The Cuckoo Wood Read online

  The Cuckoo Wood

  An Alex Ripley Mystery

  M. Sean Coleman

  Contents

  Prologue

  Midsummer’s Eve, 24 June

  29 October

  30 October

  All Hallows’ Eve, 31 October

  1 November

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Published by RED DOG PRESS 2018

  Copyright © M. Sean Coleman 2018

  M. Sean Coleman has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  ISBN 978-1-9164262-1-4

  www.reddogpress.co.uk

  For Richard, without whom there would be

  no words

  But as for the cowardly, the faithless, the detestable, as for murderers, the sexually immoral, sorcerers, idolaters, and all liars, their portion will be in the lake that burns with fire and sulfur, which is the second death.

  Revelation 21:8

  Midsummer’s Eve, 24 June

  THE GIRLS JUST STOOD THERE, on the pebbled shore, watching her drown. They weren’t her friends. Not really. The orange glow of the campfire flickered on the surface of the water, which bubbled and roiled around her. A black plume of smoke billowed into the sky. They shouldn’t have come into the Cuckoo Wood. She regretted telling them about the angel now. They would never believe her. Why hadn’t he come?

  Samantha Jaynes thrashed her arms, trying to propel herself through the water, back to the shore. No use. Exhaustion took over. She’d been stupid to drink. It had only been a few sips. Still, the unfamiliar alcohol weighed her down, letting the water close in around her like hands grasping her arms and legs, pulling her under. She was sure she would die tonight. Right there in the cold, dark lake.

  She sank into the depths again, water filling her lungs, choking the life out of her. Coughing and spluttering, she found the surface, trying to get air in to her burning chest, but it was no good, she couldn’t breathe. The lake had already won.

  As the world slipped from her grasp, she saw him step out of the trees and onto the shore behind the other girls. The Kirkdale Angel. He had come. But he was too late. Too late to help her, anyhow. Samantha wished she’d never started all this. She wished she’d never heard about the angel. More than anything, she wished she could tell someone what she knew now. But it was too late.

  Samantha Jaynes stopped struggling and let the water take her down. In those final, fleeting seconds as her consciousness faded, she felt a hand take hers and give a gentle, reassuring squeeze. It would be okay. She wasn’t alone. Her angel was with her.

  29 October

  THE LONG GRASS WAS DAMP with dew and clung to Rosie’s bare feet, cold and wet, numbing her skin where the nettles had stung her and the thorns had cut. Icy mud squelched up between her toes with every step, as though the earth itself was pulling her in, guiding her. He was in the wood tonight too—they’d seen him. Perhaps this time they would catch him.

  The moon hung fat and full, casting a silver light through the thinning autumn canopy whenever it burst through the heavy, dark clouds. Rosie pushed a branch aside, letting it thwack back behind her as she ran deeper into the musty gloom. The bushes closed around her, shutting off the way and blocking all light.

  Jagged thorns clawed at her skin, drawing out tiny pinpricks of scarlet on her white arms. She didn’t feel the scratches. She didn’t feel the cold. And she wasn’t aware of her teeth chattering, or her short, cotton dress—wet and torn—clinging to her skin. All she knew was the voice inside her, like a deep bass rumbling, shaking her organs, drumming alongside her heart, filling her, possessing her. She quickened her pace. Her heart beat faster, her breath shortened. She was close.

  She slipped as she crossed the shallow stream and landed on her knees on the rocks. Her fingers scratched at the muddy bank, breaking her coral painted nails. Rosie wiped her hands across her face, down her neck and chest, spreading the mud across her skin and staining her dress. She felt wild. Part of the earth.

  A dazzling light flashed up ahead, piercing through the trees, brighter than the moon. The angel. Showing her the way? Thunder rolled overhead, making the woods shake and rumble. Rain needled the ground. Autumn leaves danced and whirled, silver backs glinting in the moonlight. Not much further now. But she must be quick. She mustn’t fall behind the others.

  She crawled up the slippery bank of the stream and pushed on through the undergrowth, stumbling over roots, following the light as it raced on ahead, drawing the calls and laughs of her friends behind it. Breathless and shivering, she arrived at the edge of the wood, where the trees let out into the clearing. She had made it. But the light had gone, the thunder was fading. Was she already too late? She was so tired.

  Stepping tentatively forward, she joined her friends in the clearing, dancing around the fire, laughing and shrieking. Their white skin shone in the pale light as they cast off their dresses in heaps on the floor beside the flames. The firelight flared in her eyes, bright and painful.

  She started singing, her voice growing stronger, the old song rolling from her tongue like honey. She heard the others join her, their voices high and sweet, calling the angel, just as Sam had shown them. He would forgive them.

  Exhaustion washed over her again. Stumbling, she dropped to her knees, needing to sit. Through darkening vision, she saw Caitlin fall too, plonking down heavily on her bare bum, like a broken marionette. Caitlin laughed as she flopped back, lying with her arms outstretched, staring at the sky. It was a good idea, Rosie thought. Lie down and wait for the angel. He would come. She closed her eyes and all sound receded.

  Somewhere in the darkness, the angel’s voice called her name, low and quiet—little more than a whisper. Hands beneath her back now, lifting her. She opened her eyes to see who was there, but darkness crowded in around the edges of her vision, and all she could see was a feathered wing, so white, so beautiful, wrapping her in a warm embrace and carrying her away. She was forgiven.

  All around, echoing through the trees, she could hear a wailing song. High-low, high-low. It reminded her of something, but she couldn’t remember what. Coming from all sides. Nearby and far away. A chorus of angels, perhaps. And, carried on the breeze behind the wailing song, she could hear other voices calling her name, far, far away.

  It was unlike anything she had heard before: a song of exquisite beauty and tortuous pain. It whirled around her, grabbing at her, ringing in her ears. A deep, animal part of her wanted to run to the voices, but she couldn’t—she was floating.

  Her feet and hands felt cold. Freezing. Wet. Ice crawling up her skin, across her back, over her stomach. Making her gasp and flinch. She was in the lake. A great weight pressed down on her shoulders, the heaviest of all loving embraces. Despite the icy cold, she felt safe, loved, whole—bigger, even, than just herself. It was her time.

  The water consumed her, filling her nose and mouth, flooding her lungs. Her own voice rose in her throat, wanting to join with the wailing chorus, eager to be part of something important. But the lake drowned her song. Panic gripped her chest as she tried to cling to life. It was too late.

  As her own light left her, floating alone in the cold, black water, Rosie heard her mother among the other voices calling her name as they searched for her in the wood, and the wailing sirens of the police cars and ambulances, high-low, high-low. It was t
oo late to go back. Too late to tell them what she’d done. What they’d all done. It was just too late.

  There was no eternal light, no warm embrace, no angel to hold her hand as she ascended. None of her friends had stayed behind to walk with her. The angel had gone, her friends had gone, and all that remained for Rosie was darkness. And then, nothing.

  PC Daniel Cotter sprinted as fast as his legs would carry him through the dense undergrowth, jumping over fallen branches and ripping through the smaller ones by sheer momentum. Brambles tore at his trousers, clawed at his face. But he didn’t care. He’d heard a cry. A scream. Coming from the direction of Brathigg Tarn and, as he sprinted towards the small lake, he strained to hear it again above the sound of the thudding clatter of rain on the tree canopy overhead.

  If only Rosie’s parents had reported her missing right away, instead of going out to look for her on their own. They wouldn’t have wanted to draw attention to her errant ways, but it frustrated him that they had put the family’s reputation ahead of their daughter’s safety. He only hoped they would find her in time.

  His best friend, Luke—Rosie’s brother—had been the one to call it in, and Cotter knew Luke would never forgive his parents if anything had happened to her. Even though Luke was almost ten years older than his sister, he was fiercely protective of her, and often shielded her from their parents’ over-bearing religious views. It would kill him if Rosie got hurt.

  The sky was already lightening although daybreak was still hours away. Cotter hoped that young Rosie Trimble would live to see it. Other voices were calling her name in the surrounding woods: Rosie! Rosie? A haunting, repetitive echo.

  The whole village had turned out to search, including Rosie’s parents, even though Cotter had advised them to stay at home. Given the shocking state in which they’d discovered the previous girl, the last thing he wanted was one of Rosie’s friends or family to find her first. He hoped he was wrong, and that she had just snuck off with a boy. But Luke had already warned him that she’d not been herself recently. Please just let her be okay, he thought.

  He crossed the brook in a single leap, slipping and stumbling up the low, muddy bank on the other side, pushing his hands into the soft ground to pull himself up the slope. He cut across the clearing before bursting out of the trees onto the shore of the lake where he stopped dead, panting hard. His stomach hitched.

  Rosie! Rosie? The staccato of voices echoed around him.

  She was there. Face down in the water, just beyond the shoreline, naked, her dark hair wrapped around her neck and arms, bobbing and swaying gently on the surface like seaweed.

  “Rosie!” Cotter shouted as he splashed into the lake, but she didn’t move. “Oh God, no. Rosie!”

  He was waist-deep before he reached her, the cold water stealing his breath, making him gasp. He grabbed her arm, pulled her in close to him, and dragged her backwards towards the shore.

  “Please, Rosie,” he shouted. “I’ve got you now, girl. Come on. You’ll be all right!”

  He dragged her up the shore, hands locked under her armpits, the dead weight causing him to stumble and fall.

  “Help!” he shouted. “Over here. I’ve found her. God, help!”

  He laid Rosie on her back and started resuscitation, pumping down on her chest, pausing only to breathe into her mouth. Her lips were blue, her skin like ice.

  “Come on, Rosie,” he whispered, mouth close to her ear. “Stay with me.”

  Feet clattered across the stones behind him, and he looked over his shoulder to see a paramedic running along the shoreline.

  “Help!” Cotter yelled again, still desperately pumping Rosie’s chest.

  He didn’t stop his resuscitation until the paramedic knelt beside him and put a hand on his shoulder.

  “I’ve got this,” he said and Cotter stopped, but didn’t move.

  The paramedic checked for a pulse for what felt like an age before turning back to Cotter.

  “She’s gone, Dan.”

  Deep down, PC Daniel Cotter knew he was right. Still, he took a moment to lift his clasped hands from Rosie’s chest and admit there was nothing more he could do.

  He sank back on his knees, exhausted, frozen, defeated. Rosie Trimble was dead. The second local girl to take her own life in the same lake in just four months.

  DR ALEX RIPLEY silenced her ringing phone and tucked it back into her handbag. It wasn’t a number she recognised, and she was in no mood to field calls from reporters looking for a soundbite right now.

  “Sorry,” she said to the make-up artist, who leaned across in front of her again.

  “Don’t worry, love,” he said. “Better it happens in here than live on air!”

  “True,” she smiled.

  She was nervous enough about appearing live on national television, without embarrassing herself by forgetting to turn off her phone. This wasn’t her first live appearance by any stretch, but she got butterflies every time.

  A renowned skeptic, specialising in investigating purported miracles and divine interventions from the logical perspective of science and reason, you could rely on Dr Alex Ripley to be a rational voice when questions of faith overlapped with media sensationalism.

  She was about to appear on a regular Sunday morning debate show where, on this occasion, the panel discussion was about faith healing. It was the kind of programme she couldn’t stand watching. She hated these divisive shows, with their angry audiences shouting their opinions over each other, and guest speakers brought in to provoke the worst reactions in the crowd. Sensationalist crap. But she had a new book about faith healing to promote, so she’d jumped at the chance to quash a few myths and misconceptions live on air.

  In a debate on this subject, she knew she could hold her own, no matter what they threw at her. Her books always ruffled quite a few feathers, and this one would be no different. People often got angry when their beliefs got challenged, and that, after all, was Dr Alex Ripley’s speciality. She could even treat this as audience research.

  The show’s host had greeted her as she’d arrived and made it obvious that he was not expecting her to pull any punches. He was an intelligent-enough man in private, but he was one of those hosts who loved to provoke his guests. He made bold, sweeping statements, deliberately twisted answers, and provoked conflict at every turn. That’s what made good telly.

  He had gleefully informed her that one of the other guest speakers this morning was the Reverend Bobby Swales—one of the many self-proclaimed healers that she had lambasted in the opening chapters of her book. She wasn’t worried about meeting him again—the encounter would be more uncomfortable for him than for her.

  She’d seen right through him, and would have no trouble outwitting him in this debate. Sure, he could quote scripture to suit his ends and he was a charismatic performer, but he hadn’t fooled Ripley for a moment. He was a cynical, self-serving man who preyed on the weak and desperate, and gave them false hope, simply to line his own pockets.

  Ripley wasn’t anti-faith or religion. Nor did she have anything against those who held particular views. In fact, it was quite the opposite: she dreamed of finding something that could satisfy her own desire to believe in a higher power. What Alex Ripley railed against was the use of religion as a shield for cruel, vicious, selfish and, above all, stupid deeds. Regardless of their position or standing, if someone had set out to deceive in the name of any god, Alex Ripley made it her mission to expose them.

  She was often employed as a professional devil’s advocate, using rationality and science to argue against claims of miracles. Over the years, parties on both sides of the argument had hired her, and she was one of the few experts in the field recognised for having no agenda, other than to get to the truth. It was whispered that if Dr Alex Ripley were ever to say that you had a miracle, then you had a miracle. As yet, she had found nothing to convince her. But it wasn’t for lack of effort.

  To date, she had published three books on different aspects of the m
iracle question, and each of them had caused enough controversy to make her a well-known name in the right circles. Each investigation had ended with the same conclusion: there was no miracle. She had always found a rational explanation for the healings, the weeping statues, the divine apparitions, the stigmata, the visions and even the voices.

  It wasn’t always the case that those proclaiming miracles had set out to intentionally mislead. Sometimes, their steadfast faith blinded them to the truth. Other times, there was neither a rational answer nor evidence of divine intervention.

  Nothing was ever black and white. Regardless of how carefully she phrased her findings, Ripley knew she was either accusing someone of lying or being hopelessly naïve. She had learned to deal with the inevitable anger and criticism aimed her way.

  Over the years, she’d been accused of profiteering, hypocrisy, devil worship, and of using her own lack of faith to extort corroboration from confused and disappointed believers. She brushed off most reproaches, but sometimes she felt as though she was the only sane and rational person in a world of deluded fanatics.

  These days, she only worked on more complex or higher profile cases. No matter the scale or significance, she found the same underlying principle in all of them: people just wanted to believe. They liked to think they had been chosen to receive a special gift or that they finally had proof there was more to life than just the here and now.

  Her latest book was another tough exposé. It had taken two years to research, and had made her several enemies along the way, from those at the top of the Catholic Church to the disgruntled charlatans who realised that their cash cow had just been publicly slaughtered. The Reverend Bobby Swales fell into the latter category, which explained why he was on this show today. Doubtless, he had brought some of his faithful flock along to corroborate his wild claims.