The Moors: Some secrets are better left buried (13 page)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Point of No Return
Monday 14
th
February, 1972

A new vehicle occupied the car park at the Prince Care Home. Inside were the two hunter buddies that Christian had promised to summon to the house. In truth, it was one hunter buddy and his sidekick, whom Christian was meeting for the first time.

Andy was a bit of a rogue whose nose was permanently twisted from all the times it had been broken, but he had won far more battles than he’d lost. He pulled out the lighter that was embedded in the dashboard of his truck and lit up a cigarette.

‘I don’t exaggerate when I tell you how dangerous this is,’ Christian warned.

Joe was in his early twenties. He was tall with wavy hair and model good-looks. His inexperience made him nervous and he sat in the back seat looking like a rabbit caught in headlights as Christian eyed him up and down from the front passenger seat.

‘You a good hunter?’ asked Christian.

Bashfully, Joe shrugged.

‘I’m okay,’ he replied.

His lack of conviction irked Christian.

‘Okay’s no good,’ he said, bluntly. ‘It’ll get you killed.’

‘Will you relax?’ said Andy as he took a deep puff of his cigarette and blew a large cloud of smoke out of the window. ‘The boy’s good. He’s just a little modest, is all.’

‘I’m not paying for modest. I’m paying to get the job done,’ said Christian, sternly.

‘I won the clay pigeon championships in the county last year,’ blurted Joe.

Christian looked back at him wearing a deadpan expression that Joe wasn’t quite sure how to read.

‘You might have read about it,’ Joe continued. ‘It was in the paper. I mean, I’m not bragging, but… it was a tough group of shooters.’

‘There! You see?’ encouraged Andy. ‘The boy’s a natural.’

‘Clay pigeon’s, huh?’ said Christian, looking increasingly agitated. ‘Tell me, did the pigeons have claws? Did they have teeth that were as sharp as razorblades? Did they come right at you with the intention of ripping your throat out of your fucking neck?’ he asked.

‘Jesus!’ recoiled Joe, more than a little unsettled.

‘You said he was a hunter!’ stormed Christian before climbing out of the car.

‘Whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa!’ said Andy who, at the prospect of missing out on a payday, suddenly appeared a lot more focused. ‘Settle down! The kid’s a good shooter. One of the best I’ve seen. I can absolutely vouch for that,’ he assured Christian, who stood at the open door of the truck looking back at them. He monitored the two men closely for several seconds before eventually pulling out a brown envelope.

‘Half now. Half when it’s over,’ said Christian, holding out the envelope.

‘I’m good with that!’ Andy agreed, eagerly reaching for it. Upon placing his hand on the small package, Christian pulled the man close.

‘And who do you tell about this?’ he asked.

‘No one,’ answered Andy.

Christian eyeballed him for added effect before finally letting go of the money.

‘Good,’ he said with a nod before looking back to Joe. ‘Good luck!’ he said, somewhat ominously, before closing the door, double tapping the roof of the truck and walking away.

In the living room, Gordon, Georgina and Malcolm sat in front of the television, one of the home’s many bizarre traditions given that the trio was made up of an autistic kid, a blind girl and a boy who had “sleeping disease.” There was something about having the TV on in the background that was reassuring, though. It was something of a quirky British trait along with drinking cups of tea and complaining about the weather. More importantly, in this instance, it afforded Amanda the freedom to stand in a quiet corner of the room and hold a private conversation with Margaret, who protectively held a small leather-bound book in her hands.

‘I’ve played it through in my mind and something doesn’t quite make sense,’ admitted Amanda.

‘Yes love?’

‘If this beast is what’s been eating all the animals around here, well that’s one thing. I mean, the mark of a wild animal is to kill when it gets hungry so it can survive… but to surround a home and threaten people? To go
into
that home and take a child? That’s something else entirely,’ summarised Amanda as she expressed her thoughts. 

‘M-m, h-m,’ Margaret murmured, appearing to get upset.

‘Think about it,’ continued Amanda. ‘Why does something kill? Through hunger, fear or passion, right? They’re the only reasons. The children it took. Do we know if they were eaten?’

Only at that point did Amanda notice Margaret’s deep unrest. Offending people was always a hazard of a person thinking aloud and with Reuben’s passing being so recent, it came as no surprise that Margaret was so sensitive.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Amanda, as she touched Margaret lightly on her arm.

Margaret, as always, forgave her.

‘No. It’s okay,’ she insisted, sniffing gently.

At that moment, Amanda felt bad about delving further, but to make progress she had to distance herself from the subject and press on. It was a technique she had mastered over the years.

‘Maggie?’

‘H-m?’ grunted Margaret, momentarily distracted.

‘Were they eaten?’ whispered Amanda, wearing an apologetic expression.

‘Oh! No. To the best of my knowledge the children have never been… eaten,’ answered Margaret, stalling on the final word of the bizarre sentence she had just spoken.

‘I didn’t think so. Yet I can’t see how the beast is threatened by us, either,’ admitted Amanda. ‘We’re locked away in the house, not challenging it for supremacy or for land. That only leaves passion, and I find that very interesting.’

‘How do you mean, dear?’ asked Margaret, dumbly.

‘It’s proof of intelligence!’ she said, sounding intimidated but also impressed. ‘It means there’s a thought process behind its actions. It’s emotionally driven. I mean, what kind of wild beast could–’

‘Stop calling him that!’ yelped Margaret, giving in to her own emotions in a rare moment of weakness. ‘Please, I can’t stand it,’ she said weakly.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Amanda, uncertain of where exactly the source of Margaret’s frustration had stemmed from. ‘I’m just not sure of what else to call it,’ she admitted.

‘He has a name,’ Margaret revealed.

‘A name?’

‘Yes,’ she confirmed. ‘His name is Elijah.’

Amanda looked at her, speaking delicately as she tried to coax out the all-important information Margaret seemed to possess.

‘You know, I keep hearing that name, but no one seems to want to tell me who Elijah is,’ hinted Amanda in hope.

Margaret took a moment to compose herself, knowing that the next words she uttered would change life as she knew it forever. In providing Amanda with such a key element of the mystery, she knew there would be no return, but considering the life she was leading, that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

‘My grandson,’ she finally whispered.

‘I’m sorry?’ asked Amanda, unsure if she’d heard correctly.

Margaret took a deep breath, built her courage still further and spoke again, this time with authority.

‘Elijah is my grandson,’ she confirmed.

Being an investigatory journalist, Amanda had learnt many facts in her career that she found surprising. By the job’s very nature, it led towards truths that the average person would least expect. The element of surprise was what made a great story and so Amanda was always sniffing around the improbable, the unlikely and the downright illogical in the hope of finding new leads that created something truly special for readers throughout the country.

Nothing in her memory compared to this.

Did Margaret really just say that the
beast
of the moors; the
animal
that preyed upon the home and claimed countless children’s lives; the
monster
that had come so close to claiming her own life, was her grandson? The magnitude of what this meant could not possibly be absorbed all at once. Instead, Amanda became silent as she contemplated the significance of such a discovery. Suddenly, the context of every conversation she’d held with the residents – every look they’d given her – had shifted. Things started clicking into place and making more sense, but as it did so, the world in which she lived became less like reality and more like a work of fiction. 

Slowly, Margaret lifted her hands and offered the leather book that she had held so protectively, handling it as though it were something truly sacred.

‘This should answer your questions,’ she said.

As Amanda went to take it, she felt the mild resistance of Margaret’s grasp until, eventually, she let the book go. Amanda soon discovered it wasn’t a book but a photo album. Unfortunately for Margaret, she had timed her confession poorly, for standing on the other side of the wall on the ground floor hallway, Karen had been pruning wicks and lighting candles. She had heard everything of Margaret’s confession. 

Karen looked down at her timepiece as it ticked rapidly towards seven.

Darkness.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Hunt or be Hunted
Monday 14
th
February, 1972

An oil-black sky was illuminated only by the soft bluish glow of the moon that hung rather magically in the air.

Two torches passed over the moorland like lighthouses seeking ships at night as Andy and Joe huffed searchingly through the fields and into the periphery armed with chunky, heavy weapons.

‘What’d he say? It was like a panther?’ asked Joe, still feeling uneasy about the hunt.

‘Something like that,’ shrugged Andy, who chewed on a toothpick as he scanned the land.

‘And he can’t catch it himself?’ questioned Joe.

‘He’s been trying,’ Andy informed him. ‘Said he came pretty close once, too, but it got away. All he ended up with was the beast’s damn claw!’

The search had been going on for forty minutes and Joe wondered how long they would continue before calling it a night. Not wishing to be considered as a whiney hunting partner or a chicken, he refrained from asking such a question. Instead, he observed.

Andy was an expert huntsman and his beady eyes gleaned clues that Joe would never have seen. Whatever logic Andy had implemented into the search eventually led them to a rather distinctive footprint that clung firmly to the soil. Andy observed it, put the back of his hand to it, felt the earth with his fingers before sniffing the end of his fingertips. It was a bizarre ritual that, again, Joe didn’t dare question. His own personal skills ended at being a good shot and he was fine with that.

‘It’s fresh,’ Andy somehow determined, raising his weapon, readily.

Out of worry, Joe did the same, anxiously looking around with every sense heightened. Suddenly, he noticed endless distractions. Infinite, identical trees made navigation impossible, an owl hooted, birds flapped their wings and insects could be heard calling – none of which Joe had noticed a short moment earlier. Funny how things seemed so different when one became spooked.

The men shone their torches one way, then the next. Finally, they heard significant movement coming from a nearby bush, which shook as they quietly observed it. Andy signalled for Joe to approach from the right as he slowly flanked from the left.

Christian was right
. Thought Joe.
This is nothing like clay pigeon shooting!

An eerie silence ensued as they slowly approached the bush, but Joe’s attention was diverted to a flailing branch of an overhanging tree, on which the leaves were wet.

What is that?
Wondered Joe as he observed the liquid substance, which glistened as he shone his torch upon it. He edged closer to get a better look and became confused when another stream of the white, gooey substance dripped onto the leaves from above. Joe couldn’t help but look up. He saw a dark figure cowering on the branch. His heart told him the being was scared, but his head told him any hesitation could be fatal and so, instinctively, he fired. In retaliation, the beast threw itself on top of Joe, grabbing him firmly and biting into the flesh of his neck before rolling with him on the floor. The beast dictated the movement and ended up on top of Joe, standing on its two back legs and raising a sharp rock in the air before using all of its might to hit Joe repeatedly over the head. The makeshift weapon caused manic screams that soon disappeared, as did the solid structure of Joe’s pretty skull, which caved upon the impact of a particularly forceful strike.

It all happened so fast that when Andy finally managed to shine his torch on the being, it prowled towards him, its eyes black with evil and its mouth drooling in bloody excitement as it snarled, paralysing Andy with fear.

This was no panther. It was like nothing he’d ever seen. Not in all his years as a hunter. It was a walking contradiction. Its body was awkward, yet it moved efficiently. It was ugly, yet impressive. It was wild, yet intelligent. It took another step towards Andy as its body swayed like a line of daffodils in a summer breeze, looking almost elegant as it neared its next intended victim. Andy dropped his torch and retreated slowly, managing to keep the same distance between them as he considered his options. Without the light to aid his view, the beast was now an evolving electric blue membrane surrounding a sea of blackness.

Grrrr
… it rumbled, backing the man further into the woodland.

Andy had seen how fast the beast could move and it sounded truly riled – a lethal combination for a deadly predator. Andy and the beast were locked in combat and so alert were both hunters that one wrong move would lead to their certain death. Andy knew that if he turned to run, his life would be ended almost immediately. Likewise, his instincts told him that if he raised his gun, the beast would tear him apart before he had chance to pull the trigger. Hunting was about patience; knowing when to attack and when to wait. These were the key skills to becoming a top marksman, and so Andy waited, watching the beast in the same unflappable way it watched him, waiting for a lapse in concentration, a misplaced step,
anything
that would give him leverage and enable him to take the shot.

At the worst possible moment, Joe’s body started twitching on the ground. Andy’s eyes could not help but flash a quick glance in the corpse’s direction. It was all the beast needed to grab a hold of the long barrel and pry the gun powerfully from his enemy’s grip.

Cussing his stupidity, Andy was certain he would meet his end. Trembling, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes, wincing as he prepared to be torn apart… but the moment never came. Instead, the beast retreated, slowly stepping back towards the fresh pulsating corpse as it watched Andy disapprovingly. Andy did not know why he’d been spared, but he wasn’t about to question such luck and he ran as fast as he could into the night.

*
 

Certain parts of Exmoor, particularly during the latter hours of night, inspired an incredible sense of isolation, as though it were a small corner of the world that had yet to be discovered; as though man had never existed. It was over such land that Joe’s motionless eyes gazed up at the stars as the beast dragged his body behind him. He took it on a very private journey that led to a hidden cave. It was a place the beast knew well.

Once inside, the beast hoisted the body over its shoulder and moped towards a large pit in the ground, into which he lowered Joe’s body with great care. Once finished, the beast stood in silence, as if paying its last respects. Its eyes glistened in the dim light and a small stump of a tongue flapped around as it wailed sounds of sadness that echoed through the cave and beyond.

*
 

Amanda looked toward her window, perplexed. She wasn’t quite sure why. Had she heard something? No. Maybe it was just one of those things, like a person who experienced an earth tremor whilst standing outside – the body alerted them that
something
was happening, but with no physical objects such as, say, tables and chairs to dance across the room, there was no visual frame of reference to confirm what the body was experiencing and so the affected party would simply brush their feelings aside and continue with their day.

Amanda was emotionally on edge and was therefore thankful of the privacy she found in her room as she flicked through the photo album Margaret had given her. Each and every picture helped solve a little of the mystery.

There were photos of Malcolm smiling and actively engaging in play with others, snaps of Georgina posing for the camera with beautiful ocean-blue eyes and endless pictures of children Amanda had never met being taken care of by the residents. Finally, Amanda laid her eyes on Margaret’s late husband, Stanley – a dashing man with a far-reaching smile.

There were endless photos of Lydia within the album, a woman who seemed to be the main source of everybody’s happiness.

Towards the back of the book, however, the inflection of the pictures took a turn for the worse.

There was a shot of Christian sat despondently next to a cot where a small, monstrous hand reached out. Amanda could see that the picture had been taken in the attic. A shaft of light came in at an angle through the window in the roof, shining upon the cot as though its contents were some kind of miracle, but it was not the type of miracle the family embraced.

Amanda turned the page to see further pictorial evidence of the heavily disfigured baby. She had a very strong stomach, but the being – so small and helpless – stirred emotions within her that she did not know how to deal with. All she could do was cover her mouth in horror.

‘Oh my God!’ she whispered as tears streamed from her eyes.

She grabbed her Dictaphone, thinking aloud at great speed.

‘They had a child! Christian and Lydia. His name was Elijah,’ she said, her mind feeding her images as it always did when she was on to something. ‘There were complications.’

Amanda envisaged the poor deformed baby crying in his cot with Christian stood over him, looking down at the child with sadness and regret. She then imagined Karen doing the same, except her face was bitter, twisted and resentful.

‘It’s likely Lydia died during childbirth,’ Amanda speculated. ‘To her loved-ones, it was an injustice that, one-by-one, drove them crazy.’

Amanda paused, closing her eyes as she thought hard. She imagined the attic in which the cot had been placed. She put herself in a reality where Elijah had grown older. She pictured him curled up in the corner of the room, scared and alone.

‘Elijah’s birth destroyed the family… so they grew to hate him.’

She played out a scenario where the door to the attic burst open and Christian walked in, readying a leather belt to help satisfy his look of retribution. Even her mind’s eye wouldn’t allow her to process graphic images of Christian beating his defenceless child. The thought was simply too horrid, and so all she could muster were brief, silent flickers of Christian’s overbearing shadow against the wall, like an old 8mm film of a man lashing out in silhouette.

‘They tortured him,’ whispered Amanda, tears of grief creeping from the corners of her eyes once more.

The thoughts that manifested in her head had entered the realm of heavy speculation, but Amanda’s one true gift had always been the ability to piece a story together by using seemingly disconnected information. This is what had destined her for journalism.

She pictured Elijah as an adolescent tied to the attic wall in a Christ-like manner. Given that she had not seen the isolation room and had therefore not witnessed the way David had been placed there, the detail she had depicted was uncanny.

In her vision, the abuse and neglect thrust upon Elijah had resulted in his limbs being gangly, his teeth being filthy and his nails long and dirty. She gathered that a person raised in such a state would have minimal body fat and badly malnourished skin. His hair would also be patchy – non-existent in some areas and long and matted through filth in others due to the fact it was rarely cleansed. She imagined the child being ridiculed and degraded by anyone who felt the need to vent their anger. At this thought, somewhat unsurprisingly, an image of Karen popped into her head. She imagined Karen approaching the boy and grabbing his hair firmly in her hand. It would have hurt Elijah greatly but he would have had no energy to fight.

‘Look at the state of you, you filthy little beast!’ Karen would say.

Beast
.

Amanda gathered he got called that a lot. Even those who did not know Elijah and took to writing speculative stories about him in the press used the common phrase “The Beast of the Moors.” This would explain why Margaret had reacted so sensitively when Amanda used the term herself. After all, this was the
person
that she lovingly described as her grandson.

‘The trauma spread through the family and eventually they started to hurt others,’ Amanda continued, with sad confidence.

She was reminded of the plaque on the wall:

THE PRINCE HOME
EST. 1960
 

‘
Most
of them,’ she said, quickly correcting herself. ‘Not Maggie. She’s the only one who cares about these children,’ said Amanda, sounding more certain than she felt.

She had believed Christian to be innocent right up until seeing the way he looked over Elijah in the photographs. There was something about his expression – distant yet exuding the sense that a quiet storm was brewing beneath the surface – that made Amanda realise the home could not be run, nor such torture carried out, without him. Therefore, however wronged he might have been in his own life – and some could argue that he himself was a victim – it didn’t change the fact he was the glue that held it all together, and for that, he was certainly guilty.

‘And maybe Stanley…?’ added Amanda.

She remembered the writing on his headstone:

STANLEYPRINCE
A LOYAL HUSBAND AND LOVING FATHER
FOREVER IN OUR HEARTS
1902–1967

“
He died of a heart attack, God bless him
,” Margaret had previously told her.

The happiest Amanda had seen Margaret was when she spoke of her husband, when the love she held for him radiated from every pore of her body. A woman like Margaret would not have remembered him so fondly if he were a bad man, and the fact that Elijah had at some point escaped led Amanda to believe Stanley was partly responsible. She pictured Stanley cautiously entering the isolation room. He would have been doing some good deed such as maybe taking Elijah some food and water. Maybe as he approached Elijah, the boy customarily cowered in the corner, wondering what act of cruelty would be bestowed to him next.