Crow Soldier

Prologue

The graveyard was silent but for the teenage party that was in evidence; the moon was up full, bathing it in a yellowish light; the over-the-top, largely Victorian tombs, tangled undergrowth and gnarled trees, angels and cherubs completed the gothic scene.
The air was humid and midsummer thick. Midsummer’s night. A boy and two girls, smashed on cheap booze and cannabis, had decided to dabble with a Ouija board. They’d messed about with a candle and spinning a bottle. One of the girls seemed more interested in the boy, but he either didn’t want to know or was completely out of it.
Goliath, a village in Cornwall, was not one for the tourists. Oh, it was pretty enough but had nothing to offer. Only employment was a couple of local pubs and hotels, and most got out first chance they had. The place seemed to have an atmosphere to it, a chill even in summer, an edge to it. It was a place of secrets, secret places and secret people – or they were just plain rude, stupid or weird, whichever way you wanted to look at it.
It even provided the opening page for an online game they all played, a kind of chatroom for the dead – or the living dead, as some saw it. So they had decided to do a bit of fieldwork, a few hastily filmed shots on their mobiles to be uploaded later.
The ground was strewn with a couple of empty wine bottles and beer cans and stubbed out spliffs – well, the residents didn’t seem to mind.
The ancient old clock was striking midnight; the party was over. The new girl walked away from a large tomb to the left which was protected by iron railings to deter grave robbers, an activity the casual observer looking at the place might easily believe was still going on.
She was dressed in a sort of grey frock with a lace trim, flat black shoes, no stockings. Her long brown hair was tied up with some sort of ribbon. She spoke with a local but educated accent.

‘Come the call of midsummer’s night,
Come the call of men to fight,
In mist and smoke and lime from hell
Forgotten sweetheart waved farewell forever.
Then, when a soldier sleeps, they meet again and fly as birds,
But those that tread their mortal sands
Will join them by their own fair hands.’

The boy and the slightly older girl were clumsily filming on their phones; the other girl went to speak to her, but she seemed to have disappeared beyond a particularly gruesome tree.
‘Fuck was that?’ she slightly slurred.
‘Probably one of the local weirdos,’ said the younger of the two girls, ‘like those freaks in America. What do they call them?’
Neither answered. The boy was busy throwing up on Joseph Bartlet deceased. The party was over and the trio left, slightly sobered up now. A grey dawn was saluted by a hawking crow.
The next day, when they checked their phones, the screens showed nothing …



Chapter 1

Karl Banks chucked the buff folder down on his desk. Not much of a desk, not much of an office.
Newtown, a 1960s vision of a London satellite, a grimy mass of dirty concrete and concepts of open space, already damaged and falling down, the architects’ dreams as dead as they were.
Its unfortunate inhabitants seemed to shuffle about under the grey, greasy January sky, living on plastic jobs or no job at all, the only thriving businesses somewhat the wrong side of the law.
Sarah Moore eyed the document.
‘So what are we now, Karl? Ghostbusters?’
Sarah Moore, fortysomething, slim, blonde in a boyish short cut, ex-detective inspector, still just about married to doctor Neil Moore, mother to two ‘challenging’ teenagers. She lit a cigarette, opened the window a crack. The smoke would hardly detract from the decor.
‘Just talk to him.’
‘I’ll need bribing with coffee.’ Banks scoped the street.
What the hell am I looking for? he thought. Maybe I’m just getting old.
Karl Nathaniel Banks, fiftysomething, 6 foot 3, 250 lbs of shaven-headed brute, ex-army, ex-‘problem solver’ for some political players, ex-married and ex-father to an estranged daughter.
He bought a couple of vats of surprisingly good coffee from Greggs and surveyed his domain. His office next door to the travel agents was advertising a somewhat optimistic Scandinavian cruise – it might as well have been a trip to Mars. Other neighbours included a long-abandoned Lloyds Bank and a post office.
The alley in between contained a couple of random white hoodies, purveyors of the local pharmaceutical industry. He wondered if Mr Lloyd would approve of local enterprise.
The street was boxed off by the ‘park’ – rusty railings, knackered kids’ rides and climbing frame. Somehow, even the grass looked rubbish. There was the usual collection of charity shops and fast food outlets, the neighbourhood police office and the highly original Albion pub, topped off at the other end by the bus station and the flyover. The grim January sky seemed very apt. It was 3.30 and already getting dark.
Sarah spooned in sugar and cream. ‘Ah … nectar.’ She chucked the file back in front of him.
‘Spoilt brat, manipulative, obnoxious little shit, successful older sibling, sister, attention-seeking. He’s making it all up.’
‘Thank you, Professor Moore.’
Steven Wilson, 15, son of Josh and Angela Wilson. Newtown’s answer to Posh and Becks, a millionaire car dealer and former beauty queen. He’d been having ‘flashbacks’. Flashbacks to the life of a boy soldier, Shaun Peters, who’d died at the Battle of the Somme. He’d been engaging online with like-minded kids in communication with the long dead. Then, on Bonfire Night he’d had an episode. ‘Shell shock’.
The services of a shrink were engaged … then dispensed with.
‘Karl, we spy on various muppets over the side from their spouses and other matters of mundane earthly importance. What the hell do they expect us to do?’
‘Talk to him, his sister, and his shrink. Meanwhile, I’ll get a mate of mine to have a butchers at his computer. Couple of trips to exotic Cornwall might be on offer, all on expenses, and he’s paying top dollar.’
‘Friends? Girlfriend?’
‘Girl called Vicky Greaves, one of those goths who hang about with him. She does gaming with him. She’s a bit older than him.’
Sarah reached for another ciggy. She didn’t bother with the window this time. The lights were on in The Albion, a couple of knuckleheads racking up the pool table. ‘That will be the Vicky Greaves who sleeps in Marcus Jones’ bed then?’
‘Sarah, they are desperate and rich. Just talk to him.’ She took a long drag and nodded. ‘He’s in at five pm tomorrow.’



Chapter 2

‘Hello, Mrs Moore.’
‘Hello, Steven. You can call me Sarah.’
‘Hello, Sarah.’
‘Do you mind if I record this?’
‘For the record? Fine, Sarah.’
Steven Wilson, 15, privileged, adult beyond his years, almost albino blond, light blue eyes that seemed to darken and dance slightly, full – almost girlish – lips. A psychopath.
‘When did these episodes start?’
‘Shauney boy? About a year ago. Oh, but I think he’s always been there. He’s just decided it’s showtime.’
‘Does he scare you?’
‘Depends who I am – me or him – according to that prick Stiles.’
‘Dr Stiles? The psychiatrist?’
‘Just another shaman, if you ask me, Sarah – oh, but you are asking me, aren’t you?’ He sort of sheepishly grinned.
‘What about on Bonfire Night?’
‘Well, that was a bit full-on possession: Shaun giving me the message he’s for real.’
‘What do you think he wants?’
‘He’s a man on a mission to take young souls to the gates of hell.’ He shrugged theatrically.
‘This group you are on … Inheritance …?’
‘Those freaky goths? More Vicky’s scene than mine. Passes those dark winter nights.’
‘Is Vicky your girlfriend?’
‘Just a mate. Way too old and sophisticated for a little scamp like me. But you know that, Sarah.’ His eyes were mocking her.
‘Steven, do you ever use alcohol or drugs?’
He laughed. ‘No more than the average rich kid Essex brat, Sarah.’
‘What do your parents think?’
‘Hmm … Mum wants to know if I’m just some sick pup or the very child of Satan. Bit of a problem considering she’s … well, my mum. Dad … maybe he’s just had enough of me, his very own precocious little shit. That’s why he hired that gorilla Banks to put the fear of God into a few teenage weirdos.’
‘Do you believe in all this … reincarnation?’
‘I believe in fate. Sarah, can I ask you a question?’ She nodded, absent-mindedly reaching for her cigarettes. ‘Is that cunt Jones a paedophile?’

***

Half an hour later, Banks was stretching his enormous frame out on the couch. ‘Well?’
‘He bloody unnerved me, Karl, beyond just being a cocky little bastard. He enjoys playing games in other people’s heads. And he knew about me and Jones.’
‘That what this game is about? Control?’ said Banks.
‘Probably. You say this soldier actually existed?’
‘Enough for me to be hitting the M4 to sunny Cornwall tomorrow. I want you to talk to Dr Stiles. He’s agreed to a limited interview. Then book the Rattler up to Durham – his sister Annabel is at uni there.’
The wind was picking up. The Albion sign creaked. It started to rain.



Chapter 3

The rain cleared and Banks spent the day driving slowly west into what he thought what was a permanently setting sun. His Volvo was caked in salt.
By the time the sun was actually dipping below the horizon, fields had given way to wild forests, plunging valleys, cold black streams and howling moors – Cornwall. ‘Goliath welcomes careful drivers’, Banks read. Somehow, he doubted the bloody place welcomed anybody.
He drove by the old Gothic church at one end with its ancient overgrown boneyard, passed thatched cottages that looked as old as history, to the coaching inn, which had been standing since 1643 – his destination. A ruined old pile of some sort framed the final rays of light on a distant moor top.
The reception, however, was manned by the ever-smiling Vanessa, not Dracula’s manservant, and the internet worked. Maybe it only felt as if he’d journeyed back to the dark ages.
He had a shower and caught a bit of Sky News. Got a text from Sarah – the interview had produced little, as expected, but Vicky Greaves had come to the office, an unexpected caller. Seven thirty, as arranged, Banks went down to the bar.
A few other guests milled about. A man of around 65, six foot two, lean build, slacks and a grey pullover sat in a corner, cropped, clean shaven, grey eyes, officer’s eyes.
‘Major Ball, Karl Banks. Can I get you a drink?’
‘Sergeant Karl Banks, 3 Para and Army Intelligence, I believe?’
‘Long time ago, Major.’
Banks returned with the drinks. Predictably, the major had the local bitter while Banks stuck to German lager.
‘So you want to know about our very own local hero, the boy soldier Shaun Peters? I must say your profession came as a bit of a surprise – some sort of paranormal investigator?’
‘We do normal private dick stuff as well, and I advise certain parties on security matters.’ The major guffawed with laughter.
‘Yes, I’m sure you do, Karl. Well, he existed alright. Called him the “Crow Soldier”, as he used to chat endlessly to some blackbird perched on the trench boards. Cited for bravery in a skirmish near the Belgian border in 1915. The Royal Cornish were taking a pasting from German mortars. Peters’ CO was wounded in no man’s land. A volunteer party went to get him, the enemy ambushed them, Peters took out five of them with a grenade, then finished the rest off with his bayonet.’
‘He never got his medal, though?’
‘MIA, the first of July, 1916, first day on the Somme. The worst day in British military history – as I’m sure you are aware, Karl.’
‘And the boy soldier?’
‘According to local sources, it was common knowledge he was underage – so many were – but it was easy to bluff your way through or show fake documents in those days. Peters was almost certainly an alias, so the boy soldier was a myth – even during his own lifetime.’
‘And you’ve no idea who he really was or what became of him?’
‘You will have to ask Emily Charlton on that score. All sorts of local rumours: he was from gypsy stock, got a girl pregnant, might have even been on the run from the police.’
‘Could he have survived the Somme?’
‘Absolutely! Plenty just chucked their uniforms off and melted into the smoke. Could have deserted and died in his bed twenty years ago. But this kid was fearless. Chances are, he just got blown to smithereens, like so many of the poor sods. They really were cannon fodder.’
After this, the two men exchanged a bit of general chit-chat and Ball left. Banks had a couple more beers, watched a bit of TV in his room and turned in.
He awoke with a start at 3 am, having revisited some dark corners of his very dark past.
He’d wet the bed.



Chapter 4

Dr Alan Stiles’s office was in London, just off Holborn. It didn’t look cheap.
Slim, unassuming, fiftyish, bald, heavy-framed specs, open-handed, neutral gestures. Christ, where did they make these people? The doctor factory?
‘You must appreciate there isn’t much I can tell you, Sarah.’
‘Just two questions, for you, rather than about him.’
‘Go on.’
‘Do you believe in reincarnation?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Do you believe in spiritual possession?’
‘No.’
‘Well, I think you’ve told me all I need to know about your conclusions on Steven Wilson, doctor. I won’t take up any more of your time.’
‘Since you’ve come all this way, can I ask you a question?’ He took the pause as a yes. ‘Do you believe in pure evil? You did child protection in the police, didn’t you?’
‘That’s two questions, doctor. But the answer is the same. Are you telling me Steven is some sort of bloody psycho? I get that. Been there, bought the T-shirt, but thanks anyway.’
‘Just tread carefully, is all I’m saying. He’s one of the most remarkable people I’ve dealt with.’
Sarah took the implication that none of this was good. ‘Look, if you ever want to talk – or just a quiet drink …’
She didn’t reply but nodded and left.
She wandered through the washed-out January sun back to the office, deep in thought. Seems the kid knew a lot more about her personal circumstances than she did about his. Swap one doctor for another …? No thanks.

***

On her return, there was a surprise visitor. Vicky Greaves, 19, dressed top to toe in black, thin as a rake, long black slightly greasy hair, numerous piercings and tatts … Damaged.
‘Can I have a word? My name is Vicky. I’m a mate of Steven’s.’
‘I know who you are.’
‘Still obsessing on Marcus? You need to let it go, love.’ Sarah ignored the kid’s pathetic attempts to rile her. ‘What can I do for you, Vicky?’
‘Well … Steven … he’s a sweet kid, but he’s getting a bit obsessive about this Inheritance thing.’
‘He seemed to suggest it was the other way round?’
‘No way! I know what I look like, but it’s a fashion thing. I’m not into all that death cult shit.’
‘And he is?’
‘Well, I heard there was a couple of kids on there actually fucking topped themselves and Steven … well, he’s a sensitive kid … Annabel asked me to keep an eye on him.’
‘You think he might kill himself because he’s possessed by the spirit of a soldier dead a hundred years. Sounds like you need to talk to a priest, not a detective.’
‘Well, you aren’t even that. You’re just some sad old bitch obsessed with Marcus, who got you kicked out of the filth.’
Oh dear. She appeared to be pushing some buttons.
‘Are you? Obsessed with Marcus, I mean? Bit old for you, isn’t he? Not much younger than a sad old bitch like me.’
‘Fuck you! I knew I shouldn’t have come here.’
‘But you did. So what do you want?’
‘Look, he’s never tried to jump on me or anything.’
‘But you think he might, and if you knock him back, he’ll go jump off a bridge.
That’s if that charmer Jones doesn’t beat the crap out of him first.’
‘Just tell Annabel I did my best, but I’m walking away from it now.’ She was looking at the ground – a pathetic child again.
Sarah got close up, caught her eye. ‘Not the only thing you need to walk away
from, love. How young do you think he really likes them?’

***

7.40 p.m.
Marcus Jones popped the lock on his boy racer Golf GTI. Short walk through the park. Meeting with a couple of his minions in The Albion.
Five ten,permanent tan, slicked-back Peter Andre hair, 200 lbs of gym-ripped muscles, designer boots and jeans, black T-shirt, distressed leather jacket, the usual array of chunky gold and hard man tatts. Newtown’s bad boy has come good.
He got as far as the long-defunct light by the swings. A figure stood in front of him.
‘What the fuck do you w–?’
The long knife made a sort of grating sound as it sliced a top rib, then a squelch as it pierced his heart – which stopped when the sickening twist was applied. He opened his mouth, but the only noise was a glug of blood, which slopped on to the path. It sucked and grated again, slicing the rib in two as it was withdrawn.
Jones took half a step forward as if in some macabre dance. He was already dead when his face hit cold, hard mud.