A Cry From Beyond Read Online Free PDF Page B

digging
for an answer to the mystery.
    “Then I’m
afraid you thought wrong,” he replied forthrightly.
    I tried
another approach. “Where is the nearest neighbouring
house?”
    He
pointed in an easterly direction. “Roughly a mile away, just beyond
Mill House Lake.”
    “Is it
possible she lives there?”
    “The
house is owned by the Hamilton’s: an elderly couple:
childless.”
    “You’re
sure about that?”
    “They’re
blood relatives, Mr O’Shea. I’d be the first to know if they shared
the company of children.”
    Inside
the cottage I tried to re-establish contact with Michelle but she
was unavailable; in a meeting with a client. I pictured her in my
mind’s eye, visualising her face, her smile, her naked body, and I
suddenly wanted to be with her more than ever. It had been a while.
It was no secret we were more than a little fond of one another.
Sadly we hadn’t been able to get it together: my fault, not hers.
Oftentimes I preferred to share my bed with an ounce of coke and a
bottle of whisky. Those days were supposedly gone on the advice of
the doctor, who’d offered me a pretty bleak prognosis regarding
life expectancy should I fail to mend my wicked ways. I’d taken his
advice seriously, genuinely trying to cut out the bad habits, but
it was hard and I’d been unable to resist temptation completely. It
was going to take time, and an awful lot of willpower to get back
on the straight and narrow, and stay there.
    In
retrospect I guess I saw High Bank as a pleasant form of solitary
confinement. Less than two weeks into the sentence however, this
prisoner was already looking for an excuse to escape. For starters,
the idea of visiting the local watering hole, The Ship Inn, was an
increasingly appealing one, as was the thought of breaking into the
little package in the car’s glove compartment that, luckily for me,
had escaped PC Morgan’s attention that day on the
roadside.
    In the
end I decided to stick to more sober pursuits, such as visiting the
Folly Gentleshaw had mentioned, which was marked on the ordnance
survey map lying on the coffee table in the front room.
     
     
    2.
     
    It was
cold and bleak when I set off. The threat of fog and deteriorating
weather was very real, but I wasn’t going to let that deter me. I
was here to live a clean, healthy life, after all. So I got rugged
up, and off I set with Lennon padding along happily at my
side.
    Leaving
the cottage behind we bypassed the chapel, having cut through the
yard occupied by the derelict farmhouse. We then wound our way
through a copse that was dark and depressing. The weather was
already turning, and I began to have doubts about proceeding
further. Then I caught sight of Lennon prancing about in the
undergrowth like an overgrown puppy, and decided to press
on.
    The
deeper into the woods we travelled the colder it got. At some point
the threat of fog finally materialised, reducing visibility
drastically. I trudged onwards with stubborn determination, crossed
a rickety stile, before climbing a steep muddy bank that well and
truly christened my brand new hiking boots.
    Eventually, after about half a mile or so, I came to a rise,
from the top of which, through the intensifying fog, a large
towering shape could be observed. Seemed I’d found the folly. It
was far larger than I’d expected, around sixty feet high with a
girth of perhaps forty feet. A vertical row of turret windows was
built into one side. Three spirelets crowned its roof. It resembled
a huge bell tower. Its brickwork was old and choked with creeping
ivy. Thick vines crawled from the narrow windows, twisting towards
the ground like arthritic limbs. I scrambled down the other side of
the bank, and through a thorny thicket before arriving at the
entrance, the door to which was off its hinges and leaning
precariously to one side.
    I walked
through into a vestibule within which was a flight of steps
spiralling upwards. The shadows fell heavily in here. I pulled the
torch