Sentinels

Which forces me to believe that it was real. And if it was real, then the world is a far more horrifying place that I could ever have believed.

It started on the night that I met the man I know as Father Patrick Ronan. Friendly, erudite Father Ronan... Christ! it makes me shake just to think of... [Note of terror, even hysteria, in speaker's voice---break in narrative of almost one minute's length.]

I'm sorry about that. I will try to remain calm and set out events in their chronological order.

My meeting with Father Ronan was just bad luck. If I hadn't been so bloody bored with life, if I hadn't been playing amateur detective, I'd have been forever ignorant of the priest's existence.

When I first came to Godbury, I was puzzled by the attitude of most townspeople to the area known as The Shoals. It's rumoured that even the police hate patrolling The Shoals. Okay, so it's not all that pleasant but there must be worse slums in the country. And yes, it stinks a bit, but then I've walked down Canal Street on Hong Kong island on hot days. You can't tell me much about stinks.

I went to The Shoals because I needed cheap lodgings. My parents may be wealthy but my father's keeping me on a tight leash financially---the deal is that if I can stay off drugs, he'll reconsider my position in time. Meantime, I live in the lap of poverty.

I said I was playing amateur sleuth. There had been a number of disappearances in The Shoals, men, women, itinerant dock workers, even young people. From what I could gather, the locals were not co-operating wholeheartedly with the police. They didn't even talk much to me, an outsider, but I did overhear odd snatches of conversation in the pubs. I heard one old fellow mumbling to his companions, "Mark my words, 'tis just like nine'een-twenny-seven. Startin' all o'er again, so 'tis."

I was starting to feel a strong urge to use some acid. They say LSD's not physically addictive but it sure as hell gets to you psychologically. And it makes you apathetic. I needed something to keep my mind off the stuff and I had this brilliant idea. If I snooped around at nights, maybe I could find something out, possibly even solve the mysteries. I might not do any better than the fuzz but given local attitudes, I couldn't do any worse.

Thinking that it would be a good idea to know more about The Shoals, I spoke to a friendly librarian at Southdown University who dug up some fascinating old books for me...

* * * * *

An extract from Old Godbury (pamphlet written by Henry Crane BA, Senior Librarian, Hampshire County Libraries 1930-1942)

"...but even this most charming of Hampshire coastal towns has its black spot, a slum known to all and sundry as 'The Shoals'.

"The Shoals is the site of the original Godbury, rumoured to be as old almost as is the village of Portchester (where lies a well-preserved Norman castle built on the site of a Roman fort), which is a little further along the coast on the far side of Portsmouth. Certainly many of the crumbling, closely-packed houses in The Shoals were standing at the end of the Middle Ages, although they are not picturesquely attractive as are similar buildings in such towns as Stratford-upon-Avon.

"These ancient houses in The Shoals are dirty and ruinous and give forth an unhealthy stench, which causes the casual visitor to shudder and turn away to seek more pleasant places. The streets are narrow and, at night, poorly-lit by old-fashioned gas lamps. The upper storeys of the buildings thrust forward, as if seeking to huddle closely to their neighbours opposite.

"Nor are the inhabitants of The Shoals any more prepossessing than their surroundings. Many of them---men, women and children---are stunted and squat, strangely dark of skin and suffering from what may be a congenital skin disease, scaly and foul-looking. There is about these unfortunates a hint of inbred decadence. They are not generally known to marry outside of their own close-knit community.

"There is some disagreement among antiquaries and scholars as to why The Shoals is so called. Centuries ago, Godbury's major industry was fishing and it could well be to do with the shoals of fish caught offshore in the Solent. Others hold that it is because of the hidden sand and shingle bars which at low tides can be treacherous. Some with a fantastical bent of mind have even suggested that shoals of sea-monsters made their way into old Godbury to interbreed with some of the inhabitants. Without doubt, we can dismiss this latter story for the ridiculous taradiddle that it is.

"Sea-monsters aside, there are many strange stories and legends about The Shoals. Here, it is said, is interred in some hidden place an abomination which was worshipped by the ancient Britons before the coming of the Romans. This strange deity was slain, at no small loss to themselves, by a detachment of legionaries sent post-haste from Portchester, then known as Portvs Advrni. This legend is the reputed origin of the name Godbury.

"Throughout the Middle Ages and later, The Shoals was said to have been a nest of witches, and there were many hangings in Godbury market place. Puritan witchfinders were very active in mid-seventeenth-century Godbury.

"Even in the materialistic world of the 20 ^th Century, The Shoals had its resident self-styled master magician. Joseph Whately was an associate of the infamous Aleister Crowley and lived at Mill Grange, an old manor house which is sited on the outskirts of The Shoals. It is worth mentioning that Whately died in a nearby---now closed---mental hospital, a raving lunatic, in 1928. Before his incarceration in early 1927, he was believed to have been responsible for a series of disappearances although nothing was ever proved against him.

"Yet another tale links The Shoals with certain legend-haunted towns in the American state of Massachusetts. Arkham, Innsmouth and other townships were supposedly places where horrifying supernatural events occurred. I have been unable to discover any reason for the supposed connection and can authoritatively dismiss it as just that, a tale.

"Beyond The Shoals lie the docks, once important but now..."

* * * * *

Transcripted statement of Peter John McAllister (continued)

The reputation of The Shoals seemed to me to be little more than superstitious nonsense. The streets are gloomy and the inhabitants surly, not taking kindly to authority and strangers, but I can think of many other places where you'll find similar conditions and attitudes.

Although not a salubrious place, I had come to quite like The Shoals. It was quiet and nothing much ever happened, not on the streets anyway.

On the evening of 8 July I could feel myself becoming restless and twitchy and decided to go out on one of my "investigative" strolls around The Shoals. As it gradually became dark, I walked through deserted and claustrophobic streets, some of which were illuminated by the dim, antique gas-lamps which have never been replaced in The Shoals, others of which were completely unlighted. As usual, my wanderings were fairly pointless. I had only disturbed a mangy cat or two and they certainly couldn't be responsible for a string of disappearances. I decided to turn for my boarding house.

Then, in one of the dimly-lighted alleyways, I saw two men apparently deep in conversation. Standing a short way apart from the lamp-post, they were little more than shadows really, one of them about average in height and build, the other almost as tall and wide as Goliath.

I was about to move on when some six or seven figures erupted from the other end of the alley and attacked the conversing pair. I'm no hero. I hadn't a clue what this was about and in normal circumstances I'd probably have walked on, minding my own business. But the lamplight briefly revealed the face of one of the attackers and I recognised him as a stroppy little sod with whom I'd recently had an acrimonious argument in a pub. Time for retribution, I decided, and piled in.

As I ran forward, the big man felled two of his assailants with what seemed to be powerful open-handed slaps. He then seized two others by their coat collars, lifted them into the air as if they had been babes and cracked their heads together. The remaining three were wading into the giant's companion, who was having a hard time of it. My target was with them and I managed to fetch him a good clout from behind, hard enough to send him sprawling. One of the others looked up, but past me towards the alley's entrance. "Copper!" he bellowed and the two melted into the shadows as swiftly as they had emerged, abandoning their friends. Then strong beams from two flashlights, behind them the silhouettes of two policemen, caught and held the rest of us.

"All right," droned a voice, filled with long-suffering patience. "What's going on here?"

I noticed that the cops were keeping a careful distance from the big man. I couldn't blame them. Anyone who can lift two others clear from the ground should be treated with respect.

But they needn't have worried. When he replied, it was in a pleasant, well-educated voice with the hint of an Irish brogue. "Ah, officers, I'm very pleased to see you."

He moved away from the torches and into an island of washed-out light shed by the street lamp. His face was pleasantly craggy and his white hair crew-cut. In the gloom, his garments appeared to be black and I could see what looked like a clerical collar at his neck.

The big man's companion came forward too, bruised and dishevelled. He was a weedy-looking character, roughly dressed and with a cast in one eye. I had a vague recollection of having seen him hanging around some of the dockside pubs which I frequented. He was possibly a stevedore. The remaining attackers were now back on their feet, although still dazed. With their squat bodies and vaguely toad-like features, all bore the appearance of being bog-standard Shoals dwellers. They huddled together, glaring at us sullenly.

"What's all this about then, er...padre?" one of the officers asked the big man.

"I'm not really sure, constable," he answered. "This gentleman here---indicating the squinting man ---"was very kindly giving me directions when we were attacked. Fortunately, I've had to care for myself in some very rough parts of the world. And our young friend here came to our assistance. Very commendable for a passer-by."

A flashlight turned on to the skinny man. "Any idea why you were attacked?"

His growled reply was churlish. "Fucked if I know."

"And what about you?"

I shrugged. "As the man said, I was just passing by." Pointing to The Shoals crowd, I added: "They started it. Thought all that lot against two was a bit unfair so I decided to have a go."

The other cop strode over to confront the attackers. "Well?" he snarled. They said nothing, just glowered at him.

Out came a notebook. "You'll want to prefer charges, padre?"

"Would it be worth it, officer? After all, I'm sure that it's just a case of mistaken identity. Anyway, I'm inclined to think they've had enough punishment already."

"How about you?"

The squinting man shook his head. "Yeah, well, it's probably just like the vicar here said---they must of thought we was somebody else. I don't want to make no charges."

"That's what it was, mister!" butted in one of the assailants in the thick, almost guttural patois which is The Shoals version of the usually pleasant Hampshire burr. "Mistaken iden'ity. We didn't mean no harm!"

"Well, I could bring my own charges," the older of the two policemen told them. "Disturbing the peace and causing an affray would do for starters. But that would mean involving the innocent as well as you lot. All right, you're lucky this time. Piss off! and I don't want to see you around when I come back this way."

The five slunk off, pausing to glare just once more before they vanished into a side passage.

"Would you like us to walk some of the way to your respective homes with you? That lot might just come back when they think we're out of the way." The policeman's offer sounded more duty-bound than enthusiastic.

The squinting man didn't seem to like the idea much. "No thanks," he mumbled. "Look, I don't live far away---lodging house down near the docks---and it's just outside the Shoals". Turning, he set off at a fast pace, to end of the alleyway and to the right. The older officer followed slowly, presumably to watch until the man was out of sight then sauntered back. "You, sir?"

"I'll also say thank you, but no thank you." The big priest smiled. "My place isn't far. I stay at Mill Grange Road on the east side of the Shoals, near the main Portsmouth road."

"I know it, sir. Not all that pleasant an area. Whereabouts do you live?"

"I've leased Mill Grange."

"Mill Grange?" The cop shook his head. "Good grief, that's where that crackpot Whately lived."

"Who's Whately?" asked the priest.

"Just some nutter who thought he was a black magician," I said. "I've read all about him."

"Well, then, perhaps you'd care to walk along with me and further my education." The priest chuckled. "I'm always interested in hearing about the opposition."

We said goodnight to the policemen and I followed as the big priest set off at a brisk pace, so brisk that at first I had trouble keeping up with him. At last I managed to adjust my pace to his and as we walked, I told him all that I knew of Joseph Whately. He laughed. "That explains why the estate agent was so keen to let me have the place at such a low rent. And it also explains why my work is not interrupted by the locals. Incidentally, I haven't yet thanked you for your most welcome intervention back there. My name is Ronan, Father Patrick Ronan. You are...?"

"Peter McAllister, Father Ronan. Tell the truth, I was just getting my own back on one of those toe-rags. And I don't think my intervention was strictly necessary. You can look after yourself. Good job you turned out to be one of the good guys."

"I've been blessed with a strong arm and a mighty frame," he said, a hint of self-mockery in his voice. "I'm only a man with a man's weakness and I tend to forget the admonition to turn the other cheek.

"I renounced constant humility and submission about 1950. I was a missionary in China and when some of Mao's soldiers began to push my flock around, I succumbed to the violence I abhor and knocked some heads together. They gave me a bad time in prison for that―I'd made them lose face. Very important to an Oriental, is face. In time, they got sick of having me around―one day I was dragged from my cell, taken to the border and thrust over into Hong Kong.

"Since then, and no doubt to the detriment of my soul, I have often used my strength to defend those weaker than myself. And speaking of the weak, I have been wondering if tonight's scuffle was directed at that man I was speaking to. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Perhaps he'd offended them in some way---in the short time that I've been here, I've formed the opinion that these Shoals people are very clannish."

"Most likely," I agreed. "They're a strange lot."

Then I changed the subject and told Father Ronan that I, too, had been out in Hong Kong. I talked of my RAF service and also my civilian work, although I left out the more unsavoury and shameful aspects of the latter. That filled in the time until we reached Mill Grange. We stopped by immense stone pillars where once heavy wrought-iron gates must have hung. The pillars were surmounted by some really nasty-looking carved basilisks which looked quite lifelike, ready to leap and rend.

"You're welcome to come in, McAllister," the priest invited. "My housekeeper will be in bed but I make very good coffee."

His hospitality appealed to me more than the greasy spoon café where I normally took my meals, and after tonight's fracas it would certainly be wise for me to avoid The Shoals pubs for a while. I accepted his offer and he led me up a long driveway which meandered round in a long loop, overhung on both sides by trees and bushes grown wild, until it reached the entrance of the grimly bleak house. The double doors were grimy and uncared for, with blistered and peeling paint, and a huge demonically-faced door-knocker was blackened with age. From his coat pocket my companion produced a massive and antique-looking iron key to unlock the door.

The priest stood aside to allow me to precede him into the house. As I crossed the door-step, I suddenly shuddered for some reason. Bad vibes, I thought. But then, nonsense, no such thing. I'd read something of the place's unpleasant history and I guess that subconsciously, it just came back to me. Add the fact that the smell of damp and countless years of neglect pervaded the whole place and almost anyone could have felt bad vibes.

Father Ronan led me through a cavernous, dingy hallway to a vast kitchen at the back of the house. Soon we were sitting at a scrubbed wooden table with cups of excellent percolated coffee at our elbows and we continued our conversation.

"What did you do after you were chucked out of China, Father Ronan?"

"Well, with the numbers of refugees pouring into the Colony each day at that time, there was plenty of work for me, in a social capacity if not a religious one. For many years I helped to run a small church and I worked with a Chinese philanthropist called Chen Liang. He was wonderful with the homeless, particularly children and mendicants. In what little spare time I had, I made a study of world mythology."

"That's one of my interests," I butted in. "I'm reading religions and mythology as a minor at universityI'm a mature student at Southdown. I'll be honest, Father, for a long time now I've been a bit of a waster but I'm trying to get myself sorted out. I'm sorry, I interrupted you..."

A huge hand waved my apology aside. "It's always good to meet someone with similar interests. And who's trying to better his life." The priest sipped at his coffee. "I've come here for a few years to prepare a doctoral thesis. I'm hoping that a PhD will put me in a better position to continue my work when I return East. You see, it would probably lead to promotion within the Church, which would give me more power and influence to gain the help I need for my work. Chen works wonders but he cannot ignore his many other commitments.

"I thought I was very lucky to get this house---or rather, mansion---for the paltry sum that I did. Of course, it was in a bad state of dilapidation; the agent told me that it had been empty for about forty years. But it's ideal for my purposes.

"Chen Liang is very generously supporting me and I'm comfortable here with my books and my writing. I wish for nothing more.

"I'm surprised that a priest could be comfortable in this house," I observed, recalling my own initial reaction when I entered the Grange. "From what I've read, it has a grim history and a nasty reputation locally. Godbury women threaten naughty children with a visit to the Grange. Don't you ever feel depressed here?

"And what should depress me, McAllister?"

I shrugged. "It's common belief that houses absorb atmosphere---happiness, misery, whatever has gone before. I'd guess that in a good storm, this place is like something from an old horror film.

"And there are the unsavoury tales about Mill Grange, although most of them are highly improbable. For instance, there is rumoured to be a pit beneath the house, a pit of inconceivable depth, where Joseph Whately kept a monster---yes, I know, it sounds silly. I suppose I assumed a degree of sensitivity from a priest. You've felt nothing... foreboding, unease?"