Tales from The Lake 3

by Tales from The Lake

  An unsuspected doorway in the wall was hanging open when I finally turned around and the fragrance of pure panic permeated from the corridor beyond.

  A secret passage! Ha! My day was complete.

  Into the darkness I drove.

  My eyes acclimatised instantly but I didn’t need to see where I was going to follow this man. The ripe aroma, or should I say bouquet, of sour perspiration and secreted urine was a pure trail for a connoisseur like me.

  Twenty steps ahead. Full speed. Then a sharp skidding left. Five more strides. Slowing down, but not much. Down some stairs in a single leap. Thinner air brushed me here, still riddled with its acidic stain, but cool now, as if from somewhere dark. I inhaled and followed the draught. Through another door. How did he open it with boneless fingers? Straight on again. Fast. Only my footsteps rattled the woodwork. A pungent shadow, just up ahead. I pounced.

  It really was a day full of surprises. The room into which I had crashed was empty and cold. Well, not quite empty. The assassin I had been pursing all day long lay stretched out on the floor with a golden dagger protruding from his chest. Life vacated his body as I watched, his scent curdling in wretched clouds above him. They dissipated as he breathed his last. Only the red stain around the blade moved as it spread.

  The sight was unexpected but I had no time to enjoy it. Spinning around, I scanned every surface for another false panel but no exit was immediately evident. When the door slammed shut behind me and an electronic lock engaged, I silently lamented my impatience.

  Always rushing in where angels fear to tread.

  Shaking my head in increasing frustration, I cursed my misfortune. Mostly at missing out on the kill.

  Alright. Time to go to work. The killer’s body provided no clues except one. I was sure he could not have stabbed himself considering his ebbing strength and mangled hands. Certainly no one had passed me in the passage. So, somewhere in this apparently featureless room was another sneaky portal which had only recently been used. I took a deep breath but no singular aroma reached me other than that of recent death which was now coating the chamber with its cloying film of misery. Growling my dislike of confinement, I struck the door viciously a few times and immediately felt better.

  It took a few minutes to test the stones for anomalous echoes. I started off with a series of innocuous taps, hoping to locate the escape route quickly, but soon I was thumping the walls soundly with my fists as my anxiety increased. Despite my earlier eagerness to catch up with my prey, enforced incarceration with his draining corpse had not been part of the plan. Eventually, more by luck than judgement, a cunningly concealed crevice revealed itself to my unsubtle probing and I was away once again.

  Away indeed, but to where?

  Veronica Brooks had been avenged albeit not by me. The scents ahead of me were not overtly threatening and after witnessing the abject surrender of the accomplice, his fate could be left up to others too. Only one question remained: Who was behind the attack? Why send an assassin to do the job? What was going on in this church? Three questions then. And I didn’t have an answer to any of them. I pressed on resolutely until I reached daylight.

  It was a relief and a frustration to be outside again. True, I was away from the oppressive constriction of decay and free also from the prison that had held me for several unendurable minutes. But the whole affair had largely taken place around me with my own involvement being less than impressive. That was quite clearly unacceptable so there was only one thing for it. I was going back in and to Hell with the tradesman’s entrance.

  In the end, no wood required splintering, no locks needed to be sprung. A disappointment in many ways. I pushed at the front door and it swung inwards, silently inviting. Should have thought of this before. Lights flickered on as I moved along a narrow passage. Unsuspected technology at work behind ancient walls. Not a good sign. When the floor creaked with encouraging age, I recovered my composure and slid secretly on. Considering the day I was having, I shouldn’t have been shocked by what was waiting in the next room.

  The first thing that caught my eye was me. Lots of me, actually. Portraits, numerous statues, likenesses in gold and bronze on elaborate plinths. All unquestionably important pieces. Each one a stylised representation of me from my valiant youth right up to the mature version. I stood still and allowed my ego to be massaged while the rest of me searched for evidence of purpose.

  The ancient and bloodstained altar in the middle of the room held all manner of troubling possibilities. It squatted toad-like, emitting an aura of bleak desperation that throbbed around it like a macabre magnetic field. I looked away and frowned at a particularly unflattering portrait of myself scowling like a trapped wolf and thought that it could quite easily have been rendered in the last few minutes.

  “You are displeased with something?” a voice enquired from behind me.

  I spun around to see that a man and a woman had entered the chamber. I was less than impressed to find the whimpering accomplice had recovered his backbone but startled at the scent of his ravishing new companion.

  Flaming red hair. Wild emerald eyes. Scant room for a score of curves in a figure-hugging dress.

  She had my undisputed attention already and had only spoken five words. Now what was it she had said? Displeased? Well, yes, you could say that. Still, first things first.

  “The assassin is dead!” I snarled at the cringing man who was edging slowly in behind his more palatable ally.

  “As he should be,” the woman replied calmly.

  I stopped still. Now I know that I hadn’t really been on top of things all day and perhaps the fragrance of this exotic creature had soaked too deeply into my skin but I thought all along that I was the victim here.

  Veronica Brooks sniffed her disdain but I didn’t care.

  This dazzling female was belittling my efforts. Standing in a room full of images with my face may do wonders for the self-esteem but my mind was spinning as questions outnumbered answers. Time to stand my ground.

  “What is this place?” I asked, sweeping my hand around the room full of tributes.

  Her eyes sparkled mischievously. “I’m surprised at you. Surely you recognise a shrine when you see one. You have a very loyal following, you know.”

  No, I did not know. This was certainly news to me as everyone I had encountered so far had either tried to shoot me, lay their hands upon me or lock me up. In my confusion, I resorted to levity.

  “You mean I have a fan club?”

  “A bit more than that. These people worship you. To them, you are a vengeful god.”

  Them, not us? Interesting.

  The sallow accomplice was nodding and bowing in such an irritatingly obsequious manner that I considered buffeting him again to relieve my tension. In contrast, the woman seemed to have set herself apart from the fawning creature and was watching me intently. Not in reverent adoration, it had to be said, but more like a predator. I was acquainted with the expression. It was my own. Could it be that in this house of death and devotion, a serpent lurked? Let’s hope so. Things had gotten dull in the last few minutes.

  “Why did you kill the assassin?” I asked her.

  “Revenge.” Her tone was corrosive.

  “Not for me.” I knew this instinctively.

  “No. Not this one either.”

  She could shift like greased lightning, I’ll give her that. In a blinding series of moves, she cut to the side, took up the accomplice from his knees to his tiptoes and shook him viciously like a lioness with her kill. I listened to his neck break first. Then she flung him aside so violently that I heard the rest of his bones splinter. It occurred to me somewhat belatedly that I could no longer distinguish her scent from the rising stench of death in the room.

  “You seem to be disposing of all if my tormentors,” I said.

  “Actually, not all,” she replied, and then began to pace.

  I followed her with my eyes as she paraded in lithe steps before me. I could usually learn
all I needed to know from pheromones, but this one was a mystery. Any personal aroma that she might have exuded was now distorted within the cloud of hostility that flowed about her. I wondered if she could detect the doubt washing over me right now. She began speaking again which gave me hope. The talkers always got distracted.

  “These people idolise you but you terrify them too. The assassin shot at you because you pursued him. He panicked. His fear overwhelmed him. The others here also reacted to your intrusion with violence. It is their way. But the assassin was not after you in the museum, though he did kill my sister who was. You did not sense her threat because the fool pointing the gun caught your attention. Three more steps and she would have torn out your throat.”

  So, I groaned inwardly, Veronica Brooks was a would-be killer. My would-be killer. I knew there was something about her I didn’t like. I suppose the knife that I had found in her handbag should have been a bit of a clue but what with the sniper’s scent and all, I really hadn’t been thinking straight. Anyway, I like to think that I see the best in people. Veronica Brooks’ sister was clearly a capable sort and apparently had not yet completed her explanation.

  “This is a vile place,” she spat. “Many of our kind have died here to satisfy the crude desires of these pathetic creatures and their evil reverence. This cannot go on. It is time that their object of adulation was finally expunged from this world.”

  Expunged? That didn’t sound good. And what did she mean “our kind”? Was she including me in that? Surely she didn’t think that we were related. Several courses of action sprang to mind but I decided on the path of least resistance. Ask her. I stood up straight, put on my most misunderstood expression and attempted to appeal to her better nature. I was sure she had one somewhere. Her basilisk smile was not encouraging.

  “Help me out here,” I pleaded. “Who are you?”

  “You don’t know us but we know you,” she snarled. “Your great pride has made you oblivious to all but yourself. The barbarians who infest this building venerate you, however, and slaughter innocents in your name. They are merciless and they are many. They murder your brethren in the mistaken belief that we are a threat to you. No appeals for clemency penetrate their fanaticism. Sadly there aren’t very many of us left now. In fact, now that my sister has departed, only you and I are left in this city.”

  Strange words indeed, I thought. My brethren? I knew no equal. Shared no blood. The world I inhabited was filled with hatred and fear, it was true, but I was too quick for any of it to stick to me.

  Quicksilver retained its sheen regardless of collisions. This bewildering woman sought to tarnish me; hold me somehow responsible for the actions of zealots. I couldn’t bring myself to call them maniacs considering the object of their devotion. I returned her cool gaze. It betrayed no sympathy for my confusion.

  In an effort to absolve myself, I was about to describe my admittedly unusual lineage and being, up until now, its solitary surviving member when it occurred to me that she either already knew or didn’t really care. My sad story of neglect and abandonment would not move her. The tale of my years of struggle with my unnatural self could not scratch her surface. When she finally shrugged off her cloak of civility and threw herself at me with teeth and nails bared, it became clear that my sensitive nature had failed to stir her and the time for chitchat was over.

  I would like to say that her feverish attack was gracefully repelled and decorum was restored quickly and quietly. I would like to report that the blood she drew, my blood, yes, my blood, was a lucky shot and that my response was measured and restrained. In fact, the first dozen or so slicing arcs from a whirlwind of limbs were so fierce that I was obliged to take several steps backwards to parry the onslaught. A shock, since retreat was almost unknown to me.

  Murderous blows rained in thick and fast from all directions. It was all I could do to preserve my dignity as this flurry of feminine ferocity clearly considered no anatomical target off limits. So quick. So ruthless. I could not help but be impressed. Some of her moves were so reminiscent of my own that it seemed almost churlish to strike back. It was ironic, I supposed, that in this temple devoted to me, something she so evidently despised, nothing was a greater compliment than her imitation. Of course, my ego did not allow for any other explanations. Including sibling parallels.

  For an hour I was a blur of defensive co-ordination as she darted around the room, a tempest of slashing violence, until fatigue finally gripped her and I made my move. In between ducking two brutal swipes towards head and heart, I slipped inside her guard to take a lethal hold upon her throat. Before she could lash out in response, I drove forward at breakneck speed to collide with the stone wall, a move that resulted in a sickening crunch. Not too sickening, naturally, as it wasn’t me making first contact. Her eyes glazed. The tension in her muscles drained away as she slumped semi-conscious into my arms. I was alert for deception but no inside jabs sneaked through.

  Regardless of the abrasions that criss-crossed my face and arms, my composure remained intact which certainly saved my beautiful assailant’s life as self control was not usually high on my list of attributes. But I was intrigued. Could this fiery and fascinating woman really be “my kind”? I glanced up at a portrait on the wall and then into her cold green eyes. My eyes. And the cool olivine stare of Veronica Brooks also flickered in my memory. A relation? A sister? Did I mention that I always kind of liked her?

  I relaxed my grip. She gulped in air. Slowly, new energy restored her and I felt her body tense once more for action. My hand stroked her forehead. She rose in agitation then fell back. Significant pressure at her throat stilled her violence. Her consciousness departed in a hiss of despair. I noticed from the corner of my eye that our altercation had overturned a number of candles and a considerable conflagration was now in progress.

  Time to leave. But what to do with this exquisite creature who may or may not be my only living relative?

  If I took her with me, I would be responsible for her. Possibly, she might eventually restrain herself and tell me of our history. Of our kind. Or, she may blame me for everything and renew her frenzied attempts upon my life at the first available opportunity. Of course, if I left her behind she would most certainly burn in the now seething inferno. My new family all gone. A difficult decision which would require all of my renowned compassion and empathy. With flames at my heels, I acted for the best.

  I ripped my way through the door she had locked and raced out in the smoke-dense passageway. No brawny dark-suited gunmen awaited me there.

  Dead or fled, I assumed.

  In seconds, I had reached the front entrance and stepped casually out on to the street where the first plumes of smoke were already mixing with the city exhausts. On the heated breeze, I caught just a hint of burning flesh and recognised its taint as similar to my own. As I walked away from the crumbling building, I considered how close I had come to no longer being alone in the world.

  Ah well, easy come, easy go.

  Veronica Brooks cursed my name as I strode away, but I still kind of liked her for all that.

  BIOGRAPHY: Steve Jenner lives in a village on the edge of Greater London where he composes his dark, quirky tales, quite often in broad daylight. He has been writing for about twenty years mainly for his own entertainment, but having been an avid reader all his life, hopes to one day place one of his own modest efforts in amongst those authors to whom he owes so much.

  A HAND FROM THE DEPTHS

  Dave De Burgh

  The air vibrated with ululations when they came for Manolo. He was small, not yet ten summers, and his parents had lost themselves in the Day of the Dead celebrations. He clutched the conch shell his father had given him, as if holding onto it would somehow keep him from being swallowed by the swirling crowd.

  Hands slipped in under his arms and lifted him. He was still smiling, laughing, in wide-eyed wonder at the sublime chaos around him. It was only as the person who had picked him up began moving away from
his parents that he began to realize he was being taken away.

  When he began wailing to be let down, no-one heard him. When his legs began kicking, no-one saw.

  ***

  Manolo was in a small room, smaller than his room at home. There was a narrow slot in the wall, not even wide enough for his fingers. When he pressed his head to the slot he could just make out the opposite wall, and sometimes a suggestion of light during daytime.

  The room was seven paces in length, two in width, and he sometimes walked the space trying to find some kind of escape in the rhythm of his steps. No lights, nor switches against the wall. Other times Manolo sat down, bare back to the cold, grimy wall, and just held himself. He tried not to think too much, but his thoughts always turned to the life he had been taken from. Memories flitted through his mind, familiar and heart breaking, but he tried to hold onto them when the darkness became too much. He remembered living outside—remembered the sun, and the touch of the wind. His parents. His father’s strong arms. His mother’s soft hair.

  He picked up the conch shell and blew into it, but the mournful sound reminded him of all he had lost, and that he would probably never see the ocean again. He remembered the grown-ups whispering that his father had fought some kind of sea man-monster for the shell. Monsters could be men, too, like the people who had taken him and brought him here.

  He had thought his mother was making up stories to get him into bed, every time she told him about how this child or that child had gone missing. His world had been one of cartoons on weekends, his crate of toys every afternoon; the stories of the kidnapped children were just stories, after all. Nothing to be afraid of.