Urban Occult Page 4

  He turned on the back seat of the school bus to see the car his dad had bought (just before leaving for another woman) in pursuit, his mum tensely at the wheel. Gareth wasn’t sure her decision to help on this weekend trip would be successful. She and the boys at his new school came from different worlds and he wondered whether there’d be any chance of communication between them.

  “You’d have to pay for it anyway!” said John, a plump thirteen year-old with manly features.

  “Not me, mate,” said Patrick. He was clearly the leader of the group of twenty crammed in the Transit, the same model staff who worked for Gareth’s dad used to reach building sites. And when Patrick finished, it was with similar wiliness to business associates who visited developing housing estates Gareth had often visited: “Not me at all.”

  His past interfering with the present, Gareth found himself staring at Patrick.

  “What are you looking at, you big girl?” the leaner boy snapped.

  “Yeah, you should be in the other bus with the rest of ’em!” added John, voice every bit as fierce. Then he looked into the van’s front seats. “Haven’t we overtaken it yet? Mr Collins is rubbish at driving!”

  Gareth’s mum had warned him that the pupils at, what she’d termed with mild delusion, “a worthy comprehensive school” would be more robust than those he’d grown used to at the Boys’ Grammar. And Patrick and John were certainly the type she’d had in mind.

  “If you want to be in our gang, you’ll have to climb to the top of that tower on the… the thingy.”

  Patrick lacked a wide vocabulary, but then his actions spoke for him. He pointed through one window at a shape looming up ahead in the distance, beyond spring-enlivened fields. The building was dark and erect, like an authoritative forefinger. Over their history teacher’s shoulder, Gareth examined it with mounting discomfort.

  “On the horizon,” he said, hoping to remove unwanted attention and potential for physical contact; he’d sooner interact with words alone. Mum had taught him many and what most meant. He felt her presence so close behind, as if she was inside him.

  “Oh, cocks to language,” the fatter boy yelled, clearly alluding to his main preoccupation. Camping overnight before the village festival tomorrow would surely be an excuse for juvenile frolics, but for Gareth it was an opportunity to enhance knowledge of English traditions. Ms Jenkins, the driver of the other Transit, had made Gadmer sound interesting in class. The village had once been a self-sufficient community sheltered from the “ravages of capitalism”—one of the main reasons why Gareth’s mum had been keen for them both to visit.

  As the ride drew near its destination, Gareth wondered why he was intent on befriending the rowdy pair now leering at girls climbing out of the other van, which had parked beside a sweep of Yorkshire countryside. Did he feel coerced because he was frightened of Patrick and John? That might be true, but he recalled experiencing similar fear with rougher boys at his previous school. There, he’d sought the friendship of quieter pupils with gentle hobbies like reading science-fiction, stamp-collecting, and model building. There were similar boys here, skulking near the front of the van… and so why wasn’t he seeking to pal up with them? What had changed?

  The back doors were kicked open, and Gareth kept his voice low as he asked the two boys, “When would I have to climb it?” He didn’t want his mum to hear as she climbed out of her car after parking nearby. Now, standing beside so many pretty, energetic girls clustered on the forecourt, she looked old and stressed.

  “In the morning,” Patrick replied, looking again at the imposing structure on a grassy hill behind lots of quaint property. “We’ll sneak out of our tents and race up there.”

  “It’s dead scary at the top,” said John, who’d revealed earlier that he’d once come here with his parents. “You can see for ages.”

  His limited vocabulary had resulted in an erroneous sentence. Nevertheless, the words conveyed to Gareth a notion of time; something that fascinated him, the way people and even whole communities were products of prior events.

  His mind had been filled with such intrusive nonsense, of course, and he always found it easier to just be. Neglecting his pursuing mum, he followed the bigger boys towards the group of girls who’d started walking for the village, where the campsite located.

  And above innumerable slate roofs, the tower waited: tall, silent, imperious.

  After all the tents had been pitched (Gareth was relieved that Mum would share with Ms Jenkins and not him), Mr Collins told the group they’d take a stroll through Gadmer and make notes for their projects.

  Saturday afternoon sunshine bathed the black-stone walls of the property with a yellow sheen, like hope latent in dark community… Gareth knew he shouldn’t look the world in this way, but it was hard to resist the habit. Observing a car park full of vehicles, he wondered why a location immune from the excesses of the modern world had such commercial appeal, but then realised that speaking about these issues would hardly enamour him to his fellow pupils.

  The girls, with washed hair and dressed in twirling skirts, skipped in and out of buildings they visited, giggling with a pleasing innocence. But Gareth couldn’t say the same about some of the boys, who poked fun at monuments, trying to impress anyone in their vicinity with ignorant bullishness.

  They’d surely have no luck with Gadmer’s residents. Dour women and stern-looking men presided over till-points, selling generic curios to tourists enjoying a nostalgic weekend. There were many mini versions of the village’s tower, which forced Gareth to question the place’s claim to be an organic community. Later, in the village hall, Gareth caught his mum’s uneasy gaze. She shrugged, smiling awkwardly. Maybe she’d also imagined that more chaste artefacts would be available here.

  Hanging between tall windows in a large lobby, several paintings depicted the locality’s past. Here was a group of men in ancient garb, huddled around a large table, as if planning something important…

  They were up to no good at all, said a voice in Gareth’s head, but he suppressed it, because now his attention was drawn to another work of art. This painting displayed a beautiful young woman with sadness in her eyes. Or was this interpretation subjective? Gareth was unable to ask anybody else what they thought; none of the other boys appeared to have noticed her, preferring to tease the girls with lewd innuendo. The figure in the portrait couldn’t be much older than any of them, and Gareth found himself growing increasingly captivated… but then Mr Collins started to speak.

  “Okay, everybody, when we arrived, you’ll all have noticed the Gadmer tower. This was built in the 1400s as a lookout post to detect encroaching armies.”

  “More likely it served as a patriarchal symbol to facilitate the early development of business.”

  But only Gareth heard his mum’s response, because she’d crept up close to whisper to him. Her idiosyncratic interpretation of the tower’s purpose was potentially embarrassing, but as the teacher went on, Gareth continued to make notes in his writing pad.

  “These four people, elder statesmen of the village, turned Gadmer into a thriving community, exporting wheat, corn and potatoes.”

  That was surely why the men in the painting looked complicit in secrecy. Gareth was greatly intrigued, and even after hearing his mum hiss, “That’s when the rot set in!” he asked with uncharacteristic assertion, “But who’s… she?”

  Mr Collins followed Gareth’s pointed forefinger—to the blonde, blue-eyed young woman. Gentle brushstrokes denoted no movement, but certainly a wealth of deep emotion. “Sorry, I’ve no idea. How about you, Ms Jenkins?”

  “I’m afraid not,” replied his colleague.

  “Typical.”

  “Mum, shush!”

  “History is written by the winners—by men.”

  She’d caused a scene, just as he’d feared she would. After the recent divorce, she’d been unable to control her bitterness. Gareth sympathised, but whenever she compromised him in public, he commonly experienced
negative thoughts about her.

  Even though all the pupils, including the girls, stared their way, Gareth was hardly reassured when Mr Collins stepped forwards to tackle the situation.

  “Well, let’s be glad things have progressed since,” he said, glancing at Ms Jenkins, presumably in the hope of support. “Today we have as many women making sense of the past.”

  “Words, words, words,” Gareth’s mum replied, rage animating her taut body. “It’s action that’s needed.”

  “None of us can go back in time,” Ms Jenkins added, perhaps with a little more empathy than her colleague.

  “And anyway, we’d appreciate it if you’d leave the education to us.” Mr Collins had definitely grown impatient. “Your assistance this weekend is welcome, but you’re not qualified to contribute to lessons.”

  “Yes, okay. I’m sorry, I—”

  But then Gareth’s mum fled the building, holding one hand to her mouth and sobbing audibly. Without asking permission, Gareth followed her, catching up near a bandstand where musicians with aged instruments rehearsed for the parade the following morning.

  “Mum, it’s all right.”

  “No, it isn’t. Nothing is. Nowhere is.” She looked up at the man who’d conduct the band tomorrow; he was expressing impatience with a female performer whose lute was out of tune. Then Mum added, “I’d hoped somewhere would be free of it all, but… but I was wrong.”

  Graham wondered whether she was losing her mind. Dr Martin, their GP, had prescribed anti-depressants months ago, but Gareth didn’t think she was taking them. He didn’t know what to say.

  Then she spoke again: “And don’t think I haven’t noticed you lusting over all the girls here.”

  He felt his body stiffen and retaliation wasn’t a conscious choice he made. “If you’re so bothered about that, why did you take me out of a single-sex school? A good one at that.”

  “Don’t be naïve, Gareth. Letting your dad have his way by staying there, you’d have learned how to become a Man.” She pronounced the last word emphatically, with its capital letter. “Now I can supplement the rubbish you’re taught with facts of my own.”

  So that was her plan. She wanted to mould him, control what he got to learn about…

  He turned away, addressing the tower overlooking the village with solemn authority. Did he detect a shape—a small person, maybe—at the top, or was that just a play of light?

  “Something’s not right here, Gareth. Can’t you feel it? Something -something once happened.”

  At that moment, Gareth’s mind was filled with thoughts about black magic and the occult. He felt decidedly uneasy and must protest. “Oh, now you’re being silly, Mum.”

  “No, I’m not, Gareth. I’m not.”

  She grabbed him by the shoulders, causing an unwanted sensation, and then pointed him towards several people walking in the streets. A man trailed a woman, possibly his wife, by a few yards; another was shouting at his children, who only wanted to play. But was Gareth misreading these events? Had his mum’s hysteria infected his mind?

  “Come on, let’s go back,” he said, eager to flee as soon as possible.

  “Just be careful,” she replied, now watching bigger boys, Patrick and John among them, strutting out of the village hall with physical dominance. “Don’t do anything that I’ll… I mean, anything that you’ll regret. Nothing’s natural. All you ever have to say is no.”

  “Okay,” he replied, and then moved quickly away.

  Gareth was reading a favourite collection of horror stories, in which less-than-honourable protagonists met grisly ends, when his tent was violated.

  “What ye doing, puff?” said Patrick, pushing his head through the unzipped entrance. He was dressed in a T-shirt and pants, and quickly clambered inside on all fours. “Reading? Oh, fuck me!”

  Gareth didn’t care for the image the boy’s words and posture had summoned to his mind. Nevertheless, he set aside the book and then switched his attention to similarly-attired John, struggling in behind his fitter friend.

  “I like stories -about time travel,” he panted, finally settling near the foot of Gareth’s sleeping bag. “Is there any–in your book?”

  “Who cares? It’s just words, innit? You can’t do anything with ’em.”

  “But aren’t films the same, Patrick?” Gareth was trying to enter the boys’ shared mind-set. “Don’t they involve images that preclude, er, I mean, that you can’t interact with? Even so, there’s a form of magic involved in the-well, in the way such media convey information.” When neither of his uninvited guests replied, Gareth added, “Think of our history projects. We’re engaging with the past by drawing on static evidence and then–”

  But that was when inspiration seemed to strike John. “Hey, I could show you films you can do something with. My dad’s got some real hot stuff in our attic at home.”

  Now Gareth felt conscious of the pyjamas he wore, which he’d taken from his case, also containing his festival costume for tomorrow. The trousers gaped at the groin, a single button preserving his modesty. His mum had bought the garments, just as she’d made his peasant’s outfit in her spare time, after working a shift as the paid manager of a charity shop. These thoughts left him silent, his face solemn and contemplative.

  Patrick had clearly noticed Gareth’s reserve and smiled when he asked, “You realise that it’s not just for pissing, don’t you?”

  “What… what do you mean?” The response had simply escaped him, a habitual and panicky attempt to control the edgy situation. The darkness outside seemed remarkably dense. Could the moon-thrown shadow of the tower be directly over the tent? If so, why did parts of it appear to writhe, as if people were up there, and each less substantial than flesh? Perhaps he’d been reading too much gruesome fiction lately, however.

  “He doesn’t know,” John said in a brutal voice. “He doesn’t know about it.”

  “But he must know where you’re supposed to put it.” Patrick watched Gareth without blinking. “Where do you think you first came from, mate?”

  If the lean boy was referring to procreation, Gareth probably understood more than he did himself. His dad, possibly at Mum’s anxious behest, had taught him the basic facts years ago, despite being embarrassed and handing him money to evade further enquiry. But many feelings Gareth had experienced lately—sexual yearning, he guessed– were warmer than the cold, functional act that was arguably his parents’ experience. Before studying for a degree in Women’s Issues, Mum had done all the housework while Dad had earned the family’s keep. She’d presumably fulfilled duties in the bedroom, too. And was that a fair exchange? Was that how the world operated? Was everything as economical as that?

  Perhaps that wasn’t true. And maybe that was why his parents were divorced now.

  None of this was helping him answer Patrick’s question, however. But that was when John spoke again.

  “I was thinking about the other thing, Patrick. You know, beating the meat.”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty good as well, but I don’t intend to do too much of it. I’ve got my eye on that Louise with the wadgers… Hey, shall we try and find her tent?”

  Gareth wished they would, leaving him alone with feelings their talk had induced. Nevertheless, thoughts of two boys stalking a fellow pupil, a vulnerable girl at that, and what might happen next, disturbed him. He was too shy to go with them, even if doing so would surely help him secure their friendship. Then, reaching blindly for an object beside him, he changed the subject.

  “What time shall I set my alarm-clock for? For the trip up the tower, I mean.”

  “Ooh, that’s an expensive looking model.”

  “Shut up, John.” Patrick produced another of the lollies he’d been selling earlier and began sucking it. “How about seven? We can be there and back before all the others get up.”

  “Okay,” Gareth replied, and then began to wind back time.

  As Patrick and John departed, he noticed through his tent’s ent
rance that the shadow of the tower hadn’t shifted a bit. Either the boys’ visit had felt longer than it had been-or this place was magical, after all.

  The noise that woke him sounded like a girl’s scream. It combined with a dream in which he’d been-well, after snapping open his eyes, he realised he’d suppressed this-and possibly for a good reason. Then he peeled back the bedding to prepare for what he’d promised to undertake this morning.

  He might as well change into costume. If his mum saw him outside so early, he could say he’d been out walking in the fields; she was always trying to encourage his appreciation of nature. He pulled on a loose shirt and baggy trousers, slipped his feet into leather shoes. After adding a limp hat, he felt different, more primal. It was as if his modern habits had been stripped away, and this felt emancipating. He emerged from his tent and sensed the land around the campsite coming steadily to life. Trees stirred in a gentle May breeze, while birds twittered provocatively… and then he heard footsteps steal up behind.

  “Oh, what do you look like?” John cried, still dressed in a trendy jumper and casual trainers. His belly wobbled as he halted alongside Patrick, who also wore nothing but his usual fashionable garments.

  Everybody was obsessed by appearance these days, Gareth reflected, and for once the idea, admittedly trite, felt like his own. Then he replied with uncommon confidence. “So… are we going or not?”

  He didn’t fear being detected, was rather tired of maternal sanctions. His limbs feeling unfettered, he strolled towards the tower, beyond which a bright ball of sunshine rose above the smudged horizon.

  Many of Gadmer’s residents had already arisen and attempted to engage with the evocation of the past. A man dressed as a noble nailed a plaque to a post, while his companion, a woman in a wide skirt, stood reading it.