Fear Of Broken Glass: The Elements: Prologue

by Mark, David

  When he turned he found her leg again, following it to where it disappeared within. When he found her face again he was surprised to see it looking at him, just looking. He looked back, seeing her hair spread out on the cushion she used as a pillow, the way it flowed around her head. She just looked without saying anything. And Ash just stood, looking back without saying anything. He felt the stirring of interest, even though it was cold.

  She looked up, eyes wide. Then they looked some more.

  ‘I’m Ash.’ He smiled. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Meat you, he wanted to say, not that she would tell the difference. He stepped towards her, until he was standing barely half a meter in front of her. He shrugged.

  ‘Yeah, well,’ she said, softly, searching... it didn’t take her long to find purpose, sitting up so he could sit down.

  Ash placed his arm along the soft back of the sofa, leaning forwards slightly, re-establishing eye contact. She looked away, then back again. She let out a laugh, getting it, not quite sure what to say. The way he knew he was looking at her, saying nothing.

  She was the first to speak, her voice becoming intimate. ‘Are you... an artist as well?’

  ‘If you want,’ Ash replied, without taking his eyes off her.

  ‘So you’re good with your hands... then.’ She didn’t smile.

  ‘I can be anything you want me to,’ he whispered, almost breathless, feeling the tug in his pants.

  Then she smiled. It was a little smile as she turned to look back again. She stood up, the blanket falling to the floor as she walked to the lounge chair to retrieve her jeans laying over thee end of the armrest, tugging them on.

  ‘Anything to do around here?’ She flicked her eyes to the ceiling, playfully, dimples forming where she smiled. ‘Apart from sit and talk?’

  ‘We could take a sauna?’ He lowered his voice, getting up quickly. ‘Come on.’

  Ash pulled on his boots and waited for Ulrika to join him, clad in her open red leather jacket over her white t-shirt and high-heeled boots. He pulled open the kitchen door, sniffed the air, then walked towards the out-shed, Ulrika walking behind him. The right moment came when she walked through the entrance door, entering a small ante-room that lead to the sauna. He opened the inner door, looking inside. It smelled of old wood, a room big enough for six people. Next to the wood-burner stove of the same pattern as the one in the kitchen, a double-tiered home-made bench made from sections of pine floorboards. It was constructed in front of a small square, grimy window that let in the only light, there being neither light bulbs or anything else that could be called luxury; other than heat. It was as simple and primitive as anything he had ever seen. Yet effective, given the three hours it took to build the necessary heat, as they had tried out in the days preceding Thomas’ disappearance. Ash recalled sitting here, naked with the others, a nigh around a hot camp fire and hot tempers and dismissed the thoughts. He turned to Ulrika, she looked unsure as she leaned back against the timbered door, looking over, then slowly, back towards him.

  ‘A little cold, isn’t it?’ She said quietly, then looked at him with her head lowered slightly to one side, looking up. As if he hadn’t seen that one before. ‘It’s not even lit.’

  ‘Why?’ Ash took a step towards her, lowering his voice, ‘Do you want more heat?’

  She looked away again, looking around before finding him again; a bemused yet not dismissive expression on her face.

  ‘Let me show you what this place has in the way of luxury.’ Ash leaned forwards, sniffing her.

  She stayed still, looking up at him from beneath her brow, head close to his nose, then glancing across at the bench, sat down on the upper tier, leaning backwards, placing her elbows on either side of her to support her weight, her legs planted open on each side in front of her. She leaned backwards, exposing her chest beneath her open jacket, a smile playing across her lips, looking up into his eyes.

  It was the best invitation he had ever received and Ash wasted no time in making the most of it, as he looked at her, hungrily. ‘Looks like we need to find some heat after all.’

  ‘What about the fire?’

  ‘Fuck the fire.’

  ‘Aggressive little shit, aren’t you? Come on then...’ she whispered, closing her eyes, words laced with suggestion.

  Ash hesitated, then seemed to make his mind up about something. He took a step forwards, placing an arm around her back, drawing her to him quickly. He leaned forwards, pulling her into him. She responded, removing her remaining hand from the bench, taking hold of his long hair until her face was touching his, then pulling back, raising a hand to the coarse stubble on his chin. He raised a hand, pinching her nipple through the thin cotton of her t-shirt. He looked into her eyes, moving a practiced hand downwards to hers. He took hold of it, moving it downwards, towards the taut warm cloth of his erection. She laughed, massaging him through the material of his black denims. Ash lowered his hand to the button on her jeans, popping it deftly, then continuing, unzipping her. Ulrika stiffened, then relaxed, continuing her efforts as he knelt down, pulling her jeans down, little by little; first to one side, then to the other, until they were down to below her knees, oblivious to the cold. Ash sat there, staring into the triangle of white cotton, then leaned forwards, rubbing his nose on the place where he knew she wanted attention, inhaling her. Ulrika leaned back, closing her eyes. She moaned from the back of her throat, raising her hips as the tip of his nose made contact.

  ‘You took the words right out of my mouth.’ Ash’s smile faded, already feeling the sweet dampness beneath the thin material, saliva filling his mouth so much he wanted to let it all out.

  Justin had gone out, descending the slope of the small mountain behind the house to walk the last five meters descent from the rocky monolith, keeping to the right. He made his way around the edge of the lake, past the camp fire and across the small expanse of grass, heading towards the back kitchen entrance. Inside, he could see Conrad moving back and forth, alone. He looked back across the open ground separating the main house from the stores shed. He wandered out to where he could see the edge of the rock and stopped at another sound, frowning. Faint, yet regular: a soft sound; beating, muffled.

  Thumping.

  He edged closer to the end of the storage building. There was no smoke coming from the metal stack. Curious, he stepped forwards, walking around so he could see the gable end, finding the source of the sound. He stopped, eyes fixed on the single small window that let the only light into the room that functioned as a sauna. There, he watched the unmistakable outline of the back of Ulrika’s head, thrust back and upwards against the single pane of dirty glass in small regular movements, eyes closed in acts of pleasure only imagined.

  The smell would normally have been a delight, such a mass of frying onions and the aroma of woodsmoke. Justin entered the kitchen, closing the back door behind him, not even giving them a second look. Conrad was dressed in a kitchen apron in pale blue stripes, holding the largest kitchen knife Justin had ever seen poised mid-air, then descending to cut through a large chunk of red meat.

  Conrad failed to see the expression on his face. ‘Nice walk?’ he said sarcastically, cutting the meat with firm even slicing motions, as if he had been a butcher all his life. He sliced across the gathered strips of dark red meat, scooped the cubes and threw them with a practiced hand into the casserole on the old wood-burning stove. ‘Hungarian Goulash.’ He raised the knife and pointed it at him. ‘Where the hell have you been?’

  Justin noticed the sheen of the blade was dulled by the layer of fat-grease and shrugged without saying anything. He walked over to the kitchen worktop and bent low, working the wooden-handled pump under the sink pumping water into a glass. ‘I can’t believe people actually live like this. No piped water, no electricity. No lights.’

  Conrad eyed him as he sliced through the next piece, pulling the sinews apart with his fingers. ‘There have been times I would have called this luxury.’ Then a shadow passed across his face
, throwing the knife in the air then catching it with one hand before driving it into the wood of the chopping block. He turned, face hard. ‘Why did you bring Thomas?’

  Justin hung his head. ‘I know... I needed someone to look at it.’ He looked up. ‘I never asked to get involved,’ he narrowed his eyes. ‘You found me, remember?’

  Conrad stared at him for a moment then turned back to his job, pulling the knife out of the board. ‘This place, it gets to you, doesn’t it?’

  Justin watched the knife edge slicing once again through dead flesh in regular practiced movements.

  ‘It’s like that here,’ he added.

  Forgiven, Justin walked to the table and sat down. He knew exactly what he meant, the landscape seeming to take over, pulling people down if they ever dared to defy it. ‘You’ve been here before, haven’t you?’

  ‘I’ve been lots of places.’ Conrad said, knife poised. He sliced through a hunk of meat, and again until each strip was the width of a finger. ‘Enjoy it while we can, no more where this came from.’

  ‘You’re very...’ Justin couldn’t find the right word, his thoughts focused only on one place, somewhere confined with a dirty window witness to deeds he didn’t even want to think about. There was only one person who could have cornered her and he cursed Ash, trying to think of something else. ‘Is that why they chose you for the job?’

  Conrad looked without expression. ‘I don’t know why they chose me.’ He sliced through the last of the strips, adding them into the casserole with the others, throwing them into the cast iron pan with a plop, face dour as he stirred the pan, the onions sizzling loudly. ‘Why do you think Thomas went into the park?’

  Justin looked at the floor. ‘I don’t know,’ he heard himself say. He thought of Ulrika again. ‘I couldn’t care less why he went there. I’m leaving as soon as I can.’ He stood and left, stomach rumbling, with nothing else left to say, wondering how the hell he was going to get the fuck out of here.

  A police car had arrived, two officers keeping the place under observation. Vikland had been and gone again. Why she left, she didn’t say. They had to stay at the house and stay put until the evening. No one had said anything about the fingers in the jar or what had happened during the night; or anything about the real Hangman. And that made them all feel uneasy. Even Conrad.

  They paused at the sound of a car. Ash was stacking logs, walking with an armful back to the campfire beside the lake cold and black; Daniel following behind. They walked over to the parking area, seeing a new red Golf indicate and turn into the yard. The vehicle was stopped by a police officer getting out of a blue and white Volvo parked behind the trees.

  ‘Did you see that police car before?’

  Daniel shook his head. ‘Must have driven up this morning,’ he replied, the officer walking over to the other vehicle.

  Ash turned to look at Daniel and Daniel merely shrugged as they witnessed a brief exchange, the driver, a balding slightly round, middle-aged man climbed out of the car he’d parked next to Ulrika’s heap. He retrieving something which was probably his driver’s license and took a step towards the police car.

  ‘Who the hell is this?’ Daniel said.

  ‘No idea,’ Ash added, frowning as the visitor was frisked by one of the officers, who taking his ID walked back to the police car. He handed it to his colleague through the open window. Another exchanged followed, the visitor doing most of the talking. The officer’s looked confused. More talking, ending in a brief nod from the officer standing.

  Ash stepped forward, Daniel following as the visitor approached the house. He stopped when he saw the two approaching men.

  ‘Well hello there!’ The balding man said, jovially, in a finely articulated English. ‘Quite a security you have here.’

  The visitor looked educated, a professor type, ruddy complexion and the funniest bow tie Ash had seen in years – bright red with pink polka dots. He paused, looking confused. ‘You’re not expecting me?’

  Daniel frowned. ‘And you are...?’

  ‘I have spoken with Mr. Swift. We arranged I could come and view the painting. Except, he never turned up.’

  ‘Turned up where?’ Ash said.

  ‘At the hotel.’

  ‘Hotel?’

  ‘The Regent Hotel... Karlsborg?’

  He looked at both of them, a permanent smile planted firmly within the dimples of his cheeks.

  Ash’s suspicions eased slightly. ‘He never mentioned anything about that.’

  The man seemed to relax. ‘I’m Sebastian Chivers, how do you do.’ He stepped forwards, a plump pink hand outstretched. He removed his other hand and handed them a business card. ‘Dealer of fine arts. I have been in contact with Mr. Swift.’

  ‘And you come from... where, exactly?’

  Chivers smiled in a bashful way, chortling, ‘Well, from London actually. I flew into Stockholm yesterday.’

  Ash just looked at him. ‘Perhaps you’d better come inside.’ He led the visitor inside, down the corridor past the photographs. ‘Stay here.’

  Chivers followed, his arms behind his back, entering the kitchen with a smile.

  ‘Take a seat.’

  Chivers sat at the table.

  Daniel studied the card. ‘A historian and a dealer in antiquities?’

  ‘Anything that is antique and sought after with value has interest,’ Chivers replied, talking in a well-practiced manner, looking around. ‘This is really a very nice place you have here...’ Chivers beamed as Ulrika walked into the kitchen, standing up and walking towards her in greeting. ‘Well hel-lo! Sebastian Chivers, delighted to meet you!’ He walked forwards with the same pudgy outstretched hand and shook hers.

  ‘Ulrika.’ Ulrika looked at Ash questioningly.

  ‘He says he knows Justin?’

  Daniel looked across at Ash and frowned.

  Justin entered and stopped in the middle of the room, surprised at the sight of the unexpected arrival. ‘What’s going on?’

  Sebastian Chivers stood up again, hand still outstretched. ‘I’m Sebastian Chivers.’

  ‘Justin...’

  ‘Swift?’

  Justin frowned, then nodded.

  ‘We spoke on the phone.’

  Justin looked across at Ash. Ash shrugged.

  ‘Delighted to meet you.’

  He took his hand reticently.

  ‘I’ve come about the Agard?’

  Ash felt a surge, as if he had just been electrified while Justin stood there, looking bewildered, looking towards the place where the Hangman used to stand. Ash turned to Daniel, his face frozen.

  ‘Honestly, I’ve never spoken to this man before in my life,’ Chivers said to Ash and Daniel, completely unaware of the effect he had had on both of them.

  ‘Danish police have confirmed background information and made a preliminary examination of his computer files,’ Elin Vikland said, glancing at her hand-written notes from the notebook on her lap. ‘Denisen’s Gallery in Copenhagen had a good reputation. His income seemed legitimate according to tax records. The business was financed by his wife’s father.’ She looked up. ‘Was there anything on it?’

  ‘They haven’t got back to me yet.’ As they spoke, The Hangman Of The Gallows was being systematically analyzed for chemicals, hair, fibers, anything that could provide more clues.

  She glanced back down the page, sitting in her chair, Almquist in the other. ‘It looks like Denisen was involved...’ She looked up, expression serious. ‘He contacted an Amsterdam number on the 24th of September.’

  ‘Amsterdam?’

  ‘I’m still working on it...’

  ‘The city is the centre of the black Art market.’ Almquist raised his brow as he leaned back with his hands clasped behind his head, looking across the short distance towards the field radio. He hadn’t thought of that possibility. That Denisen had stolen it and already done a deal. That made the buyers the killers. But then why the Draugr mutilations?

  ‘If you want to k
now,’ Vikland was saying, ‘the group appears genuine enough to me, except for Ash and Conrad Baron. I just don’t know about those two. Justin Swift is another matter entirely...’

  Vikland stretched across her desk for the video camera and opened it, snapping out the tape. ‘See for yourself.’ She placed it on the desk in front of Almquist who was frowning, arms still raised behind his head.

  ‘I want to find out who sent it to Swift’s old neighbor.’

  ‘These things take time.’

  ‘No time like the present time.’ Almquist smirked, removing his hands, looking down at the small tape as he picked it off the desk.

  Vikland reached for a block with handwritten notes. ‘Ashley Jayaraman is a convicted drug dealer. He is a British citizen, as we know. We don’t have access to British records, yet.’ She glanced down, scanning the lines of handwritten notes. ‘He served a two year prison sentence in Denmark, released on parole last summer and started work soon afterwards with...’ She frowned.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I wrote here the Danish Archaeological Institute.’

  Almquist leaned back in her chair. ‘Ash an Archaeologist? He told me he was a consultant.’

  ‘I’m still waiting for details who his parole officer is.’ She turned a page of her notebook and looked across. ‘I should have more by the end of the day.’

  ‘Amsterdam. Interesting.’ He rubbed his beard, the feel of it starting to irritate him. But not as much as the coincidence of the Danish connection. ‘And Archaeology...’ He wore a deep look of concentration, lost in thoughts that disquieted him and stopped his rubbing when he saw the look Elin was giving him. ‘Go on.’