Black Hearts Rising (Wardens of the Black Heart Book 2) Read online

  “It got me thinking though,” Anja said. “Have you seen that old guy around town with his sandwich board?”

  “The one going on about the end of the world?” I asked, remembering my unnerving encounter a few evenings ago.

  “That’s him. Grabbed hold of me the other day and told me that ‘it was coming’,” she added.

  “What’s coming?” asked Neil.

  “He didn’t say, and I didn’t want to hang around to find out, but I got the feeling that he wasn’t talking about Christmas.”

  “Did you see his cross?” I said to Anja.

  “What cross?”

  “He had a big steel cross on a chain around his neck when I last saw him.”

  Neil got up from his desk and wandered over. “You think he’s one of the vicar’s nutty oldies?”

  “Sounds like it’s a possibility,” I answered excitedly.

  “Do you want me to write a piece on it, Mick?” Neil offered.

  “What, let you loose on a piece that offers the possibility of offending the church and half of the pensioners in Culverton Beck?” Mick asked incredulously. “I’m not sure where we’re going with this, but if we do print anything, it’s going to need a sensitive touch, so Anja will be writing any story.”

  “Fine,” Neil muttered, returning to his seat.

  “No, I think I might have a better job for a man of your talents, Neil.” Hidden from Neil’s eye-line by a computer monitor, Mick winked at me conspiratorially.

  “Really, what’s that then?” Neil sounded justifiably suspicious.

  “Had a phone caller earlier. It’s been confirmed that Henry Bannister-Reeves is giving a lecture at the Beck Theatre.”

  “Who’s Henry Bannister-Reeves?” Monkey asked.

  “Isn’t he that antique bloke from the telly?” I could just about conjure up the image of his face. I’d seen a few bits of his programmes that my mum had watched whilst slumped on the sofa in an after-meal malaise – the kind of programme that people only watched if they were either ill or exhausted, thus making the act of changing the channel harder than sitting through the tedium of the show currently playing out on the screen in front of them.

  “He’s that old fossil from the Living History show,” Neil spat with disdain. “His fan club probably has an average age higher than the vicar’s loony congregation.”

  Mick chuckled at his reporter’s reaction. “So, I should send Anja instead?”

  Neil ignored Mick’s question but muttered something under his breath. I didn’t catch what was said, but Mick seemed to have picked up on something that turned his jovial mood sour.

  “At some point, we’re going to have to talk about your attitude, Neil.”

  “Really?” the young reporter responded, his keyboard clattering as he bashed away in a show of indifference.

  “Yes, really. I am your boss after all.”

  Neil still refused to meet his boss’s eye. “For now.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” fumed Mick, rising from his seat.

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t give me that. You’ve been acting strange these last few weeks.”

  “Stranger than normal?” Anja chipped in unhelpfully.

  “That’s right! Good old Neil, always the butt of everybody’s joke. Always given the crap stories and pointless adverts to type up!” Neil finally engaged Mick, his words hot and laced with cynicism, arms gesturing wildly as if to accentuate his point.

  “Well if you’re not happy here, you know what you can do?” bawled Mick. Monkey looked shocked at the sudden outburst from the normally even-tempered editor. I was used to his deadpan sense of humour, and although he wasn’t averse to telling people what they could do over the phone, or angrily ranting about the state of the world in general, his manner was usually such that it suggested what he said was mostly for comic effect. But this time seemed different.

  Neil simmered quietly; I could see the muscle at the side of his mouth twitching, a sure sign that he was fighting to retain control, but as yet, he didn’t have a suitable response. Maybe Neil suspected Mick was trying to push him out, goad him into an outburst from which there would be no return.

  Seconds passed; still, nobody spoke.

  The silence was broken by the sound of a siren in the street, the window suddenly aglow with a blue light as what looked like a police car rushed by, but it happened so quickly that I couldn’t be sure. Within seconds another vehicle passed at high speed, also with its blue light flashing. Pedestrians on the street looked shocked, heads turning in unison to watch as what now appeared to be a convoy sped by. Monkey and Anja made their way over to the window, Mick following close behind. Time slowed to a crawl as I watched Monkey lean his hands against the glass, behind which another vehicle passed at high speed. This time it was an ambulance, swiftly followed by another, then a third.

  “What the hell…?” Mick managed, summing up the situation for all of us.

  Well, almost all of us. Neil had returned to his seat, attempting to master his emotions. The muscles of his cheeks flexed like he was grinding his teeth. Whether his next words were his stream of consciousness given voice, I couldn’t say, but with the others at the window, I was the only one within earshot.

  “Don’t worry, boss, I know what I can do because I’ve already done it,” Neil seethed. At this point, he noticed that I was listening, but if he was surprised, he didn’t show it; his demeanour didn’t change. “I’ll be out of this God-forsaken place before too long.”

  Any further thoughts on the matter were forgotten as the phone on Elaine’s desk rang. The receptionist wasn’t in today, and from her place at the window, Anja was best placed to answer the call. “Anja Kasana, Culverton Beck Recorder.”

  I couldn’t hear what was being said, but an interpretation of the words wasn’t necessary to understand the gravity of the situation. The voice coming out of the speaker sounded panicked, the distortion and crackle saying more about the situation than mere words could.

  “Hold on… wait… slow down,” Anja said.

  The voice didn’t slow down. Neither did it calm down. If anything, the tone was more urgent.

  Anja grabbed a pen and paper from the desk. “And where was this?”

  The voice on the phone hadn’t stopped during Anja’s question. Whatever answer she received, Anja obviously didn’t feel the need to write anything down, the pen dropping from her fingers. “Thank you,” she said in a robotic voice, gently replacing the receiver.

  “Who was that?” Mick asked.

  Anja had gone pale, which was no mean feat for somebody with her mocha skin. She didn’t answer Mick’s question. “I think I know where all of those ambulances were headed,” she said chillingly.

  Chapter 5

  “Let’s go,” was all Anja said before she snatched her bag and hurried out of the door. Mick grabbed his keys and jacket, hot on her heels. There was never any discussion as to whether Monkey and I could or should join them – we just followed as they headed out to the car, leaving Neil behind to mind the office and stew in his own self-righteous anger.

  “What’s happened?” I asked, but Anja was focused on reaching the car.

  “Tell you on the way,” she threw over her shoulder.

  She offered to drive, but Mick overruled her, fumbling with his keys. No sooner had Monkey shut his passenger door, Mick slammed the car into reverse, and we were soon part of the rush-hour traffic, making our way across town.

  “Where are we going?” asked Mick, who up until then, must have been operating on autopilot.

  “Garage on the corner of Greenway – gone up in flames according to the woman on the phone.”

  “Pike End?”

  “No, not that one. The one near the roundabout where Greenway meets the dual carriageway.”

  “Right,” Mick said, checking his mirrors and making a sharp right turn down a side street.”

  “Oh my God! Is it serious?” I asked, immediately
feeling stupid.

  “You saw the ambulances and the police cars, so I suppose it is,” Anja confirmed.

  “Petrol station goes up in flames – it’s not going to be pretty,” said Mick ominously.

  Mick had missed his calling – he should have been a racing driver. The surge of adrenaline caused by our rushed exit from the office was still in full flow as the editor expertly weaved his car down a series of side streets, across two junctions, and we were soon flying up the B-road that led to the petrol station. The heavy traffic proved no barrier to the editor-turned-boy-racer, and as we neared our destination at breakneck speed, I detected the first smell of acrid smoke.

  The true gravity of the situation hit home when Mick slammed the brakes on halfway up a street that led to the burning station – that was as near as we could get due to the number of emergency vehicles attending the scene. All four doors of the car opened at the same instant, and we each ran towards the raging inferno.

  “Stay safe,” warned Anja, her one concession to the fact that we were there. I nodded at her, and with that, she set off towards the police cordon.

  “Come on, let’s stick with Anja,” I called to Monkey, and we did our best to keep up with her as she darted through the gathering crowd. Mick headed off in the opposite direction, saying that he was going to talk to the fire chief.

  Even at this distance, I could feel the fierce heat from the inferno that raged in front of us. It was hard to believe that this was happening in my home town: a vision of hell brought to life in vivid colours and a cacophony of sounds that jarred the senses. Some onlookers chatted nervously, sirens blared to the left and right, men and women from the emergency services barked instructions and status updates to each other. Lying on the tarmac of the petrol station’s forecourt, somebody was screaming as a paramedic tried to treat them.

  In the place where a petrol pump once stood, a jet of fire blazed skywards, the whooshing sound it produced acting as an audible bass note on top of which all other sounds played.

  It was only then that I noticed that the corner of the canopy that covered the pumps had been torn away, and everywhere between this point and the station shop was in flames. A fire engine stood off to the left, its crew dousing the flames with some substance.

  “Jesus Christ!” I heard somebody say.

  “Please stay back!” called a policeman through a megaphone, scanning the crowd to his left and right, looking worried that some fool might attempt to breach the cordon.

  “Anja Kasana, Culverton Beck Recorder. Can you tell me what’s happened?”

  “I’m sorry, I’ve got a job to do. I can’t answer any questions,” the policeman responded.

  At this point, another policeman ran over from the petrol station. “Pumps are off, station’s secured.” The policeman with the megaphone nodded.

  Anja forced her way to the left where the crowd was heavier.

  “What’s she doing?” asked Monkey.

  “Anja Kasana, Culverton Beck Recorder. Anybody see what happened?”

  “I did,” said a man with a pink face. It looked like he had suffered some burns to his right cheek and forehead. Somebody had handed him a wet towel, and he was pressing it against his face.

  “Are you okay, sir?” Anja asked.

  “I’ll live. I’m in better shape than some of those poor buggers over there,” he said, pointing to the forecourt.

  “What happened?” Anja repeated.

  “I was walking home from work when I heard something screeching overhead. I turned ‘round to see what the noise was, and next thing I know, there’s a bloody plane on fire crashing through there,” he said, gesturing to the broken canopy on the petrol station.

  “A plane?” Anja said in disbelief. I looked around, but despite the scene of carnage before us, there was no evidence of an aircraft. I wondered whether the man had hit his head and got confused.

  “Yeah. I saw it too,” said a second man. He was younger, and he was dressed in a suit, which in my eyes made him a credible witness.

  “What kind of plane? Where is it now?” asked Anja, sounding doubtful.

  “Small prop-plane. Came in low over the road – looked like the pilot was struggling to control it.” The man made a wavy gesture with his hand, indicating the wobbly descent of the aircraft. “It clipped the corner of the roof over there,” he said, pointing across the road at the burning petrol station. “Was already on fire before it hit, and there was a big explosion, flames shooting out of the ground where that pump was. Must have come down in the field behind the station.”

  Anja took a quick look around as if looking for somebody, or something.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “I want to get a look at that plane,” she said.

  “Come on, this way,” said Monkey. “I know a shortcut into the field behind that pub”. Typical of him to know all the shortcuts that led to this field or that river. He led the way through the crowd, Anja shouting a few words of thanks to the men that had told her about the plane. Good as his word, Monkey led us down a public footpath next to the Old Wishing Well pub, and as we stepped into the field beyond, we had no problem spotting the downed plane. It burned like some beacon amongst the short grass and wild shrubs of the field. A fire engine had managed to drive down the shallow embankment that led from the dual carriageway, and a team of firemen were currently directing a jet of water onto the burning plane. Several people were moving around the fire, giving the impression that they were part of some ritualistic dance. Two men moved towards the plane but were forced back by the flames. They carried on this to-and-fro around the far side but again had to retreat when their path was blocked as the flames suddenly changed direction.

  Unlike outside the petrol station, there was no cordon and nobody to tell us to stay back, but nevertheless, we approached cautiously. I was fearful of a sudden change in the wind that might bring the fire uncomfortably close.

  “Is this a good idea?” I asked Anja.

  She reached the point where the small group of men had gathered, coming to an abrupt halt. I heard her ask them what had happened, but they didn’t say anything that we didn’t already know: the plane had crashed through the petrol station, taking one of the pumps and part of the canopy with it. Despite its low trajectory, the pilot had managed to keep the aircraft aloft just long enough to make it over the metal fence and into the field beyond where it had come to a sudden stop when its nose hit the turf.

  “What about the pilot?” she asked, causing one of the men to point out the obvious; he was slumped over the controls, still strapped into the aircraft. I turned away from the scene, squeezing my eyes shut when I noticed that the cockpit window was splattered with blood.

  “Looks like the fire’s under control,” said a man wearing a donkey jacket and beanie hat, “but I think the dashboard has done for him,” he added grimly. I opened my eyes to see Monkey emptying the contents of his stomach into the grass.

  “I’m sorry, I should have stopped you coming,” said Anja.

  “Not your fault,” replied Monkey, spitting out a string of drool.

  I felt the need to pat Monkey’s back. “You’ll be okay, it’s just the shock,” I found myself saying.

  Monkey nodded. “I’m okay. Just need a minute.”

  Anja started walking back towards the pub. “I don’t think we should stay here. They’ll be cutting him out soon, and it’s not something that I want to see.”

  “Me neither,” I agreed, and the three of us walked away from the scene of carnage. Before we’d walked ten paces, my mind was buzzing with questions. “How on earth could that happen here?”

  “I don’t know. Mechanical failure, maybe. Can’t be the weather, surely?” Anja said. She was probably right there. It was a bit overcast, but it was still not dark, there was no rain and it was hard to imagine that visibility had been a problem for the pilot.

  The image of what was almost certainly a dead body in the cockpit brought back u
nwanted images of Dad. Monkey’s sickness didn’t help; there’d been plenty of that in my Dad’s last few weeks as he’d bravely battled cancer.

  We walked the remainder of the way back up to the petrol station in silence. But whilst we were walking away from one scene of destruction, we couldn’t escape it up here. If anything, the crowd had increased in the fifteen minutes or so since we’d left. There were still flames, there was still screaming, people still shouted at each other. The melange of sounds set my nerves on edge; the atmosphere was charged, and it propagated to my core, the steel knives of anxiety twisting in my gut.

  Then the face in the crowd.

  On any other night, in any other situation, it wouldn’t have meant anything to me.

  I didn’t even know his name; I only knew him by his title.

  There, between a middle-aged woman wearing a matching pink scarf and woollen hat, and a teenager in a baseball cap, stood the vicar of St Stephen’s. His face was white, reflecting the glow of the flames opposite. He wore a sickly expression, caught somewhere between despair and disgust. He wiped a hand across his face, his skin stretching under his fingers.

  “Look, over there,” I said to Monkey, pointing but not raising my arm too high lest I call attention to myself.

  “Where?”

  “That guy, next to the woman with the pink hat.”

  “I recognise him… but… wait a minute, isn’t that the vicar? What’s he doing here?”

  “Well, to be fair, half the town must be here.”

  Our conversation was interrupted by a paramedic, trying to clear a path between the crowd around us. “Out of the way, please. Clear a path to the ambulance.” The crowd played the part of the Red Sea to the paramedic’s Moses. He pushed an injured man on the stretcher into the gap they’d created, wheels bouncing over the edge of the kerb and a colleague holding an intravenous bag high, the line running down into the injured man’s arm. The patient moaned as he was pushed past us.