The Amulet

by William Meikle

  "He was only just able to fight them off, but it took most of his strength. Since then, there have been periodic attempts to get to him. He thinks he is being punished for keeping the amulet in hiding, and also being distracted from trying to find it again. But that's not the worst thing."

  I wondered what could be worse, but again said nothing, contenting myself with sipping the whisky.

  "The stars are right again, and we feel that an attempt will be made to call up the Old Ones. We need to know how you managed to find the amulet. You might know something important, and we must stop them."

  It looked like it was my turn. I gave them the story, missing nothing out. I noticed a sharp intake of breath when I mentioned Durban, and another when I described the old Arab.

  By the time I finished dawn was beginning to spread in the sky outside the windows and I felt tired enough to sleep for a week-no, make that two.

  Dunlop spoke first, addressing his wife.

  "We must stop them. It will be tonight, at the old place."

  She nodded, and for the first time he stood, unsteady at first, then more confident as he stepped out of the circle.

  "I think they will have more things to worry about than attacking me."

  He turned to me.

  "Do you want a chance to save your friend?" he said, and I replied instantly.

  "If there's a chance. I got him into this, so I suppose I'd better get him out. But I've got a few questions."

  He waved me aside.

  "They will have to wait, I'm afraid. We must go to Arkham House...Johnson's old retreat. I'm sure that's where they will do it. We'll talk on the way."

  He stood over me and took the whisky glass out of my hand.

  "In the meantime, try to get some sleep-you look done in. It will be a few hours before we can leave. I have preparations of my own to make."

  My mind was full of questions, but my body was dog-tired and the wound in my arm was throbbing angrily. Dunlop showed me up a huge flight of stairs and into a bedroom bigger than my whole flat. I didn't bother undressing; I fell flat on my face onto the soft sheets and was immediately asleep.

  I dreamed, but not about food this time.

  * * *

  I was in blackness-deep, thick black. There was no up or down, only a never-ending sea of velvet softness.

  Somewhere, Doug screamed. I made for the sound, aware that I could walk, but I didn't seem to be treading on anything solid.

  I walked and walked and the darkness kept on going, and the screaming didn't seem to be any closer. Then, hours or days or months later, I caught my first glimmer of light and made for it.

  Doug stood there, transfixed in a green flickering light that had no visible source. His eyes looked like black pits into hell as he turned to me.

  "Help me!" he screamed, and reached out an arm. I moved forward to take his hand, and he contorted as a multitude of tentacles burst out of his body in a seething explosion of blood and fat and offal.

  There were hundreds of them; swarming and chittering like a nest of demented snakes, and all with one purpose-to get to me. I could see the red lining of their mouths, could see the silvery saliva.

  The first one came closer and I turned to run, but I seemed to be moving through black treacle, and the things kept gaining on me.

  I managed one last look back at Doug's body to see the tentacles still pumping in a flood out of his deflating body.

  The first of the tentacles caught me by the heel and began to chew.

  * * *

  I woke screaming.

  6

  At first I felt disoriented, not knowing where I was.

  The door opened, and Mrs. Dunlop was there.

  "Are you okay?" she asked. "I thought I heard a shout."

  My clothes were soaked in sweat, and at some point my arm wound had bled through the bandages, the sweatshirt and on to the sheet.

  She, on the other hand, looked as perfect as ever. She wore a white cotton shirt and tight blue denims that looked like they'd been sprayed on.

  I checked the time on the bedside clock-9:15--I'd slept for little over two hours, and it felt like it had been two minutes.

  "Don't you ever sleep?" I asked her.

  "Not recently," she said. "What with watching over Arthur and worrying about you, I've had enough on my mind."

  "Worried about me?" I said.

  She laughed. I could watch her doing that all day.

  "Don't flatter yourself. We needed to find the amulet, and you were the best man for the job."

  "Not good enough," I said bitterly.

  I tried to push myself upright, and almost screamed as pain shot through my wounded arm.

  She helped me up and out of the bed. I noticed her smell, and the strength of her body. I probably leaned on her a bit more than I should have, but infirmity does have some compensations.

  "Thank you...what's your name, anyway?" I said. "I can't keep calling you Mrs. Dunlop-it makes you sound like one of my aunties."

  "Auntie Fiona," she said. "I like the sound of that."

  She led me through to a shower-room.

  "Take that sweatshirt off," she said. "I'll go and get the first aid kit and have a look at the wound."

  She left me in front of the mirror, and I had to hold onto the washbasin to stop the room swaying wildly from side to side. I let it steady down for a minute before peeling the shirt off and dropping it to the floor. I had a bad moment's panic when it seemed like my whole upper arm was just one huge, red wound. I took a sponge to it, carefully, and was relieved when the blood washed away to reveal skin underneath.

  Doug's bandage was a sodden, soggy mess, and I peeled it off, carefully.

  "That doesn't look too bad," Fiona said as she returned. I was acutely aware that my upper torso was naked.

  "I bet you say that to all the boys," I said.

  "My, somebody is feeling better already."

  "Nothing a coffee, some toast, and a cigarette wouldn't cure," I said, as she efficiently rebandaged my arm. She made me flex the muscle to make sure it wasn't too tight, and pronounced me fit for action.

  "Coffee's percolating in the kitchen," she said. "You'll find some fresh bread and cheese there as well. The coffee's strong. Just follow your nose. I'll go check if one of Arthur's shirts will fit you."

  "Make it white, if you can?" I asked. "And see if he's got a black tie I can borrow. I've got a funeral to attend."

  She raised her eyebrows, but didn't say anything.

  I had another thought just as she was leaving.

  "You don't have a picture of yourself in something skimpy, do you?"

  This time her eyebrows almost left her face entirely.

  "I don't think Arthur would like that," she said.

  "I'm sorry to disappoint you," I said. "But it's not for me-it's a last favor for an old friend. An old, dead friend."

  She must have seen something in my eyes.

  "As long as it's for a good cause," she said. "I'll see what I can find."

  She left me to find my own way to the kitchen.

  The coffee was thick and dark. I found a loaf of bread, and the cheese. I think I ate half of both before my stomach and brain both decided enough was enough. The first mouthful of coffee caused my heart to race, and when I lit my first cigarette of the day I felt the caffeine and the nicotine fighting for control of my head.

  Fiona came back and handed me a shirt, and a picture. In it she was sitting in a large armchair, one leg crossed over the other. She was much younger, her hair shorter and cut in a pageboy bob. She was also completely naked.

  "Eh...thank you," I said, suddenly embarrassed. "Old Jimmy will appreciate it."

  "Just don't let anybody else see it," she said, smiling. "If you do, I'll have to kill you."

  She may have been smiling, but her eyes flashed. I didn't think I would be crossing her on this matter.

  She handed me Doug's "grimoire".

  "Your friend will want this back," sh
e said. "And it'll give you somewhere to hide the picture."

  I wondered if taking the picture was such a good idea. It only needed the wrong person to find it for the potential of blackmail to be huge. I almost handed it back, but the last thing that Jimmy had said to me was 'Remember the photo'. I'd ignored Liz's last plea-I couldn't ignore Jimmy's.

  I opened the book to put the picture in...and got the woodcut of "The Gatekeeper" again. And again it moved, that great bulbous head turning, the small, beady eyes staring out of the book, straight at me.

  "Avaunt!" Fiona shouted, and the book snapped shut in my hands. She took the picture from me and slipped it inside the book's front cover.

  "You've got to watch some of those old books," she said. "They sometimes seem to develop minds of their own."

  Five minutes later we were sitting in a conservatory drinking expensive coffee and watching the sun slant through the latest rain shower.

  Arthur's shirt fit me perfectly-I'd been right about him once being a much bigger man.

  Fiona handed me a black tie.

  "Arthur would like you with us tonight at the Arkham House," she said. "And I agree with him. We need to leave here mid-afternoon at the latest."

  "Don't worry," I said. "I'll be back in time. Arthur seemed to think that Doug is still alive, and if he is, I'm going to bring him back. I'm not losing another friend."

  I remembered the dream that had wakened me, and I shivered, despite the heat of the sun.

  She sat opposite me, her legs crossed, her hair falling around her shoulders. I thought about the picture she'd given me, and suddenly I wanted to crush her to my chest and hold her tight for a long time. There was a silence between us, then she smiled.

  "Arthur will be up and about soon. If you need to go, I'd go now, before he tries to talk you out of it."

  I nodded.

  "I'll go when I finish this coffee," I said, raising the cup. "Just one thing, though...to fill in the blanks. Tell me about John Harris."

  Her eyes clouded. There was pain there, an old pain. I recognized it; I'd seen something similar in the mirror often enough.

  "Poor John. He couldn't stop. He was driven, an obsessive. We found him after his Hunterian Museum experiment. Arthur had detected movements in the ether."

  There was a joke there waiting to be told, but I let it be and allowed her to continue.

  "After that, Arthur funded his research. We knew he was on to something, and hoped that he would find a way to bind the power of the amulet. The night at Maes Howe was a culmination of years of work."

  She stopped and sipped her coffee. She was far away, back in the burial mound.

  "And it nearly worked. John took us to the 'veil', and we saw through it. Arthur wanted to send the amulet through there and then, to place it beyond the reach of anyone else. And he nearly achieved it. But something began to come through from the other side, something hideous and dark. The sight of it drove poor John mad, and we lost control-almost lost everything-but between us, Arthur and I managed to repel the invader. We were unable to save John's sanity. He never recovered."

  Tears ran down her face. I could have done something, offered her comfort, but I just sat and stared.

  "And you paid his hospital bills?"

  "Yes," she said, getting herself under control. "For as long as his doctors thought he needed them. We offered him a room here, and he stayed for a couple of months. But he was a wanderer at heart, and slowly he spent more and more time away, until eventually we only saw him maybe once a month."

  "And when was the last time?"

  "Just before the amulet got stolen," she said. "Maybe two nights before."

  I wondered whether Brian Marshall had ever met John Harris. It would explain how the burglar knew precisely where to go. It was probably something I'd never know for sure-another loose end never to be tied.

  I finished the coffee and rose from the chair.

  "After the funeral, I'll come straight back," I said. "Then you can tell me where Durban fits into the scheme of things."

  She nodded.

  "Just don't be late. It's a longish drive, and it would be best to get there early rather than late."

  She stood and waved me off as I drove Doug's car down the driveway. I looked in the rear-view mirror. It was the picture of the life I would never have-the big country house, the wife at the door waving me off to work. I felt like pounding the dashboard in frustration as I pulled out on the main road.

  I thought I'd left plenty of time to get to Clarkston, but I got lost in North Glasgow. I stopped in a high street of a suburb I didn't know, and made the mistake of asking a kid for directions.

  "Hey son," I said, rolling down the window. "How do I get to the city center?"

  "Down the road, left, then left again," he said.

  I thanked him, followed his instructions, and five minutes later found myself travelling back down the same high street again. The kid was pointing at my car and laughing. I slowed down and rolled down the window.

  "Hey mister, are you wan o' the 'Blues Brothers'?" he said. "My mammy says they're shite."

  The temptation to stop and pound the little shit to a pulp was high, but I fought it off.

  "You're a genuine pillar of the community," I said. "You'll probably grow up to be a Tourism Coordinator."

  He looked at me as if I was stupid. It was that generation gap thing again-it seemed there was nobody under twenty who understood me. I left him trying to catch flies in his open mouth.

  The local newsagent had a street map, and I stood in the shop, tracing a required route.

  "Are you going to buy that?" a shrill voice said. The shopkeeper advanced down the aisle towards me, her hands over her bosom as if she was afraid I might attack it.

  "No. Why bother, when there's so many helpful folk in this town?" I said. I left her to catch whatever flies the kid missed.

  It took me a couple more hours to get to Clarkston, then twenty minutes more to find a parking place. I ended up ten minutes walk away, and as I walked back towards the church, I was surprised to see Durban's Rover parked just outside the driveway.

  I was late-the service had already started. To my surprise, the downstairs area was full-even the standing room. I moved upstairs, but even there most of the pews were taken. Wee Jimmy had known a lot more people than I imagined. At least I had a good view of proceedings.

  Old Joe from the paper-shop was down near the front. His wife wasn't with him, though-after all, someone had to run the shop. Durban stood near the back. He had a solemn look on his face, but every time I looked at him, I saw the fate of the kitten, and the monster that had been conjured in the clearing. He saw me looking, and dropped me a slow wink.

  Two rows in front of Durban, my attention was caught by a mass of long black hair. The owner of the coiffure turned slightly, and I saw it was Mandy, with a new wig. She had dressed demurely for the occasion-her boobs were nearly covered, and her skirt was halfway down her thighs. The man to her left stretched a hand round her shoulders and squeezed her close, but her expression never changed, and she didn't stop chewing her gum.

  The priest stood above Jimmy's family, hands outstretched, appealing for God to take the soul into heaven. I have always found the idea of heaven, especially the Christian one, particularly distasteful-not enough fun, and too much piety for my liking. My personal prayer was for Jimmy's soul to find happiness wherever it had gone.

  The prayer finished, the congregation muttered a ragged "Amen", and six of Jimmy's family, all small males with thinning hair, ages ranging from twenty to sixty, stepped forward to lift the coffin.

  The organ began the funeral march in a loud burst of wheezing bellows, and a small procession led by the tall minister filed out into the sunshine. I gave them a couple of minute's start, then made my way down the stairs.

  The sunlight was blinding after the gloom of the church, and it took my eyes a minute to acclimatize. I looked around for Durban and saw him entering his car.
He waved to me, and his smile was broader than ever. I was about to follow him when a hand clasped my shoulder.

  "It was good of you to come. Jimmy thought a lot of you, he always said you were his best friend-you always treated him like a human being."

  I turned and looked into the face of John, Jimmy's oldest son, a small, quiet man whose eyes were filled with pain.

  "I'm really sorry, John," I said, then realized I didn't have anything else to say-my mouth had gone dry. How could I tell this man that his father had most probably been killed by an ancient Arabian demon, and that even now the killers were plotting global domination by Elder Gods from a different time and space? In the cold light of day, it all seemed absurd.

  Not for the first time on this case, I wondered if I was going mad.

  I had stopped paying attention, so I got a surprise when Jimmy's son gripped my right hand, turned and walked away. I looked down. Sitting in the palm of my hand was a small, oblong piece of card. The side facing me was blank, but I didn't need to look to know that the other side contained a drawing of a small red coffin and a number. I had been chosen to aid in lowering the old man into the ground.

  It was only when I raised my head that I saw the priest beckoning me across to join the other men clustered around the grave.

  I stood on the left of the priest, both hands gripping white-knuckled on the purple ribbon. As the priest prayed, we slowly let our ribbons pass through our fingers, lowering the coffin into the dark black earth.

  I had to fight to keep control of my end of the box. The pain was back in my arm, a deep, lancing throbbing that almost made me lose my grip. Somehow, I managed to cling on-I think it was the thought of the potential embarrassment if I failed that did it.

  As the priest came to the end of the prayer, the pine box settled on the floor of the pit and a smattering of earth rattled across its surface.

  The rest of the funeral crowd began to drift away to different corners of the graveyard. Jimmy's relatives got into the long black cars, shaking hands before leaving for the traditional round of tea and whisky. Soon there was only the priest and myself left, looking down at the coffin.