She walked with the air of command, head held high, the sun glinting off her pearls and drop earrings. If she was a day under seventy I would be very much surprised.
The second was a very old gentleman, in a tweed suit with a battered trilby and a tartan bow tie. He needed help getting out of the taxi that brought him, and he only made it across the curb by leaning heavily on an ancient oak walking stick.
He looked like he had come down in the world-his suit showed signs of wear and his shoes were scuffed badly at the toes, but he still had the bearing and gait of an old military man. He also had the finest moustache I'd ever seen, stretching out three inches on either side of his cheeks and waxed to stiff points. He resembled nothing more than an old lion, thrown out of the pride, wounded, and running out of time fast.
Durban actually came out of the shop and helped him up the steps; otherwise the old man would have been trying for the rest of the afternoon.
There were several other customers, but these all left at some point. None of them looked in the least furtive, and several carried expensively wrapped packages under their arms.
At four o'clock the closed sign went up. I paid my bill and went to sit in the car, trying to look inconspicuous. Luckily, I didn't have long to wait-there was an over-officious traffic warden nearby who knew I only had a couple of minutes left on the meter I'd parked beside.
Five minutes later Durban left with the two I had seen earlier and got into a car parked just down the street. I had a momentary panic when my car's engine turned over but wouldn't kick into life.
"Come on, darling-be nice," I whispered, and she responded, not quite purring like a cat, more croaking like a toad as I got going and followed at a discreet distance.
It wasn't easy-Durban was a very careful, very slow driver, and I found myself almost screaming in frustration as we crawled through the city, headed south. I managed to drop into place three cars behind them as we wandered slowly through the early rush hour traffic going across the Kingston Bridge. I needn't have bothered; Durban was very much an 'eyes forward at all times' driver.
As usual, the dual carriageway had attracted its fair share of dick-heads, and I was cut off on several occasions, but I always managed to keep Durban in sight. I had a bad moment when I thought they were headed for the airport, but they kept on going past the turn-off, then headed down the slip road for Irvine and North Ayrshire. Traffic was thinner now and I had to hang further back.
Luckily the car was quite distinctive-there weren't any other old 1960's Rovers on the road and I had little trouble following as they headed out into the country.
I had stopped concentrating, singing along to an old Elvis number on the radio, so I nearly missed it when they pulled off into a roadside petrol station in Beith. I just managed to get in to the forecourt behind them, taking a small delight in making the jerk behind me brake hard-he'd been driving just three feet from me, trying to get me to go faster. He obviously wasn't paying attention or he'd have known that my tin bucket was going at top speed anyway.
There was a problem with pulling in to the station, though-I found myself only three feet away from the Rover's back bumper at the petrol pumps.
What followed was pure pantomime. I got out of my car turned half backwards, having to twist my whole body round so that Durban couldn't see my face. He was already out of the Rover and walking around it to the pumps. He passed within two yards of me, but didn't raise his head.
I got round the back of my car and got fuel in, all the time with my back to the car in front.
"Hey, Jimmy," a voice said, and I turned to see a pimply youth at the parallel pump. "They don't have CCTV-if you're going to run without paying, just do it. The cops round here are too lazy to chase you."
I tried to look shocked.
"I'm not going without paying," I said.
"Oh, yeah," the kid said in an American accent. "Tell it to the judge."
Some times it gets like that-everybody you meet is trying to be someone else.
By this time Durban was already on his way to the kiosk to pay. I finished up quickly and followed behind, all the time trying to keep my face hidden.
I dropped into the queue two places behind him. He walked right past me after he'd paid, but I pretended to look at the newspapers, and he didn't glance my way.
They had fresh doughnuts at the counter-thick, floury things coated in sugar. Usually they wouldn't have appealed at all, but my stomach suddenly reminded me that I hadn't eaten all day. I bought a bag of six.
Once I'd paid I was too busy congratulating myself on my skill at avoiding Durban and turned away from the counter, right into the face of the old lady in the fur coat.
She squealed, a small, almost dog-like bark of surprise, and dropped her purse, scattering small coins all over the floor where they proceeded to run under the counters as if they'd been pulled there on strings.
I scrabbled around with her on the floor, both of us apologizing all the time. I kept one eye on the door, expecting at any moment to see Durban come to check on the woman.
"You're so kind," she said to me as I finally helped her upright, wincing as the old bones in her knees cracked loudly. Now that I saw her up close I had to revise her age upwards. Wrinkles hung slackly at her neck, and her hands were covered with liver spots. I was glad I hadn't given her a bigger shock; she didn't look like she would have survived it.
She looked me up and down,
"You know," she whispered, her voice conspiratorial, "it's so good to see a young man dressed properly. But you need a tie, dear. A nice sensible tie. Maybe I could take you shopping?"
I couldn't believe it-she was flirting with me. I muttered something non-committal and left before I burst into hysterical laughter. I managed to get to the car without Durban looking my way and I pretended to root around in the doughnut bag until the woman finally came out of the shop.
My heartbeat was up, my palms were sweaty, but I was enjoying myself, more than I had for a long time. I almost, but not quite, fought off an attack of the giggles.
The smell from the doughnut bag was cloying and sickly. I scrunched it up, doughnuts and all, and threw it in the back seat, where it joined the old newspapers, empty cigarette packets and soft-drink cans. In centuries to come someone like Doug would have a field day describing 'A Twentieth Century midden'.
When Durban got going I let them have a five second start before following on behind. Somewhere between Dalry and Kilwinning-I'm a bit vague on anywhere outside the city-they pulled into the drive of a large Victorian house sitting on its own in several hundred acres of land. The old Rover swished through the gates and, five seconds later, just as I got to them, the gates swung shut. Even from inside the car I could hear the satisfying clunk as they locked into place.
I drove past, only having time to notice that there were at least six cars in the driveway. A hundred yards down the road things opened out to open field once more. I did a tight three-point-turn in the road, went back, and looked for somewhere to park.
It took a few minutes, but I found the perfect spot: a mud track off the main road that ran into a disused yard adjoining one of the house's walls. I turned off the engine and rolled down the windows but there was no noise, just the warbling of birds and the soft rustling of the wind in the trees. I was instantly reminded of childhood conker hunting through sepulchral woodland. There is an oppressive feel to woodland that I've never gotten to grips with-concrete and street lamps were more my scene.
The wall was over six feet high, and I had to do a bit of scrambling to see over it, but what I found was encouraging. The garden of the house was heavily wooded-lots of places for a snoop to hide.
This was something I was used to-furtive lurking in gardens had become a bit of a specialty of mine. I clambered over the wall and began heading closer to the house. The ground was soggy underfoot but at least the rain had stopped.
The house was huge-well over a hundred years old and festooned with rampan
t, out-of-control ivy. It was on three levels, in granite, with a massive frontage of bay windows and a genuine Victorian conservatory off to my right.
I'm no botanist, but all the trees in the garden had an exotic, almost foreign feel to them, and various large statues dotted the grounds, like people frozen at a garden party. Whoever Durban was dealing with was obviously well off-very well off. Durban's old Rover, although stylish, was the least expensive car in the drive. From my vantage on the wall I could see at least two Bentleys and a Porsche.
The driveway gates were still closed and there was no sign of movement in the gardens. I decided to take my chance and move even closer.
It was at times like this that I wished I had some toys-devices to listen through windows, tracker bugs, all that James Bond stuff-but there wasn't usually much call for it in the West of Scotland. I made my way slowly through the bushes, trying to get as close as I dared to the front of the house. I could see light ahead of me, so I got on my hands and knees and crept closer. By parting a few rhododendron branches I could see in through the bay windows.
It looked like a cocktail party was going on, one of those sedate country house parties of the kind I never got invited to. The average age of the guests was somewhere around seventy and none of them seemed to be enjoying themselves very much.
At first Durban was the only one I recognized but the rest of them looked similarly well heeled and there must have been several tens of thousand pounds worth of jewelry on show.
Just then the fur-coated lady walked into view. She was giggling behind her hand like a schoolgirl, and the action suddenly made her younger, almost skittish. The smile on her face stayed with her until she walked out of my sight. It almost made me want to be in there with them.
The party seemed to be revolving around someone sitting in the corner of the room, just out of my sight. When the unseen person spoke, everyone else listened-a rapt expression on their faces, a mixture of deference and something else. I thought that maybe it was fear, but then again that might have been just my imagination.
I found a handy tree to lean against where I had a partial view of proceedings. I skidded on the damp bark, adding a new stain to my raincoat but eventually settled myself in and tried not to think about cigarettes.
It looked like I could be in for a wait. I contented myself with trying to guess the occupations of the people I could see.
There was the slim, suave, older man, a bit like Durban, but more ostentatious-silk handkerchief in the top pocket, suit from Saville Row, Rolex watch, gold cufflinks and diamond tiepin. Someone from the city? No, more probably an Edinburgh lawyer-there was something in his eyes that spoke of power. He had thin, almost feminine lips, and when he spoke he ran his tongue over his teeth as if savoring every word.
To his left there was a dowager duchess-all black lace and red silk, her hair pulled back severely into a bun, pince-nez poised delicately on a thin blade of a nose, top lip pulled down to hide protruding teeth. Her eyes were rheumy and ran with tears, bright sparkling droplets which were wiped daintily away with a small, black lace handkerchief.
I had her pegged as the widow of a country gentleman-one of the riding-shooting-fishing set.
Just at her shoulder there was the nouveau-riche businessman, looking out of place in such company. He had already drunk too much-I could see it in the reddening of his cheeks and the too careful way he had of picking up his glass. His suit nearly fitted him, and his tie was loud and garish. He laughed too much, and too loudly, but he didn't notice the disapproving looks he received from the others. Definitely a car-salesman, or a garage owner. I guessed the Porsche might be his.
And then there was Durban himself, completely at ease, one leg casually draped over the other, eyes watching everything in the room as he took delicate sips from his whisky glass.
The party continued at its own sedate pace, the unseen person stayed hidden, and I waited. Waiting is something you get good at in this job, and I had developed numerous mental games to keep my brain from going to sleep. I was working out the cube root of some ridiculously large number when things started to move and I had to pay attention.
The party began to split up and a light went on in the adjoining room. I just caught a glimpse of a huge mahogany dining table before the drapes were drawn in both rooms. I hadn't noticed it, but it had begun to get dark. As I looked up to the sky I felt the first spots of rain on my face. I debated returning to the car and waiting near the drive for the evening to end, but I had a feeling the festivities had yet to begin in earnest.
In the twilight I felt safe in having a cigarette, and as I smoked I could just hear the quiet murmur of conversation from the dining room.
I was there for another hour, up until eight o'clock, and was seriously damp by this time. The car was beginning to seem more and more inviting and I had just made up my mind to give up when a door opened at the side of the house and the party appeared.
I almost pinched myself to make sure that I was still awake. They were all robed, heavy black cloaks with pointed hoods, and they carried thick gray candles, hands cupped above them to protect their fragile sputtering light against the rain.
They walked slowly, sedately, and in the dim light it seemed that they were floating above the ground. I counted them as they made their way across the lawn into a heavier area of woodland-they numbered thirteen.
I got the cold shivers again-I remembered some of the stories from Dunlop's book and from the Internet-but I'd got five hundred a day, and that gave my client the right to a stiff upper lip. I followed at a safe distance.
We didn't have far to go. I reached a bend in the track we had been following and had just enough time to stop myself before I walked into a clearing.
It was a natural amphitheater, tall oaks surrounding a thirty-yard wide clearing. I noticed that great swathes of grass had been trampled down flat-this wasn't the first time they had done this.
Thick gnarled tree branches hung across the clearing, just above head height, branches that stuttered and twitched in the flickering candlelight.
They had arranged themselves into a loose circle. As one they bent to the ground, and at first I thought they were about to pray, but they only placed the candles at their feet. Their robes hung over their faces, throwing their heads into black shadow, and I had a sudden mental picture of the robes all falling to the ground, empty.
I had never felt more like running in my life. I had a cold, metallic taste in my mouth, and my palms tingled, pins and needles that seemed to dance just beneath the skin. If someone had put a whisky bottle in my hands at that point I believe I could have downed its contents in one, oblivion-seeking gulp. I tried to pull myself together and observe the action-that was what I was being paid for, after all.
When I looked back they were holding hands and facing inwards. One of them stood in the center-I couldn't see his face due to the darkness and the shadows, but I guessed this must be the one who had sat in the corner of the room. He started chanting and I could hear the foreign accent even through the incomprehensible speech.
Soon they had all joined in, but it still didn't help-I still couldn't make any sense out of it. It didn't sound like Latin; in fact, it didn't sound like anything I had ever heard. It reminded me of the harsh tongue of Mordor, but I couldn't imagine the well-heeled crowd in front of me as attendees of a Tolkien convention.
The circle broke, but only to allow one of the members to step into the center, before it formed again. A hood was thrown back and I saw it was the old lady from the petrol station. She took some papers from under her robe and held them in front of her. She started to read. Then she began to sing.
She was obviously a classically trained singer, maybe even an opera singer, but I doubted if the tune that came from her had ever been performed in any of the world's big theatres. It clashed in strange eerie discordance, running up and down scales that seemed first too flat, then too sharp. The air began to buzz around her, as if she was standin
g too close to a live power cable, and I think I saw the trees fade momentarily to reveal a greater darkness beyond, a darkness that seemed to writhe as if alive.
The song, if that's what it was, slowed to a deep chant, and the rest of the circle joined in once more. The chanting rose in pitch, becoming almost frenzied. The circle had begun to spin anti-clockwise, and I saw that they were all naked under the robes. I hoped it wasn't going to turn into an orgy-five hundred was not enough to make me watch this particular crowd in action.
It got cold quickly, and at first I thought it was only a night chill, but then I caught the smell-the dank festering odor that I'd noticed in MacIntyre's shop, and in my bedroom.
The circle stopped spinning and they all looked expectantly at the figure in the center. The figure there removed something from under his robes, and at first I couldn't make out what it was. Then I heard the noise-the pathetic, lost mewing of a small cat.
It struggled in his arms, but he had a tight hold. He raised it above his head in one hand, and I stopped breathing as the small creature fell quiet and still. He took something else from his robe-a thin, evil looking knife that glinted redly in the candlelight. With one fluid motion he gutted the small creature, first from chest to legs then across its body, letting its insides fall in hot steaming gobbets over his robes.
He stood stock still, hands still raised, and there was a moment of stillness. I realized I still held my breath and let it out slowly, noticing the small plume of steam as it hit the cold air. Suddenly he threw his head back.
The hood fell from his face and revealed a very old, obviously Arabian, man. Wrinkles ran like cracks across his face, deep fissures of black in the shadows. His teeth had all but rotted away, leaving only blackened stumps on the gums, and his nose was little more than a festering, rotting sore. But his eyes were alive. Clear, blue and shining as if with their own inner light.
He howled-a sound that shook the branches and echoed around in my head long after the actual noise had finished. A shiver passed across his face, like some small animal moving under his skin. He stretched. That's the best word I have for it, and I wish I didn't have to think of one. My brain was telling me to look away, but, like a car driver at a traffic accident, I couldn't take my eyes off him.
The Amulet Page 10
