MARCUS'S DAY OUT

Marcus Joyner gunned his Golf GT round the bends of the road now that he was off the motorway and its constant speed cameras, thoroughly enjoying the sensation of passing through avenues of trees and flying past the occasional house. Surely they wouldn't bother with cameras in a rural backwater like this.
He had worked as a junior reporter on the Clarion for nearly a year now and felt that he was beginning to earn his spurs. He had covered stories all over the land, all the odd ones that resulted in amusing or minor column entries. The sort that caught your eye just as you were about to fold you paper away at the end of your commute into town.
When anything minor came in to the editorial floor that wouldn't result in a lawsuit if it went wrong, the shout went up for Marcus and off he would go again on his travels. Sometimes his reports got spiked, but that was life.
 The lights of Wilborough came into view, not before time as Marcus was a healthy young man and liked his food and plenty of it. He played for his local Rugby team and exercised regularly with and without the rest of the team. It seemed a long time since he had grabbed a sandwich and a diet coke off the trolley as he left the office. He checked into the old coaching inn, renovated to provide a fairly reasonable restaurant and several bars, dumped his bag and made his way down for dinner.
A good steak later, taken with two glasses of red, he wandered into the bar looking forward to a couple of pints before he turned in for the night. The bar went a shade quieter as he entered and several pairs of eyes turned his way. These were regular drinkers, obviously and he had burst into their midst. He ordered a pint of best in house and made his way to the only empty table. He got there placing his pint on the only dry spot on the table. Marcus hated wet tables in Pubs and looked around for a waiter to dry it off.
A couple of young men of about the same age as Marcus, who had been standing nearby, turned and sat down at the two remaining vacant chairs, one of them slopping his beer as he did so. " He's a right waster him, chucking good beer around " said the other, looking at Marcus. "Have you come far, I saw you parking you car as we came in the back way ?"
Marcus agreed that he had come far, about 150 miles he calculated to himself.
" First time you've tasted our local brew then", remarked his friend, who had recovered from the embarrassment of spilling his beer.
" Not really," confessed Marcus, " I was up this way, a year or two back for a weekend. It's very good, if a bit on the strong side. "
The other two laughed.  " We reckoned you were from London. All Londoners say the same about our brew. Jack my pal here, and I work in the brewery, it's the other side of
town. Funny we should be paying for it, but Shelia at the bar slips us a free pint sometimes when the Landlord slips her the wink. "
 This exchange led to introductions all round and a renewal of pints after a further quarter of an hour. Marcus let it out that he was a reporter on the Clarion, which drew a glance between Jack and Harry, his pal. At the end of the third pint they had discovered that Marcus was down for Halloween and especially to investigate the truth or otherwise of a local legend.  He was to spending a night up at the old folly, an ivy covered tower in a wood at the top of Windy hill, an abandoned estate a couple of miles out of town. A good write up and a gloomy photo was what he needed to hand in the next day. 
" You don't believe that old twaddle, do you" said Harry, us boys used to dare each other to go up there on the Halloween night, but nobody used to take it on. Now we know different, that story was all a put up by the squire to keep folks out of his property"
They went over the story again, describing how the young son of the squire back in the mid 1800s had seduced an innocent young woman from the town, and how she had thrown herself off the 150 foot high tower when he refused to marry her. It had been their meeting place. It was said that he had pushed her over the ramparts at the top, her screams ringing across the woods as she fell. But the truth of the matter could not be proved one way or the other.
Ever since, at Halloween, the anniversary of her death, it was said that the life and death struggle was re-enacted at the top of the tower, between the young girl and her murderer. But it was all a lot of bosh. Sometimes ghost seeking tourists came down now and again and sat the night out, but they saw nothing.
Draining up the last drops they bid each other Good night and went their separate ways.
"Hey", said Harry, "lets have this guy on. We can come up to the Folly on the other side from where he will park his car up, and then put on a couple of white sheets and scare him to death."
"Better still, it's Sheila's night off tomorrow, if we can get a girl involved it will all the more realistic."
"Great idea" said Jack. And so the hoax was planned, with Sheila coming in to play the murdered girl.
The next evening saw Marcus, his car parked at the bottom of the hill, trudging up the muddy track to the base of the tower, where he set up a small camp under a nearby tree. He had got the hotel to provide a packet of sandwiches and a flask of tea, he wasn't going to risk alcohol. Must keep the brain clear.
 The other side of the tower Jack, Harry and Shelia lay behind a group of trees listening to the noises made by Marcus as he settled down for the night. "Let's hope he doesn't fall asleep" remarked Harry. " He won't " replied Jack, "I can promise you that."
 The trio managed to keep quiet and remain awake until half past midnight when they thought it was time to make a move. The moon had risen and the light was just right for a haunting.
Shelia had on a white frock she had found at the back of her wardrobe, and had let down her long fair hair. She was to run to the tower and then fall down just beyond its base with a loud scream. She rose and made her way cautiously to the start point.
"Go on then " hissed Harry. It was time. She shivered in the cold in the thin dress.
And started to run, her arms out-stretched in front of her, as she had been coached.
She was not only cold and shivering, but stiff after so many hours of waiting. As she got to the front of the old locked door of the tower she started to scream at the top of her voice. Shelia had a good pair of lungs and Marcus, who was beginning to give in to the irresistible temptation to close his eyes jerked awake, his heart pounding. Wondering if he was really seeing the ghost or whether he was suffering some kind of delusion. It took him only the most fleeting second to realise that this was real life and he was deeply involved.
Reacting to his Rugby training, half-asleep still and also stiff and cold, he rose with a shout in hot pursuit of the fair Shelia who then tripped over a tree root and fell headlong into the mud. Marcus tripping on the same root fell heavily on her, eliciting further screams and cries for help., "get off you brute", and suchlike,
By this time, Harry and Jack, realising that something was going awry with their plans and that the fair Shelia might be in danger of not retaining her virtue, They rose as one and thundered the few paces up the hill to join in the fray.
 The upshot was that after a three-way fist-fight and the loss of some teeth and torn clothing the realisation came to them what must have happened. Shelia was safe, although she had caught a lovely swinger and sported a rapidly maturing black eye. Her dress was in tatters and her left  ankle was throbbing . They all four of them stood breathing heavily and with clenched fists glared at one another.
 It took several shouted accusations before they cooled down and the truth emerged.
 "Did'nt you realise it was some-one having you on?" queried Harry. "No, I didn't", said Marcus spitting out blood and bits of tooth. " As far as I was concerned no ghost was going to get away from me, and that was that, and I wasn't able to take my photo. I'll be in trouble over this." At this they began to see the funny side and all burst out laughing. An emotional reaction, one could say.
"If it's your so and so photo you want I'll oblige you, I'll get over there with Shelia and be chasing her and you take your photo. And so it was.
In the end they all trooped down to the car, made their way to the back entrance of the hotel and cleaned up in Marcus's room.
They managed to getaway with an appearance in the public bar, after Shelia had put on her apron and discarded the dress.
 All ended well. Well, almost well. A morning dog walker reported to the Police that he had found some shreds of clothing, covered in blood, in front of the old Folly tower, up on Windy hill. The finest in the local force took many photos and carried out DNA tests, but the mystery was never solved. Just as well, really.
Poor Marcus, he got two speeding tickets for all that fun off the motorway. They had cunning ways of hiding cameras then. That's the Police for you, they rarely catch the criminals, only the poor old motorist.
       Max Frost
       6 Oct 2003