Simon Clark - The Fall

Raising her hand to shield her eyes, she scanned the car park and the meadows beyond. Over by the church she saw a running man. He clawed at his face, and there seemed to be a bird on his shoulder; at least, she thought she saw a single black wing flapping. Of Bostock there was no sign.

At first she thought she could simply call enough people to her and tell them that Bostock had murdered his wife and was intent on killing her. Then, with a kind of posse, she could have tracked him down and made a citizen’s arrest before handing him over to the police. But it wasn’t going to be that simple.

These accidental time travellers were preoccupied. An old man clutched his eye while a woman of around the same age guided him by the arm. He was muttering something about a bee sting.

A couple of men were, for some inexplicable reason, draping a checked travel blanket across one side of a tree trunk. One of the men was weeping.

The girl in tiger-pattern leggings and with the heavy plaited hair was running across from her car with the first aid kit in her hands, her face serious, determined.

It was as if a whole mountain of shit had just hit the world’s biggest fan.

There was nothing for it.

She’d have to find Bostock alone.

Sam followed Jud up onto the deck of the narrow boat. ‘So just who was this mystic Richard Rolle?’

‘You’re pronouncing “Rolle” as if it rhymes with “dollar”; I always pronounced it as if it were French – “Roll-hay”. But now I think about it, “Rolle” as if it rhymes with “dollar” sounds how a medieval Yorkshireman would speak it.’

‘So you figure that, somehow, this tramp they call Dirty Harry and the mystic Richard Rolle are one and the same?’

Jud shrugged. ‘As well as a mystic, Rolle was a hermit, which meant be probably lived in some crude wooden shack in the middle of a forest seven hundred years ago. If I mentally conjure up the image of a medieval mystic, Dirty Harry would actually fit pretty closely; you can imagine someone with a shaggy beard and wild, staring eyes who’d gabble away 19 to the dozen about subjects most people couldn’t comprehend in the slightest.’

‘So you think he was crazy?’

‘Not crazy as such. Probably “very intense” would be a better description. Certainly eccentric. Very eccentric, at least to 20 thCentury sensibilities. He wouldn’t shave, he might not wash, he’d probably fast for weeks on end. He’d be so preoccupied with whatever wonders were happening inside his own head that at times he might seem to be in a trance – or he might talk excitedly to himself.’

‘Come to think of it, I remember when we first met that you pointed out the church and told us that Richard Rolle’s hermitage was close by there.’

‘Indeed. It’s not possible to be that precise about Richard Rolle’s life. After all, records of that time tended not to be especially accurate or complete – lots have simply been lost over the centuries. But to give you a potted biography of Rolle, we can say with reasonable certainty that he was born around the year 1300 in the village of Thornton in Yorkshire. He came from a poor family, but he was so unusually intelligent that one Thomas Neville, the Archdeacon of Durham, sponsored his education at Oxford university – you see, even seven hundred years ago Oxford and Cambridge were England’s most important seats of learning. After that, he came home but quickly decided to become a hermit. It’s said that he fashioned a hermit’s habit out of his father’s rain hood and two of his sister’s dresses – one grey and one white. As to his character, he was described as a fiery young man who was certainly no shy, retiring monk, and was apt to passionately insult and abuse anyone who offended his vision of Christianity. He also had the peculiar ability to write away furiously, page after page on one subject, while simultaneously lecturing at length and equally passionately on an entirely different subject.’

‘Well, if that was an identikit picture, I imagine it could fit Dirty Harry pretty closely. When did Rolle die?’

‘Some say he died on Michaelmas Day 1349 at a little place called Hampole, south of here. But that was probably writers trying to tidy up his life with a few invented facts.’

‘You mean he simply disappeared?’

‘Apparently so; although for centuries afterwards there was a cult surrounding the Rolle personality and a good many miracles were observed to take place where he’d lived. Miraculous healings of the sick; visions; appearances by angels; that kind of thing.’

‘Then as far as I can see we should be tracking down Dirty Harry, or Richard Rolle if that’s the real name, and asking him what the hell has been happening to us; and where this jaunt back through time’s going to end.’

Another voice said: ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself.’ Sam turned quickly, to see Carswell standing on the river bank. ‘Mr Rolle sounds as if he could be a useful man to know.’

Clearly, Carswell had been eavesdropping on the conversation from his own boat.

‘I don’t know how easy it will be to find him,’ Sam said coolly; he wanted as little to do with Carswell as possible. Even though the man smiled and spoke in a soft voice, his eyes always looked angry, as if he was on the point of unleashing his rage on someone.

‘Well, there’s no point in wasting time here. From what I saw earlier, every time we make one of these leaps back through time, people are going to die some pretty disgusting deaths.’ Carswell’s eyes drilled into Sam’s face. ‘You’ve seen the pretty girl in the tree?’

Sam nodded.

Carswell cocked his head to one side as if springing a little surprise. ‘That pretty girl was my… niece.’ The pause before ‘niece’ was telling.

‘I’m sorry,’ Jud said, and he meant it, too.

Grant acknowledged the condolences with a nod. ‘Me, too. But this is the real world. Shit happens. Now, hadn’t we better start looking for the mysterious Mr Rolle?’

‘Wait… Nicole, wait! Where are you going?’

Nicole turned to see Lee Burton running across the car park towards her. The big vampire cape flapped out behind him like a black sheet; his face was white with make-up.

‘Nicole. I wondered what had happened to you. I opened my eyes…’ He panted breathlessly while trying to feed the cloak’s big button through the undersized loop around his throat. ‘When I opened my eyes and I saw you weren’t there I thought something had happened to you.’

‘It very nearly did.’

His eyes widened and he stopped struggling with the button.

‘Why? What happened?’

‘Here, Lee, let me,’ she said and unfastened the button. ‘Have you seen anything of Bostock?’

‘Bostock?’

‘He was on our coach. A short, stocky man. He was sitting with his wife towards the back, and—’

‘Oh, yes,’ Lee said remembering. ‘He was always arguing with his wife, wasn’t he?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘Why are you looking for him?’

As they crossed the car park, she told him what had happened, how Bostock had murdered his wife, then Brian Pickering, that he had tried to kill her, and how she intended to track him down.

‘Is that wise?’ Lee said. ‘After all, he sounds insane.’

‘We can’t let him roam around here. Who knows who he’ll attack next? And, remember, he’ll want to shut me up once and for all. I’m the only witness.’

‘Poor Brian Pickering.’ Lee shook his head. ‘He was a bang-up guy. Did you know he used to be a professional footballer until his knees gave out?’

‘Well… Bostock must have smashed his skull to pieces.’