His head lengthened and broadened, becoming vast and red and pumpkin-like, putting out small bloody protrusions which burst like overripe fruit in a spray of gore, sending out blind, wriggling maggots which grew out like snakes, spreading fast, a multitude of them which writhed and crawled over his enlarged scalp. They flopped and quivered from his head in a seething mass, still anchored to his scalp.
Then he raised that gigantic, grotesque head, his eyes now blazing a deep, golden-red, and the tentacles stood around his skull like an evil halo.
Each tentacle had a mouth, and each mouth was full of silver pointed teeth from which a steady stream of saliva ran to glisten and bubble on the grass at his feet.
At the same time the old Arab's body flowed and melted. It was all I could do to hold in a gasp as I recognized the waspish waist and the bull-chest. Worst of all was the legs-they cracked and popped as the bones found a new structure and the creature bowed into a more crouched position.
Finally, the changes slowed and the creature pulled itself upright. I found myself looking at the living personification of the amulet, its black body gleaming like a well-oiled body-builder, its chest rising and falling as it took great, heaving breaths, the tentacles pulsing, mouths opening in time with its breath.
I realized that this was the murderer. I shivered involuntarily as I thought of old Jimmy, alone and defenseless against this monstrosity, struggling amid the organized chaos in the barn he called home.
The beast turned in a circle, arms outstretched, as if showing himself off to the audience-an audience which bowed in turn as his eyes met them. When he spoke it was in a deep bass register that rumbled across the clearing, and it vibrated in the pit of my stomach like a bass at a rock concert.
"Sototh aran predak c'tengi."
"Karan F'thang C'thulhu."
"Ig Shuggoth Nyah."
"Amuran zokar nyarlthotep?"
The last phrase sounded like a question. A tall figure stepped out of the circle to answer the monstrosity, and a conversation took place. I won't bother transcribing it here-I could make no sense out of it, anyway-but I recognized the tall figure as Durban. And as he talked, the tentacles still danced, the mouths gasping in time with the conversation, more silver ropy saliva dripping from the jaws to the dark grass.
Durban made an action with his hands, a strange fluttering movement as if performing a complicated shadow play, and the monster in front of him pulsed in and out of reality in time with the movements. Durban made one last pass of his hands and suddenly he was alone in the center of the circle. The smell was gone and I noticed the rain again.
The circle spun, singing in the same discordant voice, the chant rising, then rising again until its cadences filled my head and threatened to send me spinning along with them.
The trees themselves seemed to join in the dancing, and I was horrified to find that my throat tried to recreate their words. I had to shake my head hard and cover my ears before I managed to get some sense of equilibrium back, but even then the horrific singing seeped through my fingers, tugging at my mind, offering me treasures. It was sweet, it was seductive, but I only had to think of Tommy MacIntyre's body for the spell to lose its influence on me.
Finally, after what seemed like an age, the singing and the spinning stopped. The circle stood silent for long minutes, and again I had the impression that the hooded robes were just that-empty pieces of cloth that would at any minute blow away, screaming in the wind.
A collective sigh ran through the circle, and the crowd broke up. They headed back towards me and I only just managed to get behind a large tree in time. They had split into three distinct groups led by Durban, and I caught some of his conversation as they passed.
"He was much stronger tonight," a female voice said. I think it might have been the duchess, and the measured tones that answered could only belong to Durban.
"Yes. Surely tonight he will find it."
I had to move closer to hear the next bit, increasing my chances of being discovered.
"This delay must not be allowed to go on much longer-it is nearly time. I told you we shouldn't have trusted Marshall. Men like him sell their Grandmothers to the highest bidder," someone said. From the tone of the voice I guessed it was the garage owner I'd seen before.
"You know we had to have a non-sensitive to do the job," Durban said. "Dunlop would have spotted anybody else too easily. Anyway-tonight should see the end of it."
"I hope so," the garage owner said.
"Are you doubting me?" Durban said, his voice suddenly full of menace. Again a chill ran through me. Durban was not a man to mess with.
"No. No.." the garage owner said, and dropped back away from the others.
"We are close," Durban said. "Very, very close."
They moved away towards the house, but I stayed under the tree, my mind spinning, trying to believe what it had just seen. I stood there until all the figures had gone back into the house and there was only the quiet dark and the sputtering rain.
The name registered... Marshall. I could almost hear the synapses connecting. I only knew of one Marshall, Brian Marshall, burglar, rapist and all round bad guy.
I put the name together with the situation and realized what had happened. They had employed him to get the amulet, for reasons as yet unknown, but probably to do with the grotesque being I had just seen. And now he was holding out on them-just his style. And they had sent that thing after him. My only chance of recovering the amulet was to find him first.
I wasn't sure I wanted any further involvement in this case; it was getting just too weird for me, but as I've already said, five hundred a day buys a long supply of loyalty.
There was a rustle in the trees behind me, back in the clearing, but I didn't dare look round. Suddenly I didn't want to be there any more. I made my way quickly back through the grounds, almost running, trying to ignore the flickering shadows which played on the statues, threatening to bring them to life.
The wall was wet and slimy after the rain and I managed to smear the front of my coat in thick green slime, but it didn't slow me down; I doubt if the Olympic high-jump champion could have gotten over the wall any faster.
My hands shook so much that I couldn't get the key in the car door. I stood there beside it, fighting for calm, smoking a cigarette down as fast as I could push it without bringing on a cough, waiting for my heartbeat to slow and my hands to steady.
I tried to rationalize what I had seen, trying to pass if off as a quicksilver conjurer's trick, but my mind kept going back to Tommy McIntyre, to the small bloody holes in his body, and those saliva-coated tentacles. The cold trembling in my spine stayed with me long after I finally got into the warmth of the car.
I drove back to the city as fast as the old car would allow. I planned to head straight home, but when I turned into Great Western Road I remembered someone who might help me find Brian Marshall.
I parked outside Wintersgills pub.
By that time I had calmed down. I no longer checked the rear view mirror every five seconds, my hands didn't shake, and when I looked in the mirror, I couldn't see the madness twinkling behind my eyes. The whole incident had taken on a strange, dream-like quality, but unlike a dream, it refused to fade from my mind. I still had difficulty assimilating it as a fact, but I had managed to distance it from everyday reality-far enough to stop myself being paralyzed in fear, anyway.
I had to be careful. Walking into a bar in my mood would be like playing Russian roulette. I was unlikely to come back out in a standing position.
I'd stopped here to pay a visit on Dave Knox. Dave and I went back to the time when I dropped out of University and he gave me a job behind the bar. I had stayed there for two years, completing the journalism correspondence course by day and serving the punters by night. I knew from experience that Dave had many contacts in the underworld and wasn't above more than a bit of dodgy dealings. I reckoned he would be as good a person to start with as anybody.
One t
hing I liked about Dave, he was always pleased to see me. The bar was quiet, only two old men and a dog in one corner and a small group of students in another.
"Derek," Dave said, and there was genuine warmth in his handshake. "Long time no see. What brings you to this corner of the jungle?"
"Oh this and that-you know how things are."
He studied me closely, and he must have seen something of the night's activities in my eyes because he poured me a whisky, which I accepted gratefully. His eyes widened as I downed it in one gulp. The hot burning nectar did a lot to dispel the coldness in my spine, but it still didn't erase it completely.
"Another?" he asked, but reluctantly I shook my head.
"No. I'd better not. I don't think I'm finished work for the night yet. Give me a beer."
While Dave poured the beer I lit another cigarette. This time my hands didn't shake.
We reminisced about old times for a couple of minutes as I sipped the beer, then I got down to business. He seemed surprised that I was interested in Marshall.
"A bit above your usual league, isn't he?" Dave asked, but didn't stop for a reply. "Actually, one of the lads was talking about him this morning. Marshall thinks he's hit the big time. Seemingly, he was in his local, boasting about how much money he had coming to him."
It sounded as if I was on the right track. Dave told me where Marshall's local was, along with a description of him, told me not to wait so long before my next visit, and offered me a free pint if I came back to tell him what it was all about.
The rain was coming down in sheets as I left, and I got soaked through on the way to the car. My aging windscreen wipers were barely up to the task and I had to take it slowly as I made my way across town.
Glasgow at night-what a city. The city center itself was quiet, but on the fringes the queues for the nightclubs were already building up.
Young girls, some no more than thirteen, teetered along slippery pavements in high heels, their bodies protected from the rain by pieces of cloth thinner than paper. Tattoos and piercing were much in evidence.
The males hunted in packs, and there were distinct tribes among them. First there were the gangster wannabes. From their dress you might have guessed they were from Harlem, but it took more than a gold chain, a shell suit and expensive trainers to look the part-Glasgow boys were just too thin on the whole.
Then there were the Sicilians. They'd watched too much American television. Smart Italian suits and shoes, designer sunglasses in all weathers and slick-backed hair was the order of the day here. Most of this lot would never get a girl-they'd be too busy preening in front of a mirror.
Then there were the tribeless-small pockets of kids, some with terrible acne and thick glasses. They wore check shirts and sensible pullovers over last year's fashion jeans.
They were only let out of the house on the condition they got home before eleven, and most of them were so drunk they couldn't stand. These were the dangerous ones, the unpredictable ones. They'd either start crying on you, or they'd pull a carpet knife from their pocket if you looked at them the wrong way.
I knew that predators would be at work in the queues-older youths, with the promise of a good time from pills, from sex, always for money.
Further out from the center other financial transactions were taking place. Hard-faced women of ages from fourteen to sixty stood on corners and waited to be picked up by men with warm cars and money in their pockets.
Amusement arcades glowed in blue and red neon as they fleeced coins from punters pockets, and bingo halls were beginning to disgorge little old ladies who's money had already gone.
As I got further from the center the traffic tailed off. The only sign of life was in and around the public houses. Kebab houses and chip shops were doing a roaring trade, and later, long-suffering Indian restaurant waiters would have to put up with drunks trying to prove their manhood by ordering the hottest vindaloo.
God, I felt cynical tonight. I promised myself that I'd take a holiday when this case was finished-somewhere warm, somewhere calm, somewhere that people didn't have to deal with ancient Arabians who turned into god-knows-what during magical ceremonies.
It was late by the time I reached the bar that Dave sent me to-a run-down, drinking man's pub in the East End, I just managed to order a beer before the barman called time.
"Just in time, son," he said to me. "But you'd better drink it quick-I'm shutting in five minutes."
It looked like it would be a lot longer than that-several of the punters had at least three drinks in front of them, but I suspected that they were locals, and well used to getting locked in, sitting in the dark, cradling their drinks and swapping stories till dawn. As an outsider, I wasn't to be privy to such activities.
The bar was full to overflowing with drunks, half drunks and not-yet drunks, and by the look of things smoking was compulsory. Not wanting to be out of place, I lit up and, trying not to seem conspicuous, looked around the room. I realized that Dave's description hadn't been thorough enough.
Shaggy black hair, blue eyes and a scar on the left cheek had seemed enough information at the time, but here in the East End scars were as common as acne on a teenager.
I started to think that my journey had been wasted until I overheard a shout across the room.
"Hey Marshall-have you made your million yet?"
There were raucous jeers in the far corner and I turned to see my quarry. Dave's description had been pretty accurate, but what he hadn't told me about was the temper-the flashing fury in the eyes.
What happened next was like a scene from a cowboy movie. Marshall stood suddenly, overturning the table and sending drinks and glasses crashing to the ground. With two steps he was standing in front of the man who had shouted.
Without saying a word he delivered the classic Glasgow kiss, a head-butt which hit his opponent just above the bridge of his nose, causing blood to spurt suddenly like a hastily shaken bottle of tomato sauce. The noise of the bone breaking was loud in the suddenly quiet bar.
Marshall stood over his prostrate opponent and drew back his foot for a kick to the head, but was held back by two men. The barman came round from behind the bar and shouted into Marshall's face.
"That's it! That's the last time. You're barred, Marshall. I don't want you coming round here again-understand?"
The violence was still there in Marshall's eyes as he spat in the barman's face.
The barman actually smiled, a huge grin, as he punched Marshall in the stomach, just once, but enough to knock the wind out of him, causing him to slump in the arms of the men holding him.
"You want to try that again?" the barman whispered, his voice carrying through the room. The hate in Marshall's eyes would have withered a lesser mortal, but the barman just snorted in disgust.
"Get that fucking arsehole out of here before I do him some serious damage," he said, turning away.
Still struggling, Marshall was frog-marched to the door. The prostrate man was helped to his feet, and the crowd returned to their drinking as if nothing had happened.
I finished my drink and followed Marshall out.
He stood, alone in the car park, and I saw the urge for violence in him. I made a play of lighting a cigarette as he lifted a dustbin and threw it against the wall, strewing rubbish into the street where it was caught and spun away by the wind and the rain.
"Fucking bastards!" he screamed, delivering a kick to the nearest car, leaving an obvious dent in its paneling before turning off down the street. A man of taste and charm, our Mr. Marshall.
I followed him, but it was risky business in the dark empty streets. Several times I had to duck into doorways to avoid being seen, and once or twice I got close enough to hear that he still muttered obscenities to himself. We went on for maybe a mile in this way, through tenement-lined streets as the rain pelted relentlessly down on us, until finally he turned up a path into one of the buildings.
It was an old Victorian tenement-four stories high a
nd converted to flats. I knew the type. I'd lived in one similar in my student days. The close was dark and smelled of stale urine, and I'm sure I heard rats scurrying in the darkness as I entered. Five yards in I came to a flight of worn stairs. An unshaded light bulb lit graffiti-covered walls smeared in something that was brown and didn't bear thinking about.
From my position at the foot of the stairs I heard Marshall above me, still cursing as he climbed. I watched and listened as he made his way up to the top and heard the slam as he entered a flat before I followed.
As I climbed the stairs I tried to formulate a plan. Thus far I had been merely following my instincts and I had no idea how to approach him. I stood outside his door, still unsure, and lifted my hand to knock.
Before my hand reached it the door was pulled open and my arm grabbed tightly. He pulled me inside, hard, and as I tried to regain my balance, I tripped, falling face-first to the floor where the rough carpet scraped across my face.
I was roughly turned over and found myself looking into the angry face of Brian Marshall. I heard a harsh click, loud in the confines of the room, and caught a glimmer of silver as a flick knife was brought up in front of my face.
"And who the fuck are you?" he asked, the whisky fumes from his mouth threatening to engulf me. I was close enough to see every pore in his skin, to count the pockmarks from youthful acne scars. It suddenly struck me that he was afraid. Afraid...and very, very angry.
"You don't look like the Polis. Did they send you-the rich bastards wi' their plummy voices and their fur coats?" He didn't give me time to respond. "Did they?" he screamed in my face, and I felt quick lancing pain, then the hot rush of blood against my neck as he drew the knife through my left earlobe. I saw the smile on his face as he did it and I knew then that I wasn't going to be able to reason with him.
The Amulet Page 11
