow, bright summer moon, by whose light he could see his roses in full white and red bloom. He admitted that even pruning his ‘babies’ had become more challenge than pleasure these days.

  The tiny parcel of land upon which the cottage Albert had inherited stood had been part of a much larger farm that, according to family legend, had been owned by the Mortlocks, under one name or another since the Middle Ages. The landholding had once stretched across the marshes to the foot of Wearyall Hill. But that was history. Albert was happy enough with the acre that had been left to him. The cottage perched on slightly higher ground here in Ashwell Lane near Stone Down met all of his modest needs.

  Albert looked past the roses to the slight hump in the neglected lawn, accentuated in the evening light and which he alone knew marked his wife’s grave. Forty-six years later, the grass was still a little greener there under the willow tree where Marion was buried. He mentally approved the view but thought for perhaps the hundredth time that his father really should have dug a little deeper.

  German-born Marion had insulted them publicly one too many times, and his father, a World War I veteran, had finally snapped. He shivered at the memory and adjusted the faded wool rug around his knees—even in summer, he needed an extra layer. Whenever he thought of Marion, and it was quite often these days, he thought about his son. He had been put up for adoption at just six months old after his mother had ‘mysteriously run out’ on them. Albert had been known to speculate along with the townsfolk about where she could have run off to and with whom. Had even one of them bothered to visit him at Ashwell Lane, they would have discovered the truth.

  The years had passed, and the townspeople he had known had all died, and now there was nobody around who remembered he had even been married. He had never heard from his son, and that was fine with him. The child had probably been spared the same fate as his mother. He reached to pour himself the fresh brew, spilling some of the hot, weak liquid on his rug. He puffed a little more than usual at the effort—his emphysema from a lifetime of pipe smoking was now poised to claim his lungs.

  Lifting the hot tea and blowing gently on it as he always did, he turned to look up through the larger window at a view of which he never tired. Glastonbury Tor rose almost from his backyard, and from this vantage point, it seemed to touch the now fully-risen gibbous moon. He saw it then. An intense, crimson light hovered directly above the tower at the summit of the Tor. It remained for a few more seconds, as he knew it would, and descended the side of the Tor nearest his cottage. A ripple of anticipation teased him as it crept steadily towards him. Albert had not expected to ever see the light again, but he knew now that his years of mumbled prayers had been answered. Albert’s father, his grandfather and all his ancestors stretching back a thousand years had seen the light and played their role. Albert was not about to break that tradition.

  That light, Albert knew, lived forever. He waited calmly for it to come to him. It arrived at his window, pulsating as per the ritual. As was expected, he rose to his feet, clutching at the arm of the chesterfield as he did so. He faced the light directly and bowed to it. After a moment, the light stopped pulsating and grew impossibly, painfully bright before moving steadily away across his back garden to the west. Albert stood for a few more moments, then maneuvered himself easily back into his chair—his hip perfectly functional, the emphysema in his lungs banished for his remaining years. He had, like the men in his family, in exchange for physical redemption, given permission to the crimson light—to it—to live among mortals once again.

  Albert knew that, as a consequence of his actions, ordinary, decent, men, women and children would forfeit their lives in unimaginable, terrible ways until permission was withdrawn from the light. The townsfolk had come to know him as the kindly old gentleman who had served so earnestly in the Glastonbury General post office for nearly seventy years and to whom they had once given a civic service award—but he knew the truth—he was a killer—just like his father.

  *****

  TV news: BBC Four, Roseanne Palmer:

  ‘Once again, Glastonbury Tor has excited paranormal fever in Britain. It seems that on Saturday and again last night, strange lights were seen ‘orbiting’ the Tor and 14th century St Michael’s Tower which sits at its peak. A flood of calls on both nights to Glastonbury’s Centre for Paranormal Studies has experts again scratching their heads. According to the reports, reddish lights were seen hovering above the Tor on Monday night at 10:14 pm and exactly 24 hours later, an intense white-blue light appeared. According to many the lights seemed to actually enter the tower. Earlier today, Rector of Glastonbury Abbey, Reverend Nevin Creeley, dismissed the sightings as ‘over active ‘imaginitis’ and reminded everyone that re-runs of the X-files and Alien movies had been screened on free-to-air television this week.’

  Palmer to camera left:

  “In the studio tonight we have arguably Britain’s foremost authority on Celtic myths and legends, Professor David St. Clair.

  RP: “Professor, is Reverend Creeley right? Are we looking at a bad case of ‘imaginitis?’

  St. Clair: (laughing) “Well it’s a great word, Roseanne, but I’m not sure it does the good folks of Glastonbury justice.”

  RP: “So you think the strange lights are real then?”

  St. Clair: “Well, I understand fifty or so calls have been received—it’s doubtful in my view, at least, that so many people would have been so stimulated by sci-fi movies that they have somehow joined in a mass hallucination.”

  RP: “Interesting—so what could the lights be?”

  St. Clair: “What they could be has been a matter of speculation since the fourth century—that’s how long people have been ascribing mystical powers to the Tor. Of course, that coincides with the new spiritualism and awareness of ‘otherworldly’ possibilities that seemed to take hold at that time—particularly in southern Britain.”

  RP: “Could the mysterious lights around the Tor have triggered the beliefs?”

  St. Clair: “The Tor has been at the centre of many legends and beliefs—not all of them concern mysterious lights.”

  RP: “Such as?
”

  St. Clair: (smiling) “Faeries for one—and not the cute winged variety found at the bottom of the garden. It is said they have caverns and magical springs associated with the home of Gwnn ap Nudd, the Faerie King—and of course there are those who believe in Ley lines, celestial pathways from the summit and that’s not to mention the big one-the connection to King Arthur.”

  RP: (chuckling) “There’s lots to explore on this one then, Professor St. Clair, but we’ll have to leave it for another time—maybe in a galaxy far, far away! Thanks for coming in.”

  St. Clair: “My pleasure, Roseanne.”

  Chapter Two

  Tuesday, 2 p.m. New Scotland Yard, London.

  Allie St. Clair had been an Acting Detective Chief Inspector for exactly thirty seconds and it already felt right. She’d earned this. Seven years of making a drunken sod look good had finally paid off. Two weeks ago, DCI William ‘Billy’ McBride’s liver had made his decision to retire an easy one. Her immediate elevation to the head of a murder investigation team under the aegis of the Homicide Serious Crime Command was gratifying and she quietly hoped her promotion enjoyed the unanimous support of the hierarchy at New Scotland Yard.

  Her former boss had been a legend with the metropolitan police–at least in his own long lunchtimes. At fifty-two, Billy had barely served enough time to qualify for a pension. But barely was good enough, and now he had passed out of Allie’s working life. The farewell booze-up for him at his beloved Old Star just off Broadway, conveniently located not one hundred yards from Billy’s office, had been put on hold as he had been admitted to hospital five days ago to undergo a series of tests.

  She’d heard his photo now hung above the bar at the Old Star. He’d earned that alright, she thought. It was ironic that the very thing he loved to do most, which had elevated him to some kind of hero status, had brought his career to a sodden halt.

  She ran her fingers over the new warrant card that Detective Chief Superintendent Ellen Carr had just presented to her–the cheap plastic feel not dimming her prickle of anticipation. Around the central meeting room, the rest of her team now stood in their respective positions of support, admiration, mistrust and jealousy. This was life. She had worked hard, played it straight down the line, and tried to do the right thing by those colleagues whom she respected and liked. But there were those who felt she was not ready for this responsibility. She was, after all, just thirty-years old, and horror of horrors, she hailed from a background of conspicuous wealth and privilege. Her team, many of whom she had worked alongside for some years, had no way of knowing she eschewed her father’s wealth and struggled like everyone else with a hefty mortgage. She even rode an old motorbike as buying a decent car on her salary to date had been too much of a stretch.

  Carr was winding up her congratulatory remarks and Allie prepared herself to respond. She thought again about McBride. She had never actually hated him and in some ways had felt sympathy for him and his condition. But he had belittled her too many times and had taken credit for her work as a matter of course. But, she reflected, she could even have lived with that for a while longer. What she could not abide, however, was his refusal to care about anything but himself. To Billy, victims of rape had ‘asked for it’; battered women were just weak; and murder victims, the majority of whom were homeless or hopelessly drug dependent, were a nuisance at best, interrupting his drinking time. He was a sad man—and that was a fact.

  Carr’s awkward speech came to an end, “… one of the youngest officers ever to achieve the rank of Detective Chief Inspector! Allie, congratulations!”

  The twenty strong who were gathered applauded as they should and as tradition dictated, and now she was invited to ‘say a few words’. Allie St. Clair now faced them as their new superior officer.

  She was conscious of the fact that even her first words today would have an effect on how she was perceived by her new team. She paused for a moment to survey the room and simply enjoy the moment. She noted young DC Jacinta Wilkinson’s beaming smile and ‘thumbs-up’ gesture directed at her. She smiled her thanks. No such acclamation from Detective Sergeant Rachel Strauss—she was clearly agitated—shuffling and looking anywhere but at Allie. There could be no mistaking the ice from that corner of the room. They would never be friends; that much remained obvious to her. Their initial friendly rivalry as trainee detective constables seven years ago had disintegrated over time into outright enmity. Allie had been given recognition for having largely cracked a murder investigation that Rachel had worked on for months, but to no obvious avail. Allie had genuinely sympathized with Rachel and had approached her superiors more than once to have Rachel’s role in the investigation acknowledged.

  Even Billy, with whom Rachel had a close working relationship, had done nothing to correct the injustice. Rachel was never to know that Allie had tried hard to act in her interests. The problems between the two women had been compounded a couple of years previously when Allie had been approached by the Met’s advertising agency to feature in a series of recruitment ads to run in the nation’s press. It had been no secret that the agency’s hierarchy had felt that Allie’s thick, lustrous black hair, slim physique and clear-skinned good looks were exactly the ‘look’ they were after to attract higher-caliber applicants. Allie still regretted her decision to pose for a ‘test’ photo shoot. Mere days later, a huge, full-color poster had been hung in full view of the public and her colleagues.

  A friend in the force had confided to her that Rachel Strauss made loud, croaking, vomiting noises every time she’d passed by the poster. Rachel made no secret that her view of Allie’s near-perfect white teeth and searing, blue eyes were hard enough for her to cope with in real life, but Photoshopped and at ten feet tall were nothing less than an assault. Allie had already withdrawn from the campaign by then as she’d been uncomfortable with the whole concept from the outset and had only initially agreed under pressure from her superiors at Homicide Serious Crime Command. Her withdrawal neither won her points from HSCC nor assuaged Rachel Strauss’s bitter reaction.

  It was only some months later that Allie had learned that Rachel had thought her own shaggy blonde hair and impressively packed uniform might have ‘filled the bill’ as she was fond of saying, and she actively sought to be the Face of the Met. Had Allie known at the time, she would have gladly stepped aside. She looked now to the corner of the brightly-lit room at the bevy of male detectives gathered there. She knew some of them would also have a problem with her new status. The Met was a male domain, despite the well-publicized efforts to correct the impression. As genuine as those efforts were, it would take time.

  She thanked those who had helped her along the way and expressed hope that they would all work together as an effective unit. She heard herself even thank Billy for everything he had done for her, wish him well, and say how she planned to visit him at the hospital soon. In fact, she had been very surprised to receive a note from him the day before. He had asked her to come and see him. She had been wondering whether he would welcome a visit from her and the note had eased that concern. What was interesting was the unmistakable sense of urgency in the tone of the message.

  At the end of her speech, she did not invite everyone to join her for the customary, celebratory drink. She knew this was ‘bad form’ and did not miss the raised eyebrows in the room. She felt it was not appropriate given Billy’s condition. At the last moment she added that perhaps drinks could be postponed ‘just until Billy was well enough to join them.’ This drew a few nods and a general murmuring of approval. “Perhaps in a week or so,” she suggested. She drew her speech to a close with a simple, “Thank you once again and ‘see you all tomorrow!”

  There remained, of course, the details of changing offices, phone numbers and so on, but all that would happen the next day. Most of the team stopped by her office individually as the day drew to a close to again offer their congratulations, Strauss an expected exclusion. Allie found that Strauss’ attitude disappointed her more than she had expected. Prior to their ‘falling-out,’ their friendship had been one Allie had valued.