by J G Alva
“I’m assuming that Ben Feeder is now underneath a small mound of earth in some field somewhere.” His eyes looked haunted when he added, “and because of Greg’s stupidity, I could have been buried next to him. That’s what I whispered to him: that he had almost cost me my life.”
They were both silent a moment.
“He was a genius at determining what people wanted, in a commercial respect,” Aimee said eventually. “But he didn’t really know people beyond that.”
“I don’t think any one person can,” Sutton said. “It’s that quote from John Lydgate: you can please some of the people all of the time, you can please all of the people some of the time, but you can't please all of the people all of the time. There’s just too much variation.”
“You know me,” she remarked.
“From intimate study,” he said, mock lasciviously.
She thought a moment and then said, “I like Art.”
“What?”
“Art. That’s the only thing that doesn’t belong to anything else. The only thing that’s mine.”
Sutton smiled widely.
“I know. And that’s why I like you. Because there is more to you. And you need to belong to yourself.”
“I’m not sure what that means,” she confessed.
“Well…” He kissed her ear and whispered, “I hope that, at some point, you figure it out.”
◆◆◆
Wellow was a village and civil parish not far from Bath. There was a river a little further south, called the Wellow Brook; nothing more than a dirty runnel of water, but its route was lined with unregulated vegetation and trees: an oasis of wilderness.
The tip Pat had received from PC Tomkinson put the Cult on the far side of the brook from Wellow, on the edge of a tree line that seemed to go nowhere. They knew they’d been there because the fire had not long been doused…was still warm in fact. Flattened grass provided a narrative of the direction they had taken back to the road, but they were still gone.
Pat leaned back against the car and stared up at the sky. It was a wan orange glow fading into blue fading into black. The cold metal of the car felt good against his back.
“Am I off the hook?” Bob asked.
They’d cut down a small trail between the fields that was nothing more than a muddy track made by tractors. Bob stood at the gate to the next field, leaning back against it and staring at Pat.
“I mean,” Bob said, indicating the field behind him. “They’re gone. And I didn’t have chance to warn them.”
Pat shook his head.
“Or they’re just gone. Of their own accord. And we’re back to square one.”
The two men stared at each other.
“Or,” Bob said, “somebody did warn them, and it wasn’t me.”
Pat shook his head.
“But neither you nor Darren knew-“
“Sally knew.”
Pat felt something heavy sink into his stomach.
Sally?
“Think about it,” Bob continued, kicking at the stones near the entrance to the field. “She knew about Matheson’s place in Long Ashton-“
“She took the call from the neighbour, after the Cult arrived-“
“I’m talking about the fact that they were gone when the police arrived. And as for knowing the place…when DCI Kent called you, did Sally put him through to you?”
Pat thought back.
He couldn’t remember.
He said, “she didn’t know about Mark-“
“Did Kent call you directly?”
Pat thought back.
“Yes,” he said, although he couldn’t be sure…It had happened a million years ago, in another lifetime. “Yes. He called me directly.”
“Are you positive?”
“No,” he admitted eventually. Damn it.
“Because if he called the switchboard, and she put him through to you, how hard would it be for her to listen in on the conversation? She’s good with the phones. We know that. That’s why you wanted her working with us on this in the first place.”
It was another unpalatable thought. Sally was a nice girl. Sweet. Not capable of deceit.
But was it more terrible than Darren or Bob betraying him?
Why was he debating with himself about levels of betrayal?
It was all unacceptable.
“I’m not saying it’s not me,” Bob said, wandering in front of the car and looking further down the track. “I mean, I’ve given my reasons why you shouldn’t think it is me – and there’s still Darren to consider too – but I’m saying you can’t discount her either. She’s in the middle of this, just like the…”
Bob stopped talking abruptly, and Pat turned to see what he distracted him.
Bob was staring fixedly toward the end of the track.
They were on a slight rise, which meant they could see all the way to the line of trees growing against the edge of the brook. The track curved slightly to the left, before disappearing in the distance.
“What is that?” Bob asked, pointing.
There was something in his voice…
“What?” Pat said, moving away from the car to join him.
“That, there,” Bob said, gesturing toward the end of the field. “That mound…what is it?”
Pat stared. He could just make out a small green rectangle, situated almost perfectly in the centre of the field, with a mound of earth placed centrally inside it.
“I have no idea,” he admitted.
“That’s Stoney Littleton,” Bob said. He was excited, his face alight, as if with joy. “Pat. That’s Stoney Littleton.”
Pat was confused.
“What?”
“Pat, I know where the Cult is going next,” he said. He started moving toward the passenger side of the car. “Come on, Pat. We have to go. Come on.”
◆◆◆
“The Stoney Littleton Long Barrow is a Neolithic burial chamber,” Bob explained, as they raced along the darkening country roads. “I think it was built around 3500BC. It’s got multiple chambers, and I think when it was excavated in the early 19th century they found lots of bones…you know, well preserved samples. The thing is, the last place the Cult was located at, the address you gave me…that was near the West Kennet Barrow.”
Pat looked at him.
Bob looked away guiltily when he said, “when you were at Alger’s house, I drove up there, to see if the Cult was still around.”
“Bob, that wasn’t smart.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” Bob said. “I didn’t tell you because I thought you’d be upset-“
“You’re not officially an active officer,” Pat said. “If anything had happened…”
“They were gone, Pat. They weren’t there.”
“That’s not the point.”
“I know. Alright? I know. But when I was looking around, I saw the stones. There’s a bunch of standing stones in front of the West Kennet Barrow. And then this last place they were at is the Stoney Littleton Barrow…they’re visiting ancient monuments in the area. That has to be it.”
“But why?” Pat asked.
Bob was silent a moment, but then he said, “Broadbent’s novel is meant to be set in a forgotten piece of history, right? So maybe he thinks these places are what’s left of that.”
“And the next one is Stanton Drew?” Pat asked.
“Yeah. If they’re anywhere, then they should be there. But…”
“What?”
Bob looked worried when he said, “if they really do want to start a revolution on the Summer Solstice, like in the novel, then it’s going to be in Bristol. And all these places are on a route back to Bristol.”
Pat was silent.
A revolution in Bristol? He couldn’t picture it. Cult members wandering the streets with bows and arrows…what could they hope to achieve?
Pat said, “the revolution is about technology in the book, correct?”
“Technology used by an elite upper class to control and enslave the lo
wer classes, yes.”
“So how would that translate to modern Bristol?” He said. “I can’t think of one place that would represent that. Or a list of places. Where would they go?”
Bob shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
“What could they hope to accomplish?” Pat had another disturbing thought. “What happens at the end of the novel?”
Bob’s face was suddenly grim.
“Fahl’s death,” he said.
“What happens? Exactly, I mean.”
“Toby – I mean, the boy in the novel, Fahl – is accidentally killed by the chief guard of the elite security forces, a character called Belluch Luche. Belluch Luche is like some kind of advanced individual – you know, he’s got cybernetic bits implanted into his body to make him a more effective soldier: x-ray vision, super-strength, that sort of thing. The implication is that the implants are faulty, or that he is being controlled, but either way, he goes insane and kills the boy, Fahl…just as Fahl is making his case for improving the mistreatment of the lower classes. Those in the upper classes who already have reservations about how they treat the people under them witness the killing of one of their own, and are so disgusted by it, by Belluch Luche and all that he represents, that they join forces with the lower classes to bring down the system, thereby freeing everyone from bondage.”
Pat felt deeply disturbed by this.
“If they have the boy,” he said, “do you think they might kill him themselves? To insight people to violence?”
Bob shrugged, but he looked uneasy.
“Who knows. It’s possible. I think Broadbent’s insane. Look what’s happened. He’s killing people left, right, and centre to get to the boy, because he thinks he’s Fahl. Honestly, Pat, I don’t know what he’ll do.”
“It wouldn’t work,” Pat said, almost to himself. “People wouldn’t riot. There’d be trouble, but if it was just the Cult, and we stopped the Cult…well, that would be it, wouldn’t it?”
He looked to Bob, but he had no more answers for him.
◆◆◆
Bob was right after all.
At the end of a narrow loose stone path lined with tall hedgerows, the Cult had set up camp.
Hiding in the bushes, Pat and Bob stared through the foliage at the cluster of vehicles: the caravans, trailers, trucks, buses, vans and cars, all parked in a rough circle around a large open fire. Pat could see some of the distinctive murals on the sides of the vehicles: scenes from the all powerful novel. Small groups and couples sat around the fire and talked. Some danced. There was laughter.
It made Pat’s skin crawl.
“Back to the car,” he whispered to Bob.
Cautiously, they went back the way they had come, crossing the B3130 and walking down another stone path on the opposite side of the road to where Pat’s car was parked behind a copse of trees, hidden from the road.
Pat was perspiring lightly.
Bob was gasping for breath.
“Are you alright?”
Bob shook his head.
“Unfit,” he breathed, by way of explanation.
“Alright, here’s what we do,” Pat said. “We go back to the station and assemble the taskforce. As many men as we can get. We talk to CID, MCIU, and even the Tactical Aid Group. And we come back here and take the Cult.”
“And Sally and Darren?”
Pat was pensive.
“We cut them out of the loop,” he said. “We’ll arrange a meeting at the new building; Sally and Darren will never know. And we do it fast…the faster, the better.”
“Do you want me to stay here? Keep an eye on the Cult?”
Pat hesitated, and then immediately regretted the hesitation.
“No,” he said.
Bob let out a huff of breath.
“You still don’t trust me?”
“It’s for your protection,” Pat said. “Technically, you are not an active officer.”
“You don’t trust me.”
“Bob-“
“I told you where the Cult was going to be-“
“Bob, I know-“
“If I hadn’t, we’d have driven right past them on the way back-“
“Bob, I know. Okay? It’s fine. Don’t worry, I trust you.”
Bob’s face lightened.
“You do?”
“I do.”
“What changed your mind?”
“It wasn’t one thing, it was all of it, but…I didn’t think you were the leak anyway. The biggest thing was the fact that we have known each other for so long. But this has to be a legitimate operation, which is why I can’t-“
Pat’s phone rang abruptly.
Quickly, he answered it, and put it to his ear.
It hadn’t been loud, but out here, in the wild like this, it would be as alien as a car engine in a national park. And if there were Cult members wandering around, on guard duty…
“Hello?”
“Pat, it’s Darren.”
“Darren? What is it?”
“Why are you whispering? Where are you?”
“Darren, I’m very busy. What’s the matter?”
“I have a man on the line who wants to speak to you.”
“What? Darren, I can’t talk right now-“
“He says he has the boy. Toby Matheson.”
That stopped Pat momentarily.
“Toby?”
“Yes.”
“Put him through.”
“His name’s Sutton Mills. Hang on. Putting him through now.”
Click.
◆◆◆
“Hello?”
“Is this Detective Harris?”
“Yes. You’re Sutton Mills?”
“Yes.”
“You have the boy? Toby Matheson?”
“Yes.”
“Can you prove it?”
A pause.
“Not right now. He’s sleeping. I don’t want to wake him…he’s been through a lot.”
“Then how can I believe you?”
A breath on the line.
“Greg Matheson and Dr Ruminatra were both stabbed to death in Mark.”
Pat looked at Bob and nodded. He was real.
“What’s your number there?” The detective asked.
A laugh, but bitter, hard. Cruel even.
“I’m not giving you my number-“
“Then write this number down and call me back.”
“What-“
“You can’t trust me. That’s why you’re calling, instead of coming to the station. But I’ve got the same problem. I can’t trust my own men. So call me back directly on this number. And that way it’ll be just us, without the possibility of someone else eavesdropping.”
A pause.
“Alright, Detective.”
Pat gave him the number, and then hung up.
“He’s calling back,” he told Bob.
Bob looked doubtful.
“We hope.”
◆◆◆
The phone rang.
Pat answered it and put it to his ear.
“Mr Mills?”
“We have a problem,” the man said. “You’re right: I don’t trust you. There’s no easy way you can prove your innocence, so I’m going to ask you a few questions. Some questions I already know the answer to – I’ve managed to dig out some facts about you online. So I wouldn’t advocate lying. Doing so will trample all over this fledgling relationship before it’s had a chance to poke its optimistic head out of the dirt. Do you understand?”
“Yes. But we really don’t have time-“
“Then fucking make the time.” He sounded angry. “I’m already predisposed to dislike you, on the basis that someone in the police – possibly you – betrayed us, thereby putting me and my cohorts in mortal danger. So the scales aren’t tipped in your favour. But you have one thing going for you: I can’t take on the Cult myself. And Toby needs protecting. But in order for us to come in, you’re going to have to convince me that you ar
en’t batting for the wrong side. So. Will you answer my questions?”
Pat swallowed.
“Yes. Of course.”
“Good. How long have you been a policeman?”
“What? What has that-“
“Detective Harris, I’ve explained myself. Answer the question, or I hang up. If you interrupt me again, I’ll hang up. Remember, if you are working with the Cult, then you could be tracing this call.”
“I’m not.”
“You would say that, wouldn’t you. How long have you been a policeman?”
“Thirty two years.”
“Good. You’re married?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Twenty three years.”
“Any children?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Don’t get stuffy. I’m trying to work out who you are. If you’re a trustworthy man. Why don’t you have children?”
“I don’t…we didn’t want them.”
“You didn’t want them? Or your wife didn’t?”
“Both.”
A pause.
“Alright. Have you ever cheated on your wife?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I…”
“Why not? It’s a simple question.”
“Well…because I love her.”
“Has she cheated on you?”
“No.”
“How can you be sure?”
“She…she loves me.”
“She may very well love you, but she still might have cheated on you. I ask again: how can you be sure?”
Pat swallowed. His throat was dry.
“I can’t,” he admitted.
“Of course you can’t,” Sutton Mills said. “All relationships are built on trust. And we’re building one here. Tell me about the incident in Soho.”
“How do you know about that?”
“You’re not asking the questions, Detective Harris. Remember? You’re answering them.”
Pat took a deep breath. Bob was staring at him intently.
“It was in 1984,” Pat said eventually. “I worked for the City of London Police for nine years…before the events in Soho forced me to…re-evaluate my career. I did a stint in the Tactical Firearms Group for three years. There was a potential hostage situation in a basement flat, in Soho. We had no intelligence about what was going on in the flat. There were no windows, no doors, other than the main entrance. We went in blind. I was one of the first officers through the door.”
