The Furness Secret Read online

  THE FURNESS SECRET

  Mark Williams

  Copyright © 2012 Mark Williams

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  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  With grateful thanks to Susan

  Without whose wonderful support, meticulous research and patient editing, this story would have never been told.

  December 1994 – On the Sofa

  At first sight, it seemed like a perfect night in. It was just a typical family sitting quietly around the communal TV on a Friday evening. A young mother and her partner, with their toddler son wedged between them. The grandmother perched on the end of the sofa, and the granddad sat on a comfy chair set at right angles to the others. But first impressions can be misleading. Everything was not as tranquil as it seemed.

  The mother and the partner were having relationship issues. She was already having an affair with a guy that managed the local pet store. Her partner didn’t know, but he had a strong suspicion that something was wrong. He had a good idea that she thought he wasn’t good enough for her. He was only a bar man at the working men’s club down the road. That was where they’d met, when she was just a schoolgirl, drinking halves of lager and lime under age. Back then he guessed the allure of the older man had worked for him. They’d been together for five years now, and had a son who was two. But his partner was in a constant state of irritation. And the young man was forever walking on eggshells.

  Despite their troubles, he was desperate to please her. To try and cling on to what they had together. But relations were frosty in the extreme. When they were on their own, they barely spoke. Things were just a little better when they were round at her mam and dad’s.

  The Telly was switched to the soap operas. Everyone was glued to the screen and no one was really watching the little boy.

  Suddenly a crash alerted them to the fact he’d slid off the settee. He’d been crouching down under the coffee table, trying to retrieve a piece of Lego he’d dropped. As he reversed out, his arched back had tipped the table over. The overflowing ashtray and mugs of tea had flown everywhere, littering the newly laid front room carpet.

  His mother went up like a balloon.

  “Yer little bastard! You never watch what you’re doing. Look at this shit all over the floor!”

  The boy was rooted to the spot, terrified of what was coming next. The grandparents exchanged looks. They hated it when their daughter lost it like this. But her partner saw an opportunity to curry favour. He scooped the lad up, carried him upstairs and beat the crap out of him. It did him no favours though. Within a month he was out of the boy’s life for good.

  August 1996 – The Bed

  She was only a tiny tot, but the little girl had got used to the regular routine. She wriggled out of her Winnie the Pooh car seat herself and waited for her daddy to open the car door. Filled by a sense of enormous pride at having worked out how to press the red button, to undo the seatbelt.

  Her father picked her up and swung her down in a gentle arc on to the delineated tarmac of the crowded car park. They held hands and walked slowly and in silence to the front of the low set, red brick, 1980’s building. The doors swished open and the smell immediately assaulted the girl’s nostrils. It was a strange combination of food and disinfectant.

  Their footsteps sounded kind of muffled on the shiny corridor floor. The decor was dull. The walls were a dirty shade of cream. The floor covering alternated between dismal grey and a fading pale green. But she knew where she was going; the familiarity of a regular visitor. It was left at the end, sharp right, stand in front of the bank of shiny metal doors and press button 4. Getting out of the lift, the side room she was looking for was second on the right.

  Her father always stopped by the desk first though. He liked to talk to the nice lady in the shiny blue coat. But this time, the woman didn’t bend down to talk to the small girl as usual. Her face looked serious and a tiny bit scary. The lady was shaking her head. And then reached out her arms and the little girl’s father crumpled into them. He let out a low moan. The girl didn’t like the sound, not one little bit.

  Her father turned to her with tears flowing down his cheeks and held his hand out. He guided her into the room and held her up to the only occupant. The man moved her forward, and lifted her up in the air so she could embrace the prone figure in the bed. She was warm and smelled just like normal. She was also dead. She was Chloe’s mummy.

  March 20th 2003 – Awaiting Invasion

  Malik was proud of his mother. He guessed everyone was proud of who their mother was. But he was especially proud. Paula cut a glamorous figure in his neighbourhood. Her looks, even in her forties made her stand out from the crowd. Her skin was still white, despite years in the heat. And blonde hair! She looked like no one else he’d ever seen. There was a reason for that of course. She was the only European he’d ever seen. Man or woman.

  Paula had been in Iraq a long time. Her early years had been spent in Oldham, a town in the north of England. She had met Malik’s father when he was at Manchester University, studying Ancient History. Even though she missed her home and family she was settled in Iraq, content. She’d had three strapping, clever sons, Gabir, Hussein and Malik.

  Although she probably wouldn’t even admit it to herself, Malik was her favourite. He was the baby of the family, over ten years younger than his brothers. She was closest to him and loved his interest in her stories about her home country. She’d taught him English. Even though she said so herself, he was good. Fluent almost.

  Malik had enjoyed, a happy, secure childhood. Like everyone in the city he was aware of Mosul’s great history. Their river, the Tigris, was the lifeblood that supported one of the great early empires. Their home was the site of the ancient city of Nineveh, two hundred and fifty miles north of Baghdad. Mosul was a key contributor to the cradle of civilisation.

  It had become one of the most important cities in Mesopotamia. A vital stop on the caravan route between the Mediterranean sea and India. The city had been a key part of the Muslim empire during the crusades until it was captured from the great ruler Badr ad-Din Lu’lu’, by the Mongols.

  In some of their rare moments together his father had taken him around Mosul’s historic mosques. The Umayyad mosque was the oldest in the city, dating from the seventh century. The only remaining structure was the fifty metre high minaret. And it was leaning markedly to one side. But still, his father’s enthusiasm brought the history of the ancient building to life. Hakim had a secure job at the great City Museum, which had artefacts revered and admired throughout the Arab world.

  Malik saw a lot of his large, extended fami
ly. They all lived close. Most of them were intimately connected with the ruling Baath party. All of the men had jobs of various rank throughout the local civil service.

  Saddam Hussein had been leader of the Baath Party and Iraq since 1979 when the president had resigned. His organisation had a highly developed, rigid hierarchical structure. The local cells ensured that services were provided and security was maintained. The Baath party promulgated the idea of Arab secularism and under Saddam, women had new freedoms, like the right to a decent education and the legal system did not follow strict, religious Sharia law. To Malik, Iraq seemed like a great place to live.

  The only problem that appeared on Malik’s horizon was the vague, uncomfortable feeling that his secure way of life was vulnerable. Although he couldn’t remember the details, many stories had reached him of the casualties in the bloody war with neighbouring Iran. And he was distinctly aware that there had been some dispute concerning Kuwait, around the time of his birth.

  Although only thirteen, Malik had become used to living with the signs of military might. Saddam’s fifth army was garrisoned in the city. One of Malik’s uncles had joined the officer corps at the base. Mosul was inside the US enforced no fly zone, the northern one, set at the 36th parallel. So he was accustomed to seeing US planes flying overhead. Occasionally, Malik would see one of the city’s anti-aircraft batteries on the street, and he would hear the deafening roar of the massive guns as they opened fire.

  However, as 2003 had dawned, a more intense sense of trepidation had begun to creep over his home city. Indeed the entire country. Even at school, fear hung unspoken in the air. Everyone knew that something very bad was going to happen. It felt to Malik as though the whole of Iraq had received a diagnosis of a terminal illness. But none of his fellow students discussed their feelings on the subject. They were just too nervous and maybe a little afraid.

  In many homes in Mosul, including his own, precautions were being taken in the case of an assault on the city itself. Malik’s house was piled high with bottled water, hoarded against the possibility of losing their regular supply. The bottles vying for space with the tables, books, chairs, and carpets that littered their living space. All the family spent many hours in the main room and it displayed more than a passing resemblance to a bazaar. A collection of old family boxes and trunks of all sizes had been moved and dumped in a corner.

  The young boy had heard his parents on the phone to their friends. Not the detail of the conversation, just the tone. It was grave, serious and with a touch of desperation thrown in. Like they were commiserating about bad news. Filled with nerves about the dreadful events that were destined for all their futures.

  The TV had been playing constantly for the last week. Tuned to the Syrian news channel. The noise had started to blend into the background. Suddenly at 8 am that morning, Hakim hushed the rest of the family and turned up the volume. The announcer gave the news that they all knew was coming. Operation Iraqi Freedom had begun.

  The room fell silent, apart from the newsreader’s excitable tones on the TV. Everyone was locked away with their own worries, dealing with intense, disturbing feelings. Malik ran to his mother. She hugged him absentmindedly. Buried deep inside her thoughts. His older brothers remained aloof and silent. Their cigarette smoke hung stagnant in the room, shrouding them in hazy clouds. They were lying, still, solemn and quiet. Malik couldn’t fathom what was going through their minds at the best of times.

  And through the last few tense weeks Gabir and Hussein had seemed especially distant. They were never exactly garrulous. But in normal times, they seemed to tolerate their younger sibling. However, they certainly didn’t shower him with affection. But he could have done with a bit more from them lately. As the storm clouds gathered around him, Malik had been desperate for some reassurance.

  But he had got nothing from his brothers, and his father was more preoccupied than usual. His mother was the only one to whom he could turn. She discussed with him why she thought the Americans were coming. Tried to give him some insight into the background of what was happening to them. Described how Papa Saddam was viewed in America and across the western world. And she listened to his concerns.

  He was grateful that he’d been able to confide his feelings to someone. Because there was no doubt at all that Malik was scared. Actually that wasn’t an adequate description. He was totally and utterly petrified. Were troops coming to Mosul? Were the Kurds? Would they get bombed from planes? Targeted by missiles? The fear of the unknown was both overwhelming and all consuming.

  The first day of the American invasion, Malik heard the staccato bursts of the anti-aircraft fire. Malik didn’t go far from his house. There was something comforting in wrapping himself in familiar surroundings. The next day prayers were said in Mosul as usual. But nothing else happened. However, that changed. It changed a lot.

  As night fell, there were reports on TV and the BBC radio of massive attacks on Baghdad. Something the Americans were calling shock and awe. Then four hours of bombs fell on Mosul. Malik was shocked and in awe.

  The air raids continued day after day. The situation was deteriorating fast. Often there was no water or electricity, and reliable news was hard to find. Rumours were everywhere. Malik was too frightened to go out. His brothers weren’t. But when they returned, they were full of horror stories of looting and indiscriminate killings. Malik was not sure whether to believe them. It didn’t seem possible to anyone that was used to the vice like control of the Baath Party.

  August 1112 A.D. – The Holy Land – The Dream

  The moon lit up the face of the young French knight. The night sky was clear. Even though it was summer the air was cold. He had used his short dagger to dig a shallow pit in the earth to get some respite from the freezing night. Even with his cloak wrapped around him, he was chilled, but the man’s face was covered in sweat. His eyes were blinking rapidly. His chilled lips moved as if having a conversation with an inner demon. In fact that was exactly what was happening. The knight was Hugh of Payns and he was having his recurring dream, or as most people would have described it, his recurring nightmare.

  He was reliving an attack on a group of pilgrims he had been escorting the previous summer. The onslaught from the Islamic troops had been ferocious. Hugh had fought back bravely, against overwhelming odds, but without great success. All of the baggage carried on the pack donkeys had been looted. Many of the monks in the group had been ruthlessly cut down. Only the fact that the heathen warriors were eager to ensure they got away with their stolen goods had saved the life of Hugh and the remaining monks. It had been a horrific experience. When Hugh eventually arrived in Jerusalem he found that it was far from unusual.

  It was then that he started having the dream. The young knight had taken it as a sign. He determined to seek out other knights like him. And to establish a fighting force which would be dedicated to providing security for Christian pilgrims throughout the Holy Land.

  Over the next few months, Hugh gathered a group of eight like-minded men around him. They established a set of rules by which they should live. It was loosely based on the Benedictine rule followed by abbeys and monasteries. But with the obvious difference that they should be prepared to fight and lay down their lives to protect travelling pilgrims. That they should become Christian soldiers.

  The knights were brave and committed but had no great riches of their own. They were forever having to beg or borrow horses, armour and weapons from the rich Christian noblemen, who had settled in the Holy Land after the First Crusade. They were all fervent Christians and many times considered abandoning their fight to establish a peaceful religious house. But always some group of travellers would beg them to continue.

  Then at Easter in 1119 a great crowd of Christian pilgrims had set off for the River Jordan from the Holy City of Jerusalem. They were in great spirits, singing and praying as they moved slowly through the countryside. But mere hours after starting on their pilgrimage, they were at
tacked by hundreds of Egyptian troops. A terrible massacre followed. Over three hundred pilgrims were sadistically slaughtered and tens more taken prisoner to be sold as slaves.

  Baldwin II, King of Jerusalem had heard of Hugh’s group of knights and after the Easter disaster, determined to put the group on a more formal footing. And so on Christmas Day 1119 at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the Order was officially sanctioned. They were to be known as Pauperes commilitones Christi, the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ.

  April 2nd 2003 – Growing Up

  At school, all the girls’ bodies were changing. Chloe had always been a thin girl. She liked junk food as much as any other kid. But she never seemed to put any weight on. Hollow legs, her dad said. Some of the other girls were less pleasant about it. At break time the chat between some of the year six girls was what bra size they were. They had been to buy their first with their mothers. But Chloe had asked her dad for money and gone with her friend and her mum to be measured for underwear. It had emphasised to her how much she was missing out on. Brought the feelings to the surface of the void in her life with her mother gone.

  Today had been even worse. She had gone to the bathroom with an ache in the pit of her stomach and there it was she really had become a woman. She had retreated to her room, sat on her bed and pulled her knees up to her chin. Chloe thought that she had locked her grief for her mother away in a private place. But this was a time when she really needed to talk to her. Her head sank down between her shoulders and she began to sob quietly. Tears streamed slowly down her cheeks. How many other times in her life was she going to miss her mother this much?

  April 10th 2003 – Saying Goodbye

  The boy was only eleven years old. But he already had terrible memories of the hushed room. It was his second visit in less than a year. The carpet was a warm, delicate pink. It struck him as an incongruous colour given the room’s purpose. Tom was sitting on his own at the end of the long wooden bench. He was keeping his eyes down. He was leaving looking up for as long as possible. Raised up in front of him he knew he would see the polished wooden box containing what was left of his grandmother. Until the last three months all his memories of her were fond ones. Then, one day just after the turn of the year, she had been devastated by the sudden death of his granddad. A massive stroke had taken his life within two hours.