Hidden Gods

by Anthony Masters

  ‘Hugo.’ Ibrahim’s voice gravelled dry as a husk. ‘I came to kill you, but I’m dying.’ He began to cough and the sound was harsh and grating. Then it became a rattle.

  ‘What can I do?’ asked Hugo.

  There was silence. Then he said slowly and wonderingly:

  ‘Can you see what I see?’

  Spring had come to the cliffs of Tiderace and a little sea breeze trickled through the salt-ridden grass. Brent was there, arms folded, grinning. Philippa emerged from the pyramid with a football in her hand and they began to kick it to and fro just as the boys in Nazra had done.

  As the vision faded, Ibrahim said, ‘I still believe in Islam.’

  ‘What kind of Islam?’

  ‘The most fundamental. The most pure. What else?’

  ‘Did you really want to be responsible for the use of that chemical warfare – against so many?’

  ‘They are enemies of the faith.’

  ‘Surely you realized that you couldn’t release the gods – you and your kind?’

  ‘Yes. But I believed the light walkers would come. And you did.’

  ‘You believed in manipulating us – letting us find the change in frequency – and then destroying her.’

  The dreadful rattling cough came again. ‘I thought our faith would be strong enough. One day it will be. I have a favour to ask you before you go to the pyramid.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Did you take my revolver?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I imagine you found some ammunition in Nazra?’

  Hugo nodded. He knew what Ibrahim wanted him to do.

  ‘Will you put me out of my pain? You’re not taking my life. You’re giving me the next.’

  Hugo took out the weapon. He held it to Ibrahim’s head but felt unable to pull the trigger.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Find the strength. Build the strength.’

  But his finger would not move.

  ‘Pray with me,’ whispered Ibrahim.

  ‘Don’t ask me to do that’

  ‘You must pray with me.’ Again the rattle.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Repeat these words and on the last you must fire. The final phrase is “And God is not unmindful of what ye do.” Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very well.’ Slowly and painfully Ibrahim began to pray. ‘From whencesoever thou startest forth, turn thy face in the direction of the Sacred Mosque; that is indeed the truth from thy Lord. And God is not unmindful of what you do.’

  Hugo pulled the trigger.

  The pale dawn slowly streaked the night sky and he could see the shadowed pyramid. He had twenty minutes to go as he brought the jeep to a halt, got out and began to walk over the dunes, the gun in his hand, shaking so much that he could hardly put one foot in front of the other, all too well aware of time darting past at incredible speed.

  Glancing frantically at his watch, Hugo began a stumbling run that became a sprint. His breath was coming in panting gasps and a stitch developed in his side. With each step he took the agony increased until there were tears in his eyes and he was sobbing with the sustained effort. Just under fifteen minutes remained now, and although Hugo was nearing the pyramid, he knew that he would encounter opposition. He was therefore hardly surprised when he saw the figure indistinctly in a dip between the dunes, a hump in the sand, lying still. Was he waiting for him? Why hadn’t he seen him? Hugo knew he was all too obviously silhouetted on the skyline, but it was no good being cautious, he had to continue, the time swarming away from him like the flies that had guided him to Basra.

  Hugo paused, waiting, watching, but there was no movement, no challenge, no warning, and he forced himself on, anticipating any moment the hail of bullets that would cut him down. Wave after wave of despair swept over him, saturating his mind with the inescapable knowledge that if the gods were not released, he would never see Philippa and Brent again. There would be no other lives, and even if he survived he would be trapped on this brutish planet for ever, back in his old rut, photographing Sodom and Gomorrah.

  The figure remained motionless and Hugo continued relentlessly to draw nearer, only to discover the man’s stillness was the stillness of death; his throat had been cut.

  Bemused, Hugo hurried on, speeding up as the panic surged again and again, his chest heaving, his breath coming in gasps, the pain in his side increasing every second. He had so little time left and yet the pyramid was still at least a hundred yards away.

  He saw another corpse lying in the dunes, this time on his back with the gash across his throat more visible. Were they all dead? Who had killed them?

  Somehow Hugo redoubled his efforts, crying aloud with the agony of the stitch that had begun to pierce rather than to throb. He had under ten minutes left now, but was almost at the door of the pyramid, the sweat running into his eyes, all too conscious of the sun about to rise behind him. Shadows shortened, light grew, then he saw Jamal standing by the pyramid, waiting for him, his hooded eyes sightlessly searching the creeping dawn.

  Hugo slowed down, clumsily pulling out the gun, gasping for breath.

  ‘Let me through.’

  But again there was no opposition and Jamal threw open the door of the pyramid. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

  ‘Who killed them?’

  ‘Ibrahim. We have both changed our minds. You are blessed, Hugo Fitzroy. Use all your strength and faith and you will release the gods. Your journey won’t be in vain.’

  He led Hugo by the hand into the grey light of the interior of the pyramid and his touch was warm and comforting. The casket was in the middle of the floor and the silence was absolute. Philippa’s corpse was no longer there.

  ‘What do I do?’ asked Hugo, panic almost suffocating him.

  ‘Look back to where it began. For you. Put back what you stole.’

  ‘The love.’ Hugo squatted down by the casket as light began to seep from the portal. He thought of the sacrifices that had already been made. Brent’s, Philippa’s, Christopher’s. Please God, let it be soon. He closed his eyes and found himself standing on the short green grass of the Tiderace cliffs. The sea below was crested by white horses. The pyramid soared above him and he went inside yet again. Thoth stood in the beam with Isis. Brent and Philippa.

  ‘Will you be here next year, Dad? And the year after next?’

  ‘I’ll be with you for ever, Son.’ He kissed Brent’s cold cheek. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I’m so very sorry.’

  The child is father to the man: the words beat in Hugo’s mind.

  ‘The portal’s opening,’ said Brent’s distant voice, and then Hugo was back in the pyramid in the desert, standing in the beam alone with the casket. The light was almost blinding and the dawn sky above was pale gold. Hugo felt consumed by joyous relief as the globes hovered beside him, sharing the moment, and then began to ascend.

  He watched them until they were lost to sight in the celestial blue. Then, weeping with happiness and a soaring sense of achievement, he knelt in prayer, not knowing what kind of God – or gods – he was praying to but overwhelmed with the ecstasy of sheer release.

  The beam disappeared abruptly, and Hugo was alone with Jamal. When he looked down at the casket he could see that it was empty; even the remains of the dead Atlantean had disappeared.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he asked.

  ‘Into the desert’

  ‘Do you know which way to go?’

  ‘I know which way.’ Jamal embraced him.

  They clung to each other and then walked out into the dawn together. The golden hue of clouds and sky was giving way to the first rays of the sun which crept along the desert floor like fingers searching out a lover. Slowly the cloaked dunes came alive and the light floated on them, turning them amber. Hugo looked up again to the sky but the globes had disappeared.

  Jamal touched his shoulder with a withered, sand-grey hand. ‘I sense that one rem
ains,’ he said.

  Sure enough, Hugo could see the small globe. Philippa’s child, hovering, watching, waiting.

  Hugo walked slowly to the doorway and took one last look inside the pyramid. Would he ever come here again? Would the baby in the globe become a new god? He would have liked to have gone into the desert with Jamal, but he knew he had unfinished business that would take some time.

  He remembered Philippa’s words: ‘If only we could be together for a while in some remote place.’

  And he spoke to her again now: ‘Not for a while – but for ever.’

  He returned outside to see Jamal crouched over a fire. He watched the smoke ascending and knew instinctively that this was Philippa’s funeral pyre and he was watching her release too. Soon she would be amongst the gods.

  Epilogue

  Boston

  Hugo began his own journal on the plane, trying to record events as they had happened, but his task was difficult and painful. The explosion at Nazra had been widely reported by the world’s media – as had his own involvement. Putting down his pen with relief, he picked up the free broadsheet which on this flight was The New York Herald Tribune and began to read as if he was learning about a stranger.

  INTERNATIONAL PHOTOGRAPHER FLEES BASRA BOMB

  Hugo Fitzroy, the distinguished and award-winning international press photographer, escaped from the small Egyptian desert village of Nazra minutes before it was wrecked by a gigantic explosion. Dozens are feared killed, but the emergency services have not yet been able to give the exact number of casualties. The Egyptian government has ordered an immediate inquiry.

  This is the third drama in as many months for Fitzroy, who was first knee-capped by an IRA terrorist and later taken hostage by the Iraqis in the Gulf War and held as part of the human shield in an aircraft factory. Escaping from there, he reached the Iran border and was hospitalized in a private clinic. This extraordinary chain of events underlines how hazardous are the lives of those who cover international assignments.

  Mr Fitzroy told me: ‘I have no intention of continuing my career as a photographer now. It’s time to quit – the Furies have warned me.’

  Don Robinson, Picture Editor of the British Sunday Times, commented that ‘Hugo Fitzroy is probably one of the greatest photojournalists it has ever been my privilege to know. His work is widely recognized and widely exhibited, but what is not so well known is Fitzroy’s unique brand of courage. Apart from the obvious risk-taking of his profession, he has always been determined to cover the inside story – and it is the insiders who have proved so dangerous. We are devastated that he has decided to retire but also realize, as Hugo Fitzroy realizes, that he cannot tempt fate again. I understand he is to receive the OBE for services to journalism.’

  Lucy had phoned him at the hotel the previous night. She had been sad and reflective, speaking to him self-consciously, as if he had become a stranger.

  ‘I’ve tracked you down at last. Are you recovering?’

  ‘They say I’m comfortable.’

  ‘How long is all this going on for?’

  ‘Haven’t you seen the papers? I’m retiring.’

  ‘You’ve said that before.’ She was doubtful rather than caustic.

  ‘I mean it this time.’

  ‘Hugo – I’m very sorry about Philippa Neville. I saw it was written up as a separate paragraph. Easy to miss.’

  ‘They’ve connected the two stories,’ Hugo had replied. ‘But everything is pending an inquiry and there’s a somewhat belated news blackout.’

  ‘Anyway – I’m sorry,’ she had repeated bleakly.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘What will you do when you’re better?’

  ‘Fly to Boston.’

  ‘An assignment?’ She had sounded cynical but had managed to laugh.

  ‘I’m going to give someone a message.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I’ll hang up my camera.’

  There had been an awkward silence. Then she had said, ‘I believe you will, this time.’

  ‘I thought I’d get a house that has a view of the island.’ But he only said that to comfort her.

  They had talked for another ten minutes until Lucy sprang her shock card. ‘I’ll come back to you. If you want me to. We could make a fresh start.’

  ‘Have you broken with Tim?’ Hugo was surprised, and acutely aware she was just part of the distant past. But he did not want to hurt her; he had done enough of that already.

  ‘No,’ she admitted.

  ‘So it’s to be bigamy?’ he asked lightly.

  ‘I love you, Hugo. Do you love me?’

  ‘You know how fond – ’ he began.

  ‘So it was Philippa.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m still prepared to come back and – ‘

  ‘Look after me?’

  ‘Begin again.’

  ‘No. It’s too late for that. My fault.’

  ‘You’ll promise me one thing, though?’ she had said reluctantly.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘We can meet. Be friends.’

  ‘Of course we can,’ he had reassured her, conscious even as he said it that soon, hopefully, he would no longer be around.

  Now Hugo lay back exhausted in his seat, praying that directly he returned from Boston the gods would repay him. He shivered, the flow of air-conditioning chilling him to the bone. Suppose they didn’t?

  The clapboard house was in the country, and had an air of quiet elegance. The rye grass was trimly mowed, the sprinkler moved in graceful arcs, the rose trellis, the manicured flower beds, the Buick in the drive, the bike – the American dream that Hugo had once found enticing with its rigid sense of identity and affluence. As he stood and watched, a boy came out of the house wearing a tumed-round baseball cap on his head. He thought he had Brent’s eyes.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘I’m Hugo Fitzroy. Your mother’s expecting me.’

  ‘You come to see Garry?’

  ‘Yes. How is he today?’

  ‘Not so good.’

  He followed the boy into the sweet-scented pine hallway, and a woman with swept-back hair and a heavily lined face came out of the kitchen.

  ‘You’re Christopher’s friend.’ They shook hands and Hugo felt her anxiety as she came straight to the point. He liked her for that.

  ‘No one will tell me why he was in that dreadful place. He used to work in Cairo. That’s when I was with him.’ She paused and muttered, ‘But I shouldn’t have left Garry alone.’ She turned to the boy. ‘You have papers to deliver.’ She smiled, taking the sting out of the words. ‘Get going, Sean.’

  He slouched out and she turned back to Hugo. ‘I’m Elaine Denning – of course, you’d know that. You’ll have to forgive me – I’m not very together these days. What with Chris and Garry.’

  ‘Chris was working on a government project – to do with germ warfare. Someone sabotaged the lab.’

  ‘Had you spent much time with him?’ She was anxious for more detail.

  ‘Just a few hours.’

  ‘You must have got friendly for him to ask you to take a note to Garry.’ She looked at him rather absently.

  ‘We hit it off.’

  ‘Did he have some – presentiment?’

  ‘Maybe. There’d been warnings,’ Hugo improvised.

  ‘So you’ll want to see my son?’

  ‘If I may.’

  ‘He’s not having a good day, so please don’t stay with him too long.’ Hugo was about to assure her that he would not when she added sadly, ‘He’s very near death now.’ She laughed absently. ‘The grim reaper seems to be continually hovering just outside his bedroom door. I keep falling over his scythe.’ She laughed again, and then gave a half-sob.

  ‘I’m so sorry – ‘

  ‘We know that because he keeps hallucinating – says he can see a pyramid.’ Hugo nodded. He had been expecting that.

  ‘Garry?’

  The face on the pillow was chalk
white. He must be in his early twenties, thought Hugo, but acknowledged the possibility of his being younger. The eyes were enormous, sunk into their sockets, and his hair was lank, lifeless, a thatch of brown straw.

  ‘You Dad’s friend?’ His voice was weak, but not listless.

  ‘Yes.’ There was a particular smell in the room – chemical, sweet, slighdy fetid. ‘I’ve got a letter for you.’

  Garry took the note in his thin, claw-like hands and spent some time reading. ‘You seen this?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Must have been a temptation.’

  ‘One I resisted.’

  ‘Shall I read it to you?’

  ‘Only if you want to.’

  ‘“The bearer of this note is Hermes, son of Thoth. He has released the gods. Soon he will release you. Believe me, the Atlanteans were desperate enough to trade evil, but their progeny will not make such compromises. Can mortals undo what the gods have done? At least Hugo Fitzroy and I made the final sacrifice.’”

  ‘I don’t have long,’ said Garry. ‘But what will you do?’

  ‘Take a boat out to Tiderace.’

  ‘In the hope they’ll come back for you there?’

  ‘Something like that’

  ‘Would you consider taking me with you?’

  Hugo looked starded. ‘I can’t do that.’ He began to search for reasons.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Your mother would never allow you to travel. Neither would your doctor.’

  ‘I could say that Dad thought the island was a centre of healing. I mean – the medics can’t do anything for me, can they?’ His voice was stronger and his sunken eyes gleamed with a hope that Hugo knew he couldn’t snuff out.

  ‘Would she accept that?’

  ‘She had the highest regard for Dad’s intuition. That was about the only thing they had going for them.’