A Book of Bones

by John Connolly

  Hood was invited to attend when the artifacts were put on display at the Great North Museum as part of a new exhibition on life in the legions, but he did not reply to the letter. After all, it was not the first time he had seen or heard older presences on the moors, and he doubted it would be the last. But he also felt a sense of culpability for having informed the authorities about the soldier’s bones. In retrospect, he should have called Jess away, and covered up the remains again, leaving them where they lay, “as ashes under Uricon,” to quote his beloved Housman. (The breadth of Hood’s reading and learning might have surprised some, but there was only so much television a man could watch.) The legionnaire was part of the moors, and they were his rightful resting place, not some glass case in a museum—or later, a storage box in a basement. It should not have mattered, of course: the soldier was long dead, and logic dictated that any concerns he might once have had about the grave he would ultimately occupy, if any grave at all, had come to an end when the issue of mortality moved from abstract to concrete. Rationality, though, was an incomplete response to the intricate nature of this world, and the past and present were not so distinct as some cared to believe: the unveiling of the soldier’s bones by the shifting landscape was proof of this, a physical manifestation of the ancient revealed to the gaze of the modern, yet buried on moors so old as to make a mockery of cities, armies, and the fleeting aspirations of men.

  Now, in his kitchen, Hood killed the lights, that he might better see what lay beyond the glass. He closed his eyes so they would adjust more quickly to the dark—although he did so with some reluctance, as though unwilling to cede even a moment’s inattention to whatever might be moving in the night—and when he opened them once more, the yard came into clearer focus. He could make out the shapes of plants and shrubs, and the wall, centuries old, marking the boundary of his garden. Jess was sniffing at the doorjamb, and he saw her wrinkle her nose at some scent she had picked up. She started to move again, staying close to the interior walls, pausing only to snarl at whatever was outside. It appeared to be circling the cottage, but Hood could hear no animal sounds, nor detect the footfalls of man. The only noise that came to him was the faintest of rustlings, low to the ground, but it might just have been the wind testing leaf and branch.

  Hood stepped away from the window. This was his dwelling, his redoubt, and whatever was out there had no business intruding upon it. His shotgun stood in the hall closet, and would take only moments to load. He used it for hunting rabbits, mostly, although he had once shot a dog that was worrying his sheep, before leaving the corpse by the side of the road in case its owner came looking for it, because it was one thing to kill a man’s dog and another to leave him wondering at its fate. He’d felt sorry for the dog; it had only been acting according to instinct. Its owner was the one at fault, and therefore bore the blame for the fate of his animal.

  The memory of the dead dog led him to Jess. If he went outside, he’d have to permit her to come with him; she might hurt herself otherwise in trying to get out, because however frightened or disturbed she might be, she would not wish to leave him unprotected. And although Hood remained no wiser as to the nature of the presence beyond his walls, still it set jangling something primitive in his blood, an atavistic warning beacon embedded deep in his genes.

  Hood was instantly propelled back to the firesides of his childhood, where old men and women recounted tales of the Ettins, the lost giants who built the Devil’s Causeway from Corbridge to Berwick; and the Redcaps, who took the form of old men but were baser beings beneath, and dyed the fabric of their hats in the blood of those they killed. He thought of the braags and the gyests: shape-shifters, entities without a fixed physicality, seeking to lure the unwary onto marshy ground, where roots and weeds would coil around bellies and legs to pull them under, so that they, like certain shot dogs, would never be found, leaving their loved ones without a grave at which to mourn. The stories shared about these creatures had real force, for they held a truth at their heart: not only about the lethality of marshes and moors, but the nature of the uncanny. Names and forms had to be ascribed to the threats from beyond—vampire, werewolf, gyest, worm—because the worst of them had no form at all, instead electing to inhabit elements of this world as they saw fit: tree, earth; disease, cancer; water, mire; a standing stone, an old church; a man, a woman; root, branch…

  In his cottage, it seemed to Hood that the voices of these older folk, now long silenced, spoke to him again, sharing tales that were more than myths, and truths disguised as lies. Their words became a litany, the testimony of a congregation united in the face of the threat posed by an older god, a deity of frond and bough. In that moment, Hood saw another version of himself open the door and step into the dark. He watched tendrils move swiftly across the soft ground to envelop Jess, slowly squeezing the life from her. He felt branches burst from his own body, roots pouring forth from his nose and mouth, as he became one at last with the Green Man.

  “Jess!” he called, and so forceful was his command that she came to him instantly, and sat by his side. He took her by the collar and dragged her to the empty fireplace in the living room, where he attached one end of a leash to her collar, and the other to an iron ring set in the hearthstone. He brought a cushion for her to lie on before kneeling to add wood and paper to the grate, because he always kept a store of it ready, the weather in these northeastern regions being unpredictable and testing. He struck a match and put it to the paper, and did not rise again until the flames caught, and the first of the wood began to burn. When all was done, he wrapped himself in a blanket and took to his favorite chair, the dog now settled at his feet, still watchful, and thus they waited for dawn to break, sometimes dozing, sometimes listening, Hood rousing himself only when the fire needed to be replenished.

  Because all wood fears the flame.

  CHAPTER LXXVI

  Gary Holmby returned to his apartment to find the television turned off, and the living room illuminated only by the moon and the distant lights from across the river. A peculiar smell hung in the air, like spoiled food. It was one he associated with Karl’s bedroom in the middle part of his teens, before his brother discovered that girls preferred boys who didn’t stink excessively of their own hormones.

  He called Karl’s name, but received no reply. Two pizza boxes lay open on the dining table, but both were empty, with not even a crust to be seen. Could his brother have asked a friend to join him, perhaps that deadbeat Ryan Clifton? But Gary doubted that Ryan could have made it to Newcastle so quickly, not unless the two of them had already hatched a plan to meet up before Karl headed north.

  He saw that his bedroom door was open, yet he knew he’d closed it before leaving the apartment. The bedside lamp was burning, but he’d left it that way. As he drew nearer, he saw a pair of booted feet on the mattress, followed by the rest of his brother, lying on his side facing the door, his eyes half open, and his nose and mouth covered in blood. More blood stained the pillow, and he’d vomited on the floor.

  Around the bed, the room had been torn apart: closets and drawers emptied; clothes piled in one corner, bedsheets in another; the contents of Gary’s private bathroom ransacked and broken on the tiled floor. In the midst of the wreckage stood Romana Moon’s laptop, displayed on a chair like the centerpiece of some conceptual art installation.

  It was to Gary Holmby’s credit that, in the final moments of his life, his main concern was for his brother, even as the darkness behind the bedroom door came alive, and that rancid smell intensified; even as he turned to witness the face of a drowning victim emerge from the shadows, and heard a grating voice speak his name as though in disappointment; even as he registered the gun, and its tumorous suppressor; even as the bullet tore its way into his chest, sending him sprawling onto the bed, so that his head lay for an instant against the warmth of his brother’s body, and he felt Karl’s fingers tentatively touch his face; even as he began to slide away—from the bed, from Karl, from family, from li
fe; even as the woman stood over him, this time leveling the muzzle at his face; even—

  Mors stepped back. On the bed, Karl Holmby was mumbling something that might have been a plea, or a summoning of his dead brother. Mors contemplated Karl. It would be easier to kill him now and leave him where he lay, but that struck her as a waste. She had a better use for him. She waited until she was certain the suppressor was cool before removing it to be stored in one of her pockets. She found a satchel, into which she placed Romana Moon’s laptop, then returned to the bathroom and doused a towel with water. She washed Karl’s face clean of blood, and examined him critically. His face had swollen, and his eyes would be black by morning—except she didn’t think he was going to live that long.

  Mors got Karl to his feet, first moving him to the other side of the bed in case he stumbled over his brother’s remains. He made no attempt to fight her as she led him away, thanks to a combination of shock and sedative. Gary Holmby’s car keys lay on the sideboard in the living room. Mors pocketed them, restored the pizza delivery cap to her head, and opened the door. They were only two apartments away from the elevator, and the hallway stood empty, but still she raised the hood on Karl’s tracksuit top as she walked him out. Together they waited for the lift to arrive, Karl swaying slightly like a drunk.

  When they reached the garage level, Mors pressed the key fob to identify Gary’s car, and opened the boot. Even through the stupor of the sedative, Karl now seemed to understand the danger he was in. He tried to brace himself against the body of the BMW, but Mors twisted his right arm behind his back in order to force him into the boot. Once he was lying inside, she gave him the last of the sedative. She didn’t want him causing her any further problems.

  The release button for the garage door was fitted to the BMW’s inside roof, and her own car was waiting on a side street about a minute’s drive away. She parked so that the two vehicles stood rear to rear, and simply shifted Karl Holmby from one trunk to the other.

  Then, while Sellars drove south with his burden, she headed west with hers.

  To Beltingham.

  To the yews.

  CHAPTER LXXVII

  Hynes was woken by his phone shortly after 6 a.m. His wife muttered something beside him, from which he picked up at least two swearwords, one of which she’d previously upbraided him for using, which didn’t seem entirely fair. What’s sauce for the goose…

  Hynes hit the answer button, because it was Priestman’s name on the caller display, but he didn’t begin talking until he was out of the bedroom.

  “Boss,” he said.

  “We have trouble,” said Priestman. “And we’re about to have a whole lot more.”

  * * *

  PARKER WAS ALSO AWAKE early, which didn’t suit him at all, but his body clock remained screwed up by the transatlantic flight. He decided he could only spend so long staring at the bedroom ceiling, so he showered and dressed before making his way reluctantly downstairs, where he encountered Bob Johnston by the reception desk, a book in hand. Johnston looked disturbingly fresh for the hour, and full of enthusiasm at the prospect of a new day in a new city.

  “Good morning,” said Johnston.

  “Go away,” said Parker.

  “I’ll just let you find your mojo, will I?”

  “Go away,” Parker repeated, this time with feeling.

  Johnston departed for the hotel’s breakfast room, humming happily to himself, the brightness of his mood undimmed. Parker headed for the street. If everyone else staying in the hotel turned out to be a morning person like Bob Johnston—hell, if even one other person was that way—Parker might have to cause an incident. He found a convenience store on Old Compton Street, bought the international New York Times and The Guardian, and took a seat in a coffee shop on Berwick Street called My Place, complete with an old 1960s Gaggia coffee machine and an ambience of quiet calm. If it didn’t make him feel any happier at being up and dressed before 9 a.m., at least he was now somewhere that wouldn’t make him any unhappier.

  Parker ordered an Americano with a side of sourdough toast, and watched London rouse itself. When his food arrived, he began reading the New York Times from cover to cover. Parker hadn’t ventured abroad as much as he might have wished, but he had learned that one of the great pleasures for a traveler was to read a newspaper from home while staying in a foreign place. He didn’t even turn to The Guardian until his second cup of coffee was long finished, and My Place had begun to fill up. On the inner pages of the paper, he came upon a story about the discovery of a young woman’s body on some moors in Northumberland, and an account of the ongoing investigation into her murder. Only when he reached the fourth paragraph did he find a reference to the Familists, and the police’s belief that the victim, Romana Moon, had been killed on the site formerly occupied by their church, the same church that Parker had almost died investigating, and the rubble from which was still being discovered by hikers in Maine woodland, thanks to the dispersive effects of high explosive.

  Parker read the story twice before paying his bill and returning to the hotel, where he opened his computer and spent a further half hour finding out all he could about Romana Moon’s death. When he was done, he booked a British Airways flight from London Heathrow to Newcastle for that afternoon, and called Bob Johnston’s room.

  “You in a better mood now?” Johnston asked.

  “Not so much,” said Parker, and told him of what he had read.

  “You really feel the need to head up there?”

  “I do.”

  “You have other places to check out: maybe the church at Fairford, or the lawyers’ offices…”

  “The lawyers won’t be back at work until Monday, and that church isn’t going anywhere.”

  Johnston was quiet for a time.

  “The church is important,” he said at last. “Somehow, it’s crucial to the Atlas.”

  “You’ve seen it, and I trust your judgment.”

  “You should see it, too.”

  “I will, when I’m ready. Finish your research here first. Without it, I won’t even know what I’m looking at when I get to Fairford, never mind what I’m looking for.”

  Johnston’s plan for the day was to spend time at the British Library, and possibly also at the Senate House Library, which housed the book collection of the University of London. He had obtained a pass for the Senate House as a visiting researcher, and was particularly interested in examining the papers of Florence Farr, an actress, mystic, and chief adept of the occult order known as the Golden Dawn. Johnston had discovered that Farr, who died in 1917, was a close associate of Eliza Dunwidge, and Farr’s papers reputedly contained references to the Fractured Atlas. Parker had originally intended to accompany him, if only to keep a watchful eye.

  “When will you return?” asked Johnston.

  “Sometime tomorrow, I hope.”

  “Well, okay—I guess.”

  Parker couldn’t figure out when Johnston had taken charge of their investigation. He assumed a memo had been sent, but he must have missed it.

  “Well, thanks,” said Parker, as he hung up the phone. “I guess.”

  * * *

  HYNES WATCHED PRIESTMAN STALK the floor, her shouts echoing from the walls while various officers tried to keep their heads down for fear of catching her eye, and thus inadvertently becoming a target of her rage. Hynes had seen her lose her temper before, but never on such a scale. Someone, somewhere, would soon wish they had never been born.

  “How did this happen?” she said. “How the fuck did this happen?”

  What had happened was this: a report had appeared on a far-right website claiming that Muslim prayer beads had been discovered in the mouth of the murder victim Romana Moon, and the police were deliberately keeping this detail from the public—not for operational reasons, but as part of an ongoing institutional policy of protecting minority offenders in order to avoid accusations of racism. Under ordinary circumstances, such a story, given its source, would pro
bably have been dismissed by all but the most rabid neo-fascists, except that the website had printed a picture of what appeared to be a misbaha lodged in a woman’s throat.

  Hynes currently had the site open in front of him. All he could say for certain was that the picture looked real enough.

  “Are we sure it’s Romana?” he asked.

  “We’ve compared the images of the teeth with her remains,” said Priestman. “We’re almost certain it’s her.”

  Hynes examined the photograph more closely. It had been taken with a high-definition camera using a flash, so the image was very clear. Nevertheless, Hynes enlarged it on Priestman’s computer, leaning in so his nose was almost touching the screen.

  “That blood is fresh,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Look at her nostrils, and her upper lip. I don’t think the blood on them has dried yet.”

  “Meaning?”

  Hynes admired, even adored, Priestman. She was the best copper he’d ever worked under. Sometimes, though, frustration was capable of blinding her.

  “Meaning,” he said, “I think her killer took that picture.”

  CHAPTER LXXVIII

  Douglas Hood stood in the morning light, surveying the wreckage of his garden.

  Every plant and bloom inside the boundary wall was dead, as though each had been touched by some great frost, while all without remained intact. Even the grass on his lawn was blackened, and the air smelled of decay.