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Deceased One
BAXTER, Daniel DOB 12/03/05 24 THE WILLOWS UPPER BROCK LANSTON LA171YH
IC1 MALE F409 slim build, blonde bowl cut hair, blue eyes with a birth mark on the right cheek, wearing a white, short sleeved t-shirt and navy blue gym shorts with blue gym socks and shin pads. No footwear.
School: LANSTON PRIMARY SCHOOL 1 CALDER ROAD LANSTON LR172JU
Next of kin
Father: BAXTER, Terrance DOB 16/01/83 THE WILLOWS UPPER BROCK LANSTON LA171YH
Mother: BAXTER, Julia DOB 15/04/84 THE WILLOWS UPPER BROCK LANSTON LA171YH
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Alec Monroe ordered a large black coffee with a rocky road and handed over his debit card, only to find there was a five pound minimum spend. He thought about challenging the young man behind the counter, about charges levied for processing card payments and arbitrary minimum spends and misleading prices and the whole system. He thought about calling the young man’s manager and forcing them to accept the payment, without extra cost. Instead, he ordered a second rocky road and paid five pounds twenty five on his card before finding a corner table in the small café and setting up to work for the next few hours. The chair, he noted, didn’t offer much support to his back and his coat which he had slung over it was trailing on the floor. Monroe set his dying phone to charge with a cable feeding it like an umbilical cord from his laptop. They were his two most important possessions, his phone and his laptop, without which he would not survive. His wife, Vicky, had come to regret replacing Alec’s old flip-phone communicator to the latest android model on his last birthday and often cursed him for paying more attention to the phone than he did her. Out of his briefcase, Monroe produced pamphlets and the books he had withdrawn from the local library and began his research on the famed local structure; the Devil’s Bridge.
The tatty looking pamphlets were old and brownish and summarised the apparent origins of the bridge. One pamphlet dated the structure as twelfth century, another eleventh; the inconsistencies were laughable, he thought. Each described the corbel arch bridge as a ‘marvel in ancient engineering’, spanning a near hundred and ten feet over the hundred foot drop into the River Cottam below. In reality, it was just under seventy feet at the apex, which was well documented in other more reputable sources. The bridge, made entirely of stone, was reinforced at the turn of the twentieth century with iron. It has three arches, he read, the middle one being the largest and most striking with a triangular appearance owing to the central point. Monroe studied the pictures and noted the grey local stone and dreary countryside. On one side of the bridge was tall leafy vegetation; conifers and bramble, curving around the rock-face from which the bridge protruded. On the other side was a more open stretch of road leading into the old town of Lanston itself.
Continuing his study, Monroe viewed aerial shots which showed a few small farm buildings and sheds further down the banks of the River Cottam, itself popular amongst the angling community for an abundance of trout. Many of the brochures were aimed at anglers because aside from the bridge there wasn’t much else to write about Lanston, barring the upcoming Whitsuntide Festival of course. Fishing, now there’s a waste of time, Monroe reflected. Who in their right mind would spend the day sat on their arse trying to catch fish? The idea of sitting by a body of water for hours on end with only a crossword and flask for company sounded like hell to him. As a child, Monroe’s father had taken him fly fishing near Oban once. Whilst casting off, a young Alec had whipped the line back and embedded a hook deep into his own chin. He had spent an embarrassing afternoon in the local hospital and was operated on by a shaky old man with two milk-bottle bottoms for eyes. The event left him scarred in every sense of the word.
Finishing the first of his chocolate bars, Monroe dusted the sides of his mouth with a napkin and began to familiarise himself with the local legend which had peaked his interest and brought him to the town. Plucking a paperback from the pile of resources on the cluttered table, he read the title, The History of Lanston, and found the relevant chapter where he began to read:
‘In the eleventh century, an elderly local woman was in desperate need of medicine for her sickly granddaughter and set off to find a doctor. The Devil had surfaced looking to claim a soul and happened across the woman who had found herself stuck on the other side of the River. The Devil made a bargain with the woman, “I will build you a bridge across the river in exchange for the soul of the first living thing which crosses it.” The old woman accepted his terms and agreed to return at dawn the following day.
True to his word, the Devil set to work and, overnight, he built a great bridge. At dawn the next day the old woman returned, this time accompanied by her dog. Taking a piece of bread from her pocket, she tossed the bread across the bridge and the dog ran to fetch it.
The Devil, furious that he had been tricked, reluctantly took the dog’s soul and cursed the bridge before letting out a terrific howl and vanishing before the old woman’s eyes.’
What brilliant nonsense! He checked his phone for any messages and, finding none, he proceeded with the next book and the next and so on, all of which had the same or slightly different derivation of the tale. He continued until he had exhausted each book and article and pamphlet in his possession. This will never sell, Monroe concluded. Having made some vague notes, he collected up most of his clutter and checked the time via his smart phone. Without noticing, almost two and a half hours had passed and Alec Monroe decided the morning had been a waste, save for a slightly better understanding of medieval architecture. Every pamphlet designed to promote tourism had only confirmed in his mind that Lanston was a dull and isolated community, full of backwards and God-fearing folk who were far removed from the modern world. He packed up his laptop and closed his briefcase, checking his phone one last time before putting on his coat, which was now covered in dust and fluff at the bottom. As he hung his laptop case over his shoulder, the strap snagged on the decorative time piece on his wrist. Monroe had no real need for a watch which he looked at precisely twice a day; once putting it on and once taking it off. Monroe left the coffee shop feeling irked and sickly and realised that at some point he had eaten his second slice of rocky road. He struggled to remember when.
***
Alec Monroe spent the remainder of the afternoon exploring the area as he browsed for internet signal and found himself window shopping around Kendal where he again lost track of time. When the shops began to close he hopped in his Lexus and began the forty-minute journey back home. Winding his way down empty country roads, Monroe gradually picked up speed and was making good time. I’ll be home in no time, he thought to himself as he enjoyed the scenery. Just then Monroe’s mobile began to whir and vibrate a top his briefcase which always lay on the passenger seat. Monroe glanced twice at the name on the screen before eventually deciding to pick it up.
‘Hiya Billy,’ he answered, keeping one hand on the wheel.
‘Alec, my man, you free to speak?’ The overbearing voice of publicist William Manser came over the phone and it was a coarse London accent befitting the man, ‘I just wanted to check how the new masterpiece was coming along?’
Monroe replied, ‘Of course Billy, I’m always free for you.’ He lowered his speed from sixty to fifty miles per hour.
‘Great stuff. How are you settling in? Is the house ok? How’s Vicky?’ Billy asked. Like he actually cares, Monroe thought. Without pausing for an answer of any kind, Billy continued, ‘Look, I was wondering when you can get something over to me about this follow up of yours? There’s a lot of buzz about this Francis character of yours! We want to know what the next case is for our new favourite supernatural detective!?’ He ended his question with a patronising belly laugh.
‘Listen Billy,’ began Monroe, ‘I don’t know, I’m not feeling it at the moment. It’s this place, these people. Vicky is finding it all a bit too –’
‘Alec, I hear you! Give it time. You’ve got the lease for six months. Plenty of time to get the creative juices flowing. Only, there’s a real buzz right now and I’d hate to lose it before it’s begun, know what I’m saying?’
I know what you’re saying, Monroe thought; he felt irritated. ‘Look, I’m a bit busy at the moment but I’ll try and get an outline over to you in the next few days, okay?’
‘Beautiful!’ said Billy, ‘That’s exactly what I wanted to hear. All I needed. I’m looking forward to it, Alec! I’ll catch up with you soon my man, ok?’
With that, the phone went dead. Placing his phone back onto the passenger seat, Alec Monroe began to go over and over the original plot idea in his head: Paul Francis, Supernatural Detective, investigating a series of suspected suicides at the fabled Devil’s Bridge. He had had the idea midway through his first book when Vicky’s brother, Carl, mentioned a dreary camping trip to Lanston. The first instalment saw Francis, himself a tortured soul, solving a rehashed Jekyll and Hyde murder mystery in the acclaimed ‘Hyde and Seek’. The pitch for a series of books based on the character had been snapped up by Manser and Wright’s Publishing House and caught Monroe by complete surprise. It had seemed too easy. He thought about his first meeting way back with Billy Manser. It was not long after Monroe had speculatively sent his manuscript out. He recalled how Billy, a horrendous ball of exuberance, had created a whirlwind fantasy based on a lucrative multi-book deal. It would steamroll off the back of the teenage vampire and werewolf fiction, Billy had said. The kids will lap it up! Billy was right; the book was a bestseller. Since then, Monroe had been enjoying the success and the publicity that came with it. Now, nearly four months after the first release, he was under real pressure to get back to work.
His speed picked up to sixty, sixty-five then seventy miles an hour as Monroe raced down country roads and the undulating Cumbrian countryside. Following signs for Lanston, Monroe heard the familiar sound of his phone whirring again, this time it was Vicky. He let it go. The signs for Lanston were all accompanied by a tourist attraction sign for The Devil’s Bridge, dependent of course on which side of the town you were entering from. From the north roads which came off a dual carriageway, it was the only way in. Again, his mobile phone went off. Probably checking up on me, Monroe thought. He picked up the phone reluctantly and dropped his speed. Monroe noticed the battery was almost gone and heard Vicky’s voice in his head about his overuse. ‘Fuck me,’ he said out loud in the car before answering the call.
‘Alec? You ok?’ Vicky asked.
‘Fine. What’s wrong?’ Monroe answered, looking to end the call as quickly as possible.
‘Nothing,’ his wife replied, ‘I was just wondering what time you’d be home?’
‘I’m driving. I’ll be home soon but my battery is about to go’ he said, continuing to follow the signs for Lanston and The Devil’s Bridge, the roads becoming narrower and more winding.
‘Why are you on the phone if you’re driving? You shouldn’t have answered! I’ll see you when you get home then.’
He gripped the wheel tight with his one hand and could feel himself becoming annoyed. If I didn’t answer you’d be pissed off, he thought. When I do answer, you’re still pissed off. It was a no win situation. ‘Vicky, the battery is about to die! Don’t call me when I’m driving then.’
‘How was I supposed to know you were driving? I haven’t heard from you all day,’ she said.
‘Vicky,’ he snapped, ‘I’m going to go. It’s literally about to die!’
‘Fine,’ she said.
‘Fine! I’ll see you soon.’ The call ended. Glancing at the device in his left hand, Monroe saw the screen fade suddenly to black and the power off button illuminate. He was right; it was dead. Agitated, he continued to weave the road around the conifers and bramble and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. He heard it bounce off the suitcase and into the foot well. ‘For fuck sake!’ he muttered. Monroe looked at the phone a second, realising that when he would eventually get out of the car he would have to reach down and pick it up. His face flushed red. He felt as though his whole relationship with Vicky was summed up in that one banal moment. He looked up as he rounded a corner and from that point onwards everything that happened moved at lightning speed.
For Monroe, it passed in a series of images which seemed to flash up one by one like a terrible connect the dots. First there was the dog. Unmistakably. It was a large, black dog. He swerved suddenly causing his seatbelt to cut into his neck and his body to jolt painfully. Then a huge flash of yellow. It was bright and vibrant and filled his eyes. The yellow blurred with an oily black and he saw something else, something in the middle of all the yellow. He recognised it as a horrible, contorted face. A round, male face. Monroe made another rapid swerve and slammed his foot down, but on which pedal he couldn’t be sure. He heard a loud, terrible sound of smashing and screeching. Finally, Monroe came to a stop. It was sudden and violent but thankfully, he realised, without impact. He was frozen and cold and clammy. The sensations filled him at once. He tried to breathe but could only muster a series of short, shallow breaths. After a few moments, Monroe came to his senses and checked his rear view mirror. He saw nothing. At a glance, all he could see was empty road. No dog. No yellow. No face. It had seemed so distorted and unreal and had happened so fast that perhaps he had imagined it? He looked forward at the bridge in front of him. Also empty. Monroe closed his mouth to try to regulate his breathing but he could hear the air rushing in and out of his nose which whistled and made him anxious so he opened his mouth again, gulping in oxygen. It was a minibus. Of course it was. Christ, Monroe thought, I almost hit a bus. He let out a long, deep breath and felt his shirt sticking to him everywhere. ‘Lucky boy,’ he said, checking again in the rear view mirror. It must have swerved me and continued round the corner and away from the bridge. The dog must have run away to safety too, he supposed, probably escaped from one of the nearby farm houses. But where the hell was the owner? It looked like a sheep dog, a border collie; it looked a lot like his old dog, Buster. The way it had stood there was strange though. It hadn’t even flinched whilst he was speeding towards it. Wait until I tell Vicky about this, Monroe thought as he turned the key in the ignition and felt the car chug back to life. A pain in his neck began to register with him but he tried to rub it away. His whole body ached from top to bottom as he let out a chuckle. Setting his feet on the clutch and placing his hands on the wheel, Monroe couldn’t muster enough strength to close his numb fingers. He tried to squeeze but his grip was a little loose and so he allowed his sweaty fingers to hang like hooks. He looked in the rear view mirror, glanced in his side mirror and then suddenly stopped. Something still wasn’t right.
Monroe looked over his shoulder and felt his neck strain causing him to wince but in focusing his eyes he became fixated on a pile of debris and a gaping hole in the masonry. His body tightened up and he felt his lungs fill. A few seconds passed silently. In that time, his mind raced almost as quickly as his heart but with much less order. He finally came to the obvious conclusion. The minibus had disappeared over the edge of the bridge. He recalled the horrible, crashing thud he had heard but had not understood. It was clear now. Monroe wanted to release his seatbelt, open the door and run over to check. There was a man driving the bus after all. A round faced man. He pictured the face again, all twisted and full of fear. Reaching swiftly for the belt release button, he paused almost as suddenly as he had reached, leaving his finger resting on the button. Monroe blinked and blinked then shut his eyes tight and pursed his lips together. Air whistled in and out of his nose again and he allowed another image to creep into his head. It was altogether more dreadful than the driver’s face and caused him to choke up bile in his cheeks. He slammed his gear stick into first and sped off towards home.