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Prologue
Sunday 24 March 2002
The bonfire is burning brightly now, its heart molten gold.
‘I’m a fire starter,’ says Cathbad.
‘Everything’s so dry,’ says Emad, ‘that’s why. It hasn’t rained all week.’
‘Boring.’ Emily throws leaves at him.
‘We should give thanks to the gods,’ says Leo. ‘We should pray to Grim, the hooded one.’
‘Leo,’ says Amber, who is sitting huddled in her blanket, ‘it’s nearly Easter. It’s Palm Sunday, for goodness’ sake. Have some respect.’
‘Easter was a pagan festival first,’ says Leo. ‘People have celebrated equinoxes and solstices since prehistoric times.’ But he smiles at Amber and, when the wine is handed round in plastic cups, his hand touches hers.
‘Grim’s Gaben.’ Leo gives the toast.
‘Grim’s Gaben,’ chorus the students. Only Mark mutters, ‘Grime’s Graves,’ rather defiantly. Cathbad is busy with the fire, using a long stick as a poker, allowing oxygen to feed the flames.
The barbecue is slower to ignite. It’s late by the time the vegetarian burgers are cooked. Crisps are circulated. Mark’s dog, Odin, comes to sit in the circle, tongue hanging out.
‘Don’t feed him,’ says Mark. ‘He’s on a diet.’
‘We shouldn’t be eating crisps,’ says Thomas. ‘It should be venison or haunches of lamb.’
‘I thought you were a vegetarian,’ says Amber.
‘I’m talking about the aesthetics of the thing.’
But when Cathbad takes the baked potatoes from the embers, they are found to be raw on the inside and generally inferior to the offerings from the Great God Walker. Leo opens another bottle of wine. Darkness falls over the strange pockmarked fields. The nearby pine forest murmurs. The campers move closer together. Thomas gets out his guitar and sings Beatles songs. All you need is love. Odin crawls towards Emily and starts eating her discarded burger bun.
Cathbad was right, thinks Emily, there is magic in a communal fire. Sitting with her friends in this sacred landscape, drinking warm wine and listening to Thomas trying to remember the words of ‘Eleanor Rigby’, she thinks she has never been happier in her life.
Then a hooded figure emerges from the trees.
Chapter 1
Friday 11 June 2021
The unassuming shop in a King’s Lynn backstreet has lived many lives. Once, beyond most people’s living memory, it was a bakery. The oven still remains and has, in successive iterations, been a focal point and dining nook and was also, for many decades, boarded up completely. The building has been a café, a greengrocer’s and an ‘Emporium of Wonder’ (a junk shop), and is now well on its way to becoming a café again. A sign outside says ‘The Red Lady Tea Rooms, opening August 2021’, and another informs interested passers-by that Edward Spens and Co are in charge of the renovation.
Gary Bright is enjoying his work. This is the part he likes, knocking things down. The rest– the rewiring, the replastering, the endless conversations with architects and owners– can be dull at best and frustrating at worst. But swinging your sledgehammer at a brick wall never gets old. Gary swings. The old wall trembles at first and then, as Gary lunges again, it caves inwards. Through the dust, Gary sees a black void. This is odd, because he had expected to see a chimney breast. The plans had shown that there was a fireplace in this semi-basement and the café owners wanted it opened up again. ‘It will give the place some character,’ says Elise Monkton, the terrifyingly enthusiastic new manager. ‘There’s probably a Victorian surround or some lovely tiles. . .’ But, as Gary moves forwards, all he can see is darkness. Cold air comes from the recently exposed space and suddenly, ridiculously, Gary feels afraid. Get a grip, he tells himself. This isn’t an episode ofMost Haunted. You’re a builder and you’ve got a job to do. Looking through the gap, he sees something white, almost glowing. Is it chalk? Gary leans into the void and sees that what he is looking at is a complete human skeleton, laid out like a Hallowe’en prop.
Someone screams. It’s a few seconds before Gary realises that it’s him.
Dr Ruth Galloway is having a difficult day. Teaching is over and final papers are being marked. The students have had a tough year, mostly in lockdown, communicating with their tutors only via Zoom. But they have produced good work and Ruth is proud of them. This should be a time when she is getting ready for graduation ceremonies, planning for the next term and lobbying the university for more money and resources. Instead, graduations have been cancelled again and Ruth is waiting for a committee to decide if her department will even exist next year.
‘Any news?’ David Brown appears at her door with minimal knocking.
‘No,’ says Ruth. ‘The executive board have only just started their meeting.’
‘They should have invited you.’
‘Board members only,’ says Ruth. ‘It’s awful. Like being sentenced to death in your absence, without being able to plead your case.’
It’s a melodramatic analogy, she knows, but it’s how she feels. Her job is who she is. Dr Ruth Galloway, Head of Archaeology at the University of North Norfolk. And now the university, in its wisdom, thinks that the department is ‘unprofitable’ and the board are considering closing it altogether.
