‘What are you frightened of?’
‘The end of the journey.’
They lay together, holding hands, watching the steely dawn creep up on the desert, its surface becoming saturated with deeper colour as time passed. Slowly the sun rose.
‘What’s that?’ asked Hugo, pointing to a dark shape shadowing the sand.
‘Looks like some kind of disc,’ she said.
They gazed up into the empty sky.
‘You’re shaking. You still cold?’ She held Hugo tight.
‘I’m thinking about that winged serpent in your eye,’ he replied. But he was not just thinking – he was consumed with a primitive jealousy, the force of which he had never felt before.
6
The Winged Disc
‘It’s coming back.’
The dark shape appeared again on the desert floor but there was still nothing above. The appalling thought still possessed Hugo: that she belonged to them – that she was already part of them. He grabbed her arm but her flesh was hard and cold.
‘Philippa!’
She didn’t reply.
The shadow flew lower, and in its density he saw buildings consumed by a vast wave. In a cacophony of sound, Hugo heard Brent’s voice, young and fresh but guilty, contrite, owning up:
‘I want to make amends, Dad.’
‘How?’ Hugo whispered, clinging to this last tenuous thread of familiarity.
‘You’ve got to find the time the frequency changes. You’ve got to let the Atlanteans go.’
‘Why are they in the pyramid?’
‘They’re in hiding. The few that are left. You can find the time of the frequency change in the Chamber of Records. You’ve got to be quick.’
‘Why don’t the Atlanteans know?’
‘The pyramid was built under your supervision. Only the reincarnates have the knowledge. Don’t forget, Dad; the child is father to the man.’
‘And Philippa? Why does she have a winged serpent in her eye?’
‘Because she’s a part of them. She needs to be – so we can square the circle.’
That was exactly what Hugo had been afraid of.
The disc shadow began to rise and Brent’s voice grew fainter.
‘What must we do next?’ implored Hugo.
He could not hear the reply, muffled in the stillness, as if a curtain had suddenly been drawn between them.
Hugo stared into Philippa’s eyes but he could not see anything now. The fact that he could not, however, did not reassure him. The reverse, in fact. It was inside her, waiting for release. For birth. He was certain. And he was afraid.
Exhausted, they slept again and Hugo saw himself standing in front of the pyramid with Philippa and Brent by his side. Above the apex floated a globe. He could see oceans and land masses but the land masses were changing, taking on new forms as he watched. A door in the side of the pyramid opened and they went inside, their steps making no sound, the silence absolute except for a gusting wind.
They walked into the all-penetrating beam, basking in its mellow warmth. Hugo took Brent’s hand and then Philippa’s, but the heat became intense, searing …
They both woke to a burning midday sun. Moving to the shade of a mimosa tree, Hugo and Philippa slept yet again, but this time without visions.
The sun was setting when Hugo woke with a stinging headache and a throat so parched he could hardly speak. Philippa was standing up against the skyline, the last rays of sun casting great patches of emerald light on the desert floor.
He moistened his lips with water and then took a couple of precious sips. ‘We ought to get going,’ he said quietly, and seeing her anxious face put his arms round her and drew her close. ‘I promise you we’ll stay together, that I’ll never desert you,’ he said gently, but Philippa shook her head.
‘You can’t promise any such thing,’ she said bleakly, but Hugo felt an unexpected surge of hope. What was it Brent had said about changing – being different? Well, he was changing. He’d accepted the journey, and now he was shouldering the problem of Philippa.
Half an hour later, as they crested more sand-hills in the strong, sharp moonlight, they saw the road emerging again from the sand. Somehow this seemed as plausible as the visions.
The headlights began as indistinguishable dots and then grew larger, like shooting stars. There was no cover at all and neither Hugo nor Philippa made any attempt to conceal themselves.
A few minutes later, a battered jeep skidded to a halt beside them, and the driver leapt out. Short and powerfully built, with long, black hair, he was wearing a dirty white shirt and jeans and holding a flask in his hand.
‘Mr Fitzroy?’ There was considerable authority in his voice. ‘Miss Neville?’
They nodded.
‘My name is Tarik Ibrahim. You were observed by an Iranian reconnaissance helicopter. I’ve come to see if you would like to take a ride?’ He smiled and offered them the flask. ‘Or were you just taking a promenade?’
‘The road vanished – and then showed up again,’ said Philippa. ‘We had a long hike.’
‘It was blown up last year and the desert moves in fast. You were fortunate you took the old road. The new one is swarming with military traffic’
Hugo could see a rifle casually thrown across the back seat of the jeep and tried to gather his senses. ‘How do you know who we are?’ His voice was hostile.
‘Security.’
‘Whose?’
‘Iran. You have nothing to fear from me, Mr Fitzroy.’
But Hugo knew they had everything to fear. The desert interlude was over.
‘I was told you managed to escape from the Iraqis and were heading for the border – at least, that’s the direction you were making for when the chopper saw your truck.’ Ibrahim gazed at them. It was difficult to interpret his attitude. Hugo saw it as a cross between patronage and curiosity.
‘Have you identification?’ Philippa was as wary as he was.
Ibrahim pulled out a battered leather wallet. Inside was a card printed in Arabic and in spite of everything Hugo had to repress a smile. It could have said anything: FISHMONGER; DENTIST; REFRIGERATION SALESMAN.
‘I realise you have no reason to trust me.’ Ibrahim shrugged, implying that he did not particularly care either way. ‘But at least we can talk. You’ll be interested to know I was educated at Harrow, and then Oxford. I’m a civilized Arab. Quite one of the chaps.’ He spoke with such assurance that Hugo decided to take a calculated risk. He wanted to challenge him, to surprise him into revealing who he was really working for.
‘We found some kind of monitoring station out there,’ he said, and Philippa frowned, clearly apprehensive, knowing he had made a serious blunder.
‘What is it, then?’ Ibrahim’s response seemed elaborately casual, but Hugo could see that he was now suspicious and cursed himself for being such a fool.
‘Neither of us are in any state to talk now,’ Philippa put in quickly. ‘Are you going to get us out of this god-damned desert or not?’
‘I’m taking you to a hospital.’
‘What about the border?’ demanded Hugo uneasily. ‘We don’t have any papers.’
‘Don’t worry. As long as you’re with me, there won’t be any problems.’
They clambered stiffly and painfully into the jeep and Ibrahim drove them away. Hugo sat listlessly beside Philippa. There was total silence between them; she seemed to have become a stranger again, clearly condemning him for flying a kite that had crashed.
The border post was twenty minutes away – a hut, a security gate, the flag of Iran and a jagged fence of barbed wire. After a few words from Ibrahim a guard waved them through and the jeep roared on into the desert night, its headlights blazing like the eyes of a hunting animal. Hugo shivered, the atmosphere of hostility threatening to engulf him.
‘I’m taking you to a private military clinic’ Ibrahim’s voice broke into his misery. ‘It’s on the edge of the desert and no one will ask you any questions – other than those
about your health. You’ll find the facilities excellent’
‘And then?’
‘After a short debriefing, we shall be making arrangements to repatriate you,’ he said surprisingly. ‘Once at the clinic I shall leave you in the safe hands of Dr Rashid. When he decides you are sufficiently recovered I shall come and talk with you again.’
Was that a threat, Hugo wondered, but made no comment. Now they had returned to civilization, the winged serpents and the pyramid seemed distant but he still felt deeply oppressed as he remembered the winged serpent in Philippa’s pupil and heard again his own voice stupidly arousing Ibrahim’s suspicions.
Hugo and Philippa were given adjoining rooms in the Pahac clinic managed by the benign Dr Rashid. He was young, but although he spoke to them gently, with reassuring warmth, Hugo remained sceptical. They were here for a reason – and it had nothing to do with their health.
The clinic resembled a five-star hotel with luxuriously appointed rooms and fittings, gourmet Middle Eastern food and discreet, attentive service. Hugo, however, had poignant memories of the well-equipped shower and clean clothes of the Iraqi prison. Was all this simply part of a softening-up process? There seemed to be no sign of it immediately, however, and when Dr Rashid suggested they ring their respective editors they were amazed to discover the Iranian authorities had already been in touch with them. But instead of relief, Hugo felt only as if someone had called half-time.
‘We’re going to sell a lot of copies,’ his editor told him over a crackling line. ‘You’ve scored, Hugo – more than you’ve ever scored before. Congratulations.’
‘I’ve no pictures,’ he replied dampeningly.
‘Who wants pictures? You’ve got the story, haven’t you?’
Philippa’s editor reacted with a similar cynical ecstasy.
‘If the Iranians have gone as far as making this kind of contact, then surely they’ll let us go back,’ Philippa said to Hugo, needing his reassurance but not getting it.
‘I don’t trust them. And I want to know more about that monitoring station – or whatever it was.’
‘They’ll never wear that. We must just accept, be open to whatever happens. This isn’t an assignment – or an investigation.’ For the second time she was angry and remote and Hugo realized that he was still hanging on to the threads of logic – the idea of some kind of ‘story’. Philippa’s consciousness, on the other hand, was firmly rooted in another world. Why couldn’t he accept that? Surely he had enough evidence? Or was he still uncommitted, still half suspecting that the visions were the stuff of madness? Grimly Hugo knew that he must hang on to what was left of the rational – which wasn’t much. Someone had to be on their guard.
‘I want to find out who Ibrahim really is.’
‘Stop trying to find out stuff – wait to be shown,’ she replied. Was that a look of yearning he could see in her eyes, or was he no longer capable of discerning human emotions?
Later that afternoon Hugo rang Lucy. The line was so clear that her proximity was almost alarming, taking him off his guard as she burst into flurried speech.
‘Time told me you were alive – but only yesterday. Hugo – I’ve been frantic. How could you get yourself mixed up in a situation like this again?’
‘At the time the bad old days seemed to be the best place to return to.’ But he was pleased she sounded so concerned.
‘You’re blaming me?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘Are you hurt?’
‘Not significantly. How’s Brent?’
‘All right.’ But there was a change in the tone of her voice – a guardedness that alerted him immediately.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘There’s no point in talking about this now.’
‘Of course there is.’
‘He’s – not been too good.’
‘What the hell does that mean?’ Hugo yelled down the phone.
‘He’s been absenting himself from St Clouds.’
‘Where’s he been going?’ The fear licked at him.
‘The cliffs at Lizard Head. We’ve all been very concerned.’
‘He should be sectioned. Should have been sectioned before. They’ve got to lock him up.’
‘The hospital is very conscious of the problem.’ She sounded detached, like a press officer, agitating him even more.
‘Is he suicidal?’
‘They don’t know. I don’t know. And there’s something else. Someone else.’
‘What are you talking about?’ The fear swept through him, a wave that kept returning.
‘A man came to see him. He convinced the staff that he was a relative and some inexperienced fool allowed him to take Brent out. He was found wandering about on the cliffs – alone.’
‘Who was this person?’
‘I don’t know. No one knows. There was a vague description that fitted someone Middle Eastern.’
‘An Arab?’
‘Perhaps. Why?’
‘Has he appeared again?’
‘No.’
‘But Brent’s been going out on his own since then?’
‘Several times.’
‘To meet this man?’
‘Who knows? He hasn’t been seen again.’
‘The police were informed?’
‘Yes. They have his description – such as it is.’
Eventually Hugo rang off and hurried straight in to Philippa’s room.
‘Do you think he’s suicidal?’ she asked bluntly when she had managed to quieten him a little.
‘No one seems to know.’
‘You have to remember Brent’s been in much closer touch with the pyramid than we have. He’s been receiving messages for a long time – and recording them. Maybe someone’s come to listen to him.’ She was conscious of her lame conclusion and added, ‘God knows who.’
Although they were making no headway, Hugo was delighted that at least they were talking again as they had in the desert, and despite his apprehension he felt a degree of comfort. Was their mental intimacy on its way back? He tried to speak clearly and rationally.
‘I know Brent’s in danger, Philippa. I have to go back to England – if they’ll let us.’
‘I think they will,’ she replied cautiously, but without a great deal of conviction.
‘Will you come with me?’
‘Of course.’
‘Thank God,’ Hugo said with feeling.
‘Did you think I wouldn’t?’ Philippa sounded amazed.
‘I don’t know. Everything that happened out there in the desert seems so remote now.’
Philippa met his gaze steadily. ‘I’m more convinced than ever that what happened out there is of the most vital importance – and is only the beginning. That’s why I want to meet Brent’
‘You think he’s got the answer?’
‘He’s closer to it than we are.’ She was very certain.
‘He must be protected. We’ve got to persuade them to let us
‘What are we going to tell Ibrahim?’ she asked.
‘Nothing – until he proves his credentials,’ Hugo snapped, conscious that he was no longer in control of anything.
‘Maybe he’s wondering about ours,’ said Philippa.
Tarik Ibrahim arrived the next morning to find Hugo tense and edgy and Philippa calm and reflective. Hugo had phoned Lucy again, only to be told that St Clouds were monitoring Brent carefully and he had not left the building nor had there been any reappearance of his visitor.
He felt torn; on the one hand he longed to be with Brent again, hoping that at last there could be proper communication between them, and on the other he knew instinctively that they would regret leaving the Middle East without returning to the building in the desert, for if he could prove its existence – and its monitors – then he felt he had a grip on something a little more substantial than the spirit world, or whatever it was meant to be.
Their first interview with Ibrahim took place in a small, comforta
ble lounge. Seated in leather armchairs, they were served with tea and spice cakes whilst Philippa gave an edited account of their escape and subsequent journey from the Iraqi aircraft factory. He listened with studied courtesy, making notes on a pad, rather as if he was a conscientious student at an abstruse lecture.
When she had finished, Hugo asked Ibrahim for news of the Gulf War for they had only been given the vaguest account in the clinic about the allies’ advance, but even an event as momentous as this seemed almost irrelevant beside their own experiences.
As he briefed them in more detail on the military developments, Hugo began to detect something of a paradox in Tarik Ibrahim. He had a quiet air of authority that not only gave him considerable stature but also an air of discernment, of perception, but directly he began to ask them questions about the building in the desert Hugo realized there was another aspect to Ibrahim’s make-up – the kind of yearning he had associated with Philippa. He could feel its force. Gradually, Hugo understood that he had made a more serious mistake than he had imagined – far bigger than he or Philippa had ever realised – in telling Ibrahim the place was a monitoring station; it could delay their repatriation indefinitely. But at least he had already worked out an explanation – one that he hoped would satisfy Ibrahim and blunt his suspicions. He and Philippa had both spent a considerable amount of time trying to produce an authentic alternative to his disastrous comment and were hopeful of being convincing.
Ibrahim was not long in coming to the point. ‘You say you went to a monitoring station. Can you explain what you mean?’
‘The place was deserted. I assumed it to be doing some kind of surveillance job. There were aerials on the roof and I wondered why it wasn’t guarded.’
‘Perhaps it was redundant.’
‘It didn’t look it.’
‘Are you sure you’re telling me everything you know, Mr Fitzroy?’ Ibrahim pressed.
‘Of course.’
‘You didn’t, by any chance, go inside?’
‘How could we?’
To Hugo’s relief Ibrahim tried a new tack. ‘You could say your escape – and your journey through the desert – was blessed by Allah.’
Hidden Gods Page 9
