Eden Relics (A Zac Woods novel #1): Author royalties for Cancer Research

by N Williams

  Zac tried the door. It was locked, or stuck. The handle turned, but the door didn’t budge. He could surmise that the door opened outwards because there wouldn’t be room for it to open into the stairwell. He gripped his mini flashlight in his teeth, turned the handle and dropped his shoulder heavily against the door. With a crunch, it moved outwards in the frame. One heavier shove and the door sprang open, out into the clear night air.

  It was set in a protrusion on the roof of the castle; Zac thought it looked a lot like the front side of Doctor Who’s Tardis.

  The flat roof of the main building of the castle was surrounded by limestone imitations of defensive battlements. Zac looked over the edge on all sides. He was only about fifty feet up on the front elevation of the castle but was over a hundred feet up at the rear, where the terraced grounds dropped down in manicured steps to the gardens below.

  The roof area was nearly square, about half the size of a basketball court, and in the centre of the roof was a light-coloured raised stone-built platform - the flat top of which was about waist height. Zac knew this was what he had seen from the air.

  He walked over to the slab of rock and saw that a large crucifix had been carved into the top, which was sitting above what looked like a rectangular stone sarcophagus. Around the carved cross was a Latin inscription, deeply carved into the soft stone.

  His iPhone was set to camera mode to take some shots of the inscription. The flash from the built-in camera temporarily blinded him. Coloured spots swirled and danced in front of his eyes as they slowly began to readjust in the moonlight.

  As Zac tucked his phone into his pocket, his hair was grabbed and tugged viciously from behind and a fist struck him simultaneously in the kidney.

  Had it not been for the thin man holding him up by his hair, Zac would have doubled over and collapsed to the floor.

  The flashing before Zac’s eyes now no longer had anything to do with the camera. He was gasping for breath; the pain in his back was excruciating. His knees buckled, and he felt the hands holding him begin to let him fall. As he did so, he kicked his left leg back hard into the shin of the attacker.

  His attacker yelped and let go of Zac’s hair. As he did so Zac’s instincts began to take over. He dropped his right arm back and caught hold of the man’s genitals. This time the man screamed.

  Holding on tightly, still with his back to his attacker, Zac needed to turn this fight around.

  He squeezed the man’s groin. ‘One twitch of a finger or sound from you and I’ll have you singing castrato for the rest of your life, understand?’

  The man nodded. Tears were streaming down his face.

  Zac kept hold of the man’s genitals and used his other hand to push him around and back against the stone slab.

  ‘Who are you?’

  The man was barely able to speak through the pain and began to retch.

  Stepping back, Zac released his grip and took out his Glock. He aimed the weapon at the man’s head, keeping his gun arm well out of reach.

  The man spluttered, ‘I’m just here for the diary, that’s all... just told to scare you off and to get the diary.’

  Zac quickly searched the man and unfastened his holster. Six grenades were clipped around the leather strap.

  ‘That’s enough shit to scare Jason Bourne...who sent you?’

  At that moment, something hard thumped across the back of Zac’s head. The flashing stars and lights were back before his eyes, just before they were replaced by total blackness.

  CHAPTER 39

  The water was rushing in through his nose, into his ears and mouth. He couldn’t keep it out. It was freezing.

  Any second now and it would end. The pain in his chest was unbearable, his lungs hurt like hell, and he knew he couldn’t last any longer.

  His foot touched the rocky floor of the underground river. He pulled it back; he couldn’t stand the feel of the smooth cold stones on his skin - they felt dead - just like he would be any second now.

  Thoughts of his friends and of his mother flashed through his head. His mother would be so angry. She always reacted like that whenever he hurt himself. She would shout and tell him how stupid he had been and then in the next instant take him in her arms and hold him tight.

  Where were they?

  He caught a fleeting glimpse of one of his friends in the distance, through the dark murky water. He was too far away from him and was drifting further with each passing second.

  The blackness began to creep like sinister vines throughout his body, threatening to envelop him permanently. And then complete blackness. No pain and no more thoughts.

  *

  Zac awoke to the sound of Gates shouting, ‘I’ll do the bastard if he comes within fifty yards of us again.’

  ‘Pleasant as always,’ mumbled Zac.

  Gates stopped his ranting and sat on the chair next to the bed, dropping a grenade belt and a copy of the Daily Mail onto Zac’s chest.

  ‘What’s this? And why am I in your room, Bill?’ he said as he began to focus on the things around him.

  ‘Those are certainly not pineapples…’ Bill said, pointing at the grenades, ‘...that is a copy of today’s Daily Mail, and you are on my bed because some bastard laid you out and turned your room over as well.’

  Sitting up sharply, Zac soon wished he hadn’t. The pain in his head and lower back was subsiding but was still bad enough to stop him in his tracks. ‘There must have been two because I had the one covered when I was coshed from behind.’

  ‘Oh, that explains it. Thought for a moment you were losing your edge.’

  Zac didn’t want to laugh. He knew it would hurt. ‘Did they find the diary?’

  ‘Don’t worry. They didn’t find anything. They must have followed you up to the roof thinking you’d know where you were going, but if they’d followed me they might have had a bit more luck... not that the bastards would have got it off me,’ he said as he grinned and held up the black book.

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘It sure is. It seems that the photocopies we have are only part of the contents. There’s a lot more to read,’ said Sally excitedly. ‘And there’s something else.’ Sally took the clay cylinder out of her overnight bag and held it up for Zac to see. ‘Adelina also left a recording cylinder behind - might be worth something to the museum.’

  Zac smiled. His head was pounding, but he felt better for knowing that his pain hadn’t been in vain.

  ‘If we get to the bottom of all this shit I’ll gladly donate the cylinder to the museum. One thing still doesn’t make sense; how did you find me on the roof?’ he said.

  ‘After I found the diary I came to look for you whilst Sally played silly buggers with the spooks.’

  Sally looked indignant.

  ‘I knew you were intending to check out the roof, so after I found the diary I followed you up to tell you.,’ Gates continued. ‘By the time I got up onto the roof, the bastard who attacked you had gone. Must have heard me coming up the stairs, waited until I was checking you out and then done a runner. I thought you were in a bad way. Then I saw the grenades lying next to you. They didn’t hang about; I heard the car take off from the car park and saw the lights head back down the valley.’

  A faint tapping on the door was followed by the receptionist, Ffion, walking in, a look of concern on her face.

  ‘I’ve got some painkillers for your head,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks,’ Zac said. He took the tablets she offered, and Zac filled a bedside glass with water and swallowed the painkillers.

  ‘What do I tell my manager?’ asked Ffion. ‘Julian almost had a heart attack when he heard the noise on the roof.’ Ffion began to laugh. ‘Some bloody psychic he is. The first time something actually happens, and he nearly dies of fright.’

  Gates thanked Ffion for her help. ‘Don’t worry about the manager. Give him my card and tell him to give me a ring. I’ll explain everything.’

  Ffion looked at his card and noted the number. ‘L
ondoner, eh?’

  ‘No flies on you there,’ teased Gates.

  ‘So this is your personal number, is it?’ said Ffion, blatantly flirting with the big man.

  ‘Yes, as it happens it is,’ replied Gates, as he suddenly caught on to the direction of the conversation. ‘I’ll probably be down here in Welsh-Wales for a week or so if you’d like to talk about any of this... over a drink or a meal perhaps?’

  ‘That sounds wonderful,’ gushed Ffion.

  The pain in Zac’s head had begun to increase in rhythmic explosions. He needed something a bit stronger than an aspirin. ‘I think I’m going to be sick. Where’s my jacket?’

  ‘Use the toilet. It’ll make hell of a mess of your jacket pocket,’ cracked Gates.

  Zac sighed. ‘I need my jacket for the tablets in the pocket.’

  Ushering Ffion towards the door and smiling like a Cheshire cat, Gates had an idea. Before you go, Ffion my little lotus flower...’

  Ffion blushed, ‘Yes?’

  Gates took the clay cylinder from Sally and held it out for Ffion to see. ‘You wouldn’t happen to know where there’s an old cylinder player would you?’

  After studying it for a few seconds, Ffion smiled. ‘Yes! I think it looks like the other discs in the display case in Mr Farrell’s office. The player has a large brass horn thingy. Don’t know if it works, though.’

  The three friends grinned. ‘Could you get us into Mr Farrell’s office for a few minutes to play it?’

  ‘Mr Farrell left for London this morning. I doubt he’ll be back tonight.’

  Convenient, thought Zac. Farrell had made sure he was well away from the scene of the crime when Zac was attacked.

  ‘I’m guessing you want to do this without others knowing?’

  Gates smiled. ‘It looks like we’re going to get along very nicely.’

  *

  Gates opened the wardrobe and tossed Zac his coat.

  ‘Thanks.’ Zac took it, fished another two soluble codeine tablets out of the pocket and filled the glass with water from the washbasin tap.

  ‘Do you think it’s safe to take those along with the others Ffion gave you?’

  He sat on the bed, gulped down the fizzing liquid and sat silently for a moment.

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes then, shall I?’

  ‘You’ve spent too much time with Gates. You’re picking up his wise-arse habits.’

  ‘Oy! I resemble that remark,’ said Gates.

  Zac forced a grin. The newspaper on the bed next to him was opened at page four. A ring of blue ink drew his attention to the article trapped within the hand-drawn circle. ‘‘The Sinking Sphinx.’’

  ‘I thought the article might interest you,’ said Gates.

  ‘My eyes are not letting me read yet...tell me.’

  ‘It seems they’ve sunk a shaft into the ground at the arse-end of the Sphinx. Claim they need to truss it up because it’s sinking.’ Gates took the diary and opened it to a double page drawing of the Sphinx. Drawn in ink beneath it was the unmistakable outline of a buried chamber.

  Zac took the book and examined the drawing more closely. ‘That’s a coincidence.’

  ‘You’re telling me. Why now?’ asked Gates.

  ‘It’s a load of bollocks,’ said Sally.

  ‘You have been spending too much time with me,’ said Gates.

  Sally smiled. ‘It’s bollocks because it’s not true. The bedrock the Sphinx and the pyramids are built on has supported them for several millennia. It’s hardly likely they’re going to sink now, is it?’

  Zac rubbed his head. ‘So, what are you suggesting?’

  ‘I’m saying they’re doing something that they don’t want anyone to know about and using the story as a cover.’

  CHAPTER 40

  Sir Eddison Stockwell’s lower back throbbed in agonising rhythm as he sat in the wheelchair Farrell was pushing along the riverside. The cancer had begun to rob him of his capacity to walk, but not his capacity to feel pain.

  A river often berated for lack of cleanliness, the Thames in summer still drew him to its banks; a conduit of daydreams within a mad urban landscape; a multiracial mix of personal concerns and urgent destinations assisted in some way by his company, Stockwell Pharmaceuticals. He wondered how many people, going about their daily business, relied on his products to make it through the day.

  He gazed at the slow-moving boats and the street cleaner pushing cigarette butts towards a waiting scoop, and wondered what it would be like to end his life as a contented man, a man bothered by nothing other than the time to sweep the next ten metres of embankment. He appreciated that man with the brush – the hardy character tasked with keeping London clean in all weathers - but knew that could never have been him. Stockwell had always known he had more to offer the world and, although he had achieved more than most would ever dream of, he still had more he wanted to bequeath – but it was far more than the cancer in his body would allow.

  He shivered at the thought of the others getting to the relics first. He simply had to get them, not just for himself, but also for the benefit of the whole world.

  ‘Stop here,’ he ordered Farrell.

  Farrell obliged and set the foot brake.

  ‘I want you to contact Zac Woods and ask him to meet me.’

  Farrell tucked the woollen blanket in around Stockwell’s legs, even though the day was warm with not a hint of a breeze; it just seemed to be the right thing to do in this game of master and servant they played each day.

  ‘I’m not sure he’ll come. He seems intent on following the wishes of his ex-girlfriend, the murdered Ms Powell.’

  ‘Well I want you to insist,’ he demanded. ‘Don’t take no for an answer. Tell him, I’ll make it all worth his while.’

  ‘I will sir, but I truly don’t think this man is open to bribery.’

  ‘I’m not going to bribe him, Bradley. There are other ways we can get through to a man like Zac Woods.’

  Both men gazed silently at the Parliament buildings opposite. The majestic buildings glowed yellow in the slowly shifting swathes of sunlight cutting through the smattering of clouds. A young family approached, the little girl more interested in her ice cream than the history all around her. Stockwell saw a large gull line up for a dive-bomb run, swoop towards the family, and knock the ice cream scoop off the top of the little girl’s cone. Even if the gull could have understood the distress it had caused it would have been a small price to pay in the bird’s battle to survive. Stockwell knew that he too sometimes caused distress to achieve his aims, but that was also a small price for humanity to pay for the ultimate prize he could offer with the secrets the relics possessed.

  Stockwell grimaced as he turned to look up at Farrell. ‘We cannot allow others to snatch victory away from us, Bradley - under no circumstances.’

  ‘No sir,’ said Farrell. ‘We won’t let that happen.’

  CHAPTER 41

  A cold rivulet of melting ice meandered through the folds of Zac’s T-shirt as he stood on the balcony admiring the view of Mumbles at night. The ice-filled towel sat like a turban atop his aching head.

  His big friend leaned on the guardrail, his broad back expanding like bellows on steroids as he breathed in the clear sea air. ‘I’d never get tired of this view,’ he sighed. ‘How did you get hold of this place?’

  ‘I haven’t paid for it yet. I’ll use my pension and some money I saved from investments.’

  ‘Nice. No better place to stand and think at a time like this.’

  ‘That’s just it, I can’t think at all at the moment. My head is splitting, and I just don’t have an idea what this thing is that we’re looking for.’ Zac turned slowly and walked back in to the kitchen. He fumbled open a pack of painkillers, dropped two into a glass of water and waited for them to dissolve.

  ‘Still on that shit?’ said Gates.

  The big man was surprisingly light on his feet when he wanted to be, and Zac hadn’t heard him walk into the kitchen behin
d him. ‘I’ll give them up when they come up with something else,’ Zac said as he gulped down the contents.

  ‘Well, you know those things are addictive. You’re not supposed to take them for more than three days.’

  ‘I know, mate. I only take them when I really need them. I don’t take them much anymore.’

  ‘Well, that’s a good thing. God knows what they’ll do to your kidneys and liver over time.’

  ‘My innards are probably buggered by the Jameson’s and Guinness anyway,’ agreed Zac.

  He walked back into the living area as the phone rang.

  ‘Yeah, hello?’

  ‘Zac? It’s MacKenzie.’

  ‘Hi, Mac. Not feeling too good at the moment so speak a little quieter please.’

  ‘Oh, sorry. Are you okay?’

  ‘I will be. Some bastard coshed me over the head last night up at the castle.’

  ‘Shit! Well after I’ve told you what I’ve discovered you may understand why.’

  Zac switched the handset to speakerphone. ‘Go on,’ he said, becoming intrigued.

  ‘I’ve found some information regarding the Adelina Patti link. I’ve been trawling the web and must have made several hundred links between all types of sites before I found an entry regarding her connections with the Catholic Church. I found an old "Labour News" paper cutting in which she is actually pictured with a priest. The headline is the thing that caught my attention. "World Famous Opera Star Stays Local." The article then goes on to explain that the rumour of her intention to move from the valley and travel back overseas was unfounded. Staff had raised concerns at the rumour because they feared the loss of their jobs. Madame Patti told the paper that she had absolutely no intention of leaving Craig-y-Nos, as it was... and I quote... “Not just my physical home, but has now also become my spiritual home. I have connections to this place that transcend mere personal pleasure. I owe a debt to God to stay here, to protect the castle and the people within."’