THE HISTORY OF THINGS TO COME: A Supernatural Thriller (The Dark Horizon Trilogy Book 1)

by Duncan Simpson

  The Drakon picked up the silver frame from the shelf. The picture was of three people balancing in close formation on a surfboard. The corner of the photograph had been slightly overexposed, as if the camera had been pointing directly into the sun. Each person was crouching and pretending to ride a wave with arms outstretched, though the board itself was firmly planted on a stretch of golden sand. All three were dressed in shortie wetsuits, and wide smiles beamed from each of their faces.

  The front position of the surfboard was occupied by a pretty girl of around ten years of age. Her face was darkly tanned and her hair swept back into a loose ponytail except for a single multi-coloured braid that dangled in front of her nose. Behind the girl posed a man and a woman. The man was Caucasian, tall and slim and had one arm fastened securely around a woman’s waist. His other arm extended out behind him like a rodeo rider, counterbalancing the force of the imaginary wave. His face was sun-bronzed and happy. At the centre of the group was a strikingly beautiful woman of mixed race, her full black hair forming a natural Afro style. The photograph had captured the woman staring directly into the camera, her wide eyes forming a natural focal point to the picture. In the background was a 4-x-4 vehicle painted in a bright red livery with the words ‘Cornish Life Guard’ stencilled in large yellow lettering on its bonnet.

  After returning the picture to the shelf, the Drakon crouched down and continued the systematic inspection of the shelves, pausing every so often over a particular volume before moving on. After several minutes of unfruitful searching, the intruder let out a long hiss of frustration.

  The Drakon stepped away from the bookshelves and eyed the large writing desk at the centre of the room. It was of a sturdy wooden construction and painted in a dark lacquer, giving the impression that it was antique. A single manila card folder rested on its green leather-bound top. The Drakon opened the folder and tugged at the short cord of a marble desk light. A circle of bright light illuminated the desktop. The tip of a gloved finger dragged the police report free from the file. For several minutes the Drakon pored over the contents, quickly turning the pages before finally discarding the weighty file back to the desk.

  The Drakon’s gaze was now fixed upon the drawer at the centre of the desk. A concerted pull on the handle confirmed that it was locked. Soon the Drakon’s full bodyweight was brought down upon the blade of a paper knife, its metal edge wedged in the gap between the drawer and the lock. All of a sudden, the knife shifted forwards and the room was filled with the sound of splintering wood. With a final yank of the knife, the drawer was set free, sending wood fragments showering down onto the carpet beneath.

  Impatiently, the Drakon pulled open the drawer. A single object stared up from within: a silver foil bag measuring some twelve inches in length by ten inches across. Carefully, the Drakon removed the bag from the drawer and placed it on the desktop next to the folder. One end of the bag was open; the white sticker bearing the words ‘Police Evidence’ once sealing its end had been cleanly cut in two by a sharp blade. The Drakon raised the closed end, and a small book effortlessly slid out.

  Chapter 5

  Blake thought of Sarah and chuckled to himself. She was a good kid. A metallic ping announced the arrival of a message on Blake’s mobile phone. He stopped walking and fought through the folds of his coat to retrieve the device from his pocket. The screen shone in the gathering gloom of the London evening. The message was from Detective Milton. It was much longer than the detective’s usual stripped-down messages. Blake quickly scrolled:

  AUTOPSY REPORT FOR TAREK VINKA JUST COME IN. CORONER FOUND REMNANTS OF AN INK STAMP ON HIS HAND … ENTRY STAMP TO THE KOKO CLUB IN CAMDEN. MUST HAVE PAID EIGHT BALL A VISIT?

  Blake and Eight Ball had history. Originally from Haiti, Eight Ball wasn’t a man to be messed with. He was like a fight dog: dangerous and unpredictable.

  Their paths had crossed several times before and most recently during the recovery of a stash of stolen Anglo-Saxon gold coins. It had been the usual story. A prestigious London museum, anxious to protect its reputation, had contacted Blake under conditions of complete confidentiality. The museum had suffered another break-in, this time in broad daylight, and a prized collection of twenty-seven gold coins had gone missing.

  A museum’s survival depended on the quality of its exhibits. Significant numbers of exhibits were loaned or donated to a museum for display or safe keeping. Any suspicions that a museum’s security systems were a soft touch would result in the flow of exhibits from generous benefactors being shut off like a tap. That’s where Blake came in. His business card read, Dr Vincent Blake, Independent Art Recovery Investigator. He was independent, discreet and probably the best in London. Over the last decade, he had carved out an enviable reputation amongst London’s museums and auction houses. His methods were often unconventional, but his results spoke for themselves.

  After several weeks of intense detective work, Blake tracked the stolen coins to a lock-up in Muswell Hill rented by Eight Ball. Whilst not directly implicated in the robbery, Eight Ball was a fence for the artefacts. Following Blake’s tip-off, the police successfully recovered the coins, and Eight Ball was sent down for a nine-month stretch.

  According to local folklore, Eight Ball had acquired his name after an infamous bar fight. An ex-crew member had made it known that his business partner had turned police informer. He tracked him down to a Brixton bar, where his business associate was shooting pool. Consumed with rage, Eight Ball pinned his former friend down on the pool table and smashed in his skull with a pool ball. Whether it was actually the eight ball or not was immaterial; the name stuck. No one would testify against him.

  Recently, Eight Ball had reinvented himself as a music promoter and the manager of the Koko Club in Camden. But word on the streets was that he was back to his old games.

  Blake sneezed loudly. The sound echoed down the deserted street. He waited for an imminent second sneeze, but none came. After first rubbing the end of his nose, he went back to composing a reply to Detective Milton’s text. He turned the corner into Phoenix Place and, not looking up from the phone, stumbled over the legs of a woman sitting directly in his path. Her back was square up against the wall, and although her chin rested on her knees, her legs spanned the full width of the pavement. Blake reached out to the wall and hopped to a stop.

  Both the dishevelled woman and the black mongrel dog lying by her side appeared quite unperturbed by the collision. She sat there like an apparition under the pale illumination of a streetlight. By the large clumps of greasy matted hair and the thick blanket around her shoulders, it looked like she was sleeping rough.

  Blake raised his hands and fumbled an apology.

  ‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention. You okay?’

  Before he had finished speaking, Blake had registered two details. The first was that the dog wasn’t on a leash and the second was that on the pavement under the woman’s legs was an open book. It looked like a bible.

  At first, the shivering woman didn’t respond to Blake’s apology. She just stared blankly back at him. He returned his phone to his pocket. After a moment, his hand reappeared with a ten-pound note. With his eyes half-fixed on the dog, he stepped forward.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he said.

  ‘Mary,’ she replied in a quiet, hollow voice.

  ‘Look Mary, here’s a tenner. Get yourself something hot to eat. You’ll freeze out here tonight.’

  Carefully, he crouched down and placed the bank note on the open page of the book. As he hauled himself to his feet, Blake noticed something familiar and yet totally unexpected about the book, like he was meeting an acquaintance in a completely incongruous setting.

  The book was indeed a bible, but it was written in Aramaic, the language Jesus had spoken.

  Chapter 6

  A sudden gust of wind slammed the front door shut behind him. After recoiling from the loud noise, Blak
e shook the thoughts of his recent encounter with the curious vagrant woman from his head. Half-expecting to be greeted enthusiastically by Plato, the family pet dog, he hovered in the hallway listening out for the familiar sound of paws scampering on the stripped oak flooring. Standing perfectly still, he strained to listen for the tell-tale sounds, but all was silent apart from the loud ticking of the grandfather clock at the end of the corridor.

  Lazy dog. Probably fast asleep in front of the fire, he thought, as he deposited his house keys on the sideboard next to the door.

  Blake looked at his reflection in the hallway mirror and began to slowly unwind the scarf from around his neck. His winter holiday tan was still visible. The reflection smiled contently back. Shopping at Smithfield Market had left his muscles feeling heavy, and Blake gave into the large yawn developing in his jaws. After hanging up his coat on the hat stand, he remembered the fire in the study. With a bit of luck, he could revive it with a few prods from the poker. Blake raised his hands to his lips and breathed warm air between them. As he moved along the hallway towards the study, he could feel his frozen finger tips begin to thaw. Still blowing into his hands, Blake awkwardly pushed down on the door handle with his elbow. Helped by a gentle nudge of his shoulder, the door slowly opened.

  In the doorway, Blake was met by a wall of stuffy warm air. His eyes tried to readjust to the relative darkness of the room. In the shadows, the lights of the Christmas tree gave out a pulse of red light. Lying on the floor next to the hearth was Plato’s familiar profile. For a moment, Blake tilted his head and studied the twisted contours of the animal’s outline. Something about the way its legs were spread out under its body was at odds with the position of its spine. The thought hung unreconciled in Blake’s mind as a shape burst out from the darkness.

  An intense jab of pain shot through Blake’s shoulder, his vision exploding into shards of intense white light. He lurched forwards, his legs unable to keep his body upright. Blake dropped to the ground like a felled tree.

  Seeing the effect of the blow, the Drakon let go of the heavy marble base of the desk light. It crashed to the floor only a foot away from Blake’s head, the sharp edge of the stand cutting out a deep triangular wedge in the wooden floorboard.

  Gradually, the splinters of light firing in Blake’s optic nerve coalesced. Fighting for breath, Blake willed his mind to make sense of what he was seeing. He could make out a dark silhouette. Biting hard, he concentrated on the shadowy profile hovering over the desk that appeared to be gathering something into its hands and moving towards the door.

  Blake reached out to touch his throbbing shoulder. He groaned as a piercing pain reverberated through his neck. His shoulder was wet with blood. The jolt of pain seemed to temporarily clear his blurred vision. Through blinking eyes, he could now make out the intruder: tall, dressed in black, features hidden under a ski mask. As the figure came closer, Blake could make out an object in the person’s hand: it was Newton’s notebook.

  He closed his eyes and instinctively kicked out into space. The toe of his boot made hard contact with the burglar’s ankle. Knocked off-course, the Drakon slammed into the side of the doorframe. Blake kicked out again, but this time his boot met thin air. Expecting another blow from above, his limbs drew back into a protective foetal position. He waited for the inevitable impact, his muscles stiffening in anticipation. Nothing came. Blake’s eyes widened as the study door slammed shut.

  Straining every muscle in his body, Blake tried to haul himself to his feet. The room horizon shifted in front of him, and he reached out to the bookshelf in an attempt regain his balance. Stumbling forwards, he struck his hand on the shelf, causing a collection of small Japanese ceramics to clatter in all directions. He lost his balance, and his shoulder pounded into the wall, sending a shockwave of pain blazing across his chest.

  The sound of his heartbeat pulsed loudly in his head as Blake slammed his hand down onto the door handle. The door swung open, and a cold blast of air hit his face. Looking down the hallway, Blake could see the intruder sprinting towards the road, Newton’s notebook in hand.

  The air was suddenly filled with the nearby sound of a screaming car engine revving hard. At the far end of the road, a black Jaguar XJ saloon accelerated at speed towards the fleeing intruder. Blake stumbled down the hallway, using the walls to balance. Plumes of tyre smoke billowed from the wheel arches of the blacked-out car as it screeched to a halt outside Blake’s house. Holding Newton’s book like a running baton, the intruder sprinted towards the waiting vehicle. The Jaguar twitched forward, its brakes straining against the massive torque of its engine.

  Blake willed himself forward, adrenalin surging through his bloodstream. He made it outside just in time to see the intruder disappear into the car’s back seat. The rear wheels of the Jaguar spun as they fought to gain traction on the wet tarmac. In the blink of an eye, the Jaguar’s sleek chassis gained momentum. Propelled by the acceleration of the vehicle, the car door slammed shut, enclosing the passenger behind tinted glass. By the time Blake reached the pavement, the car was gunning up the road at full speed. With every step, Blake’s pace quickened. Soon he was pursuing the car up Phoenix Place in a desperate attempt to make out its registration number before it vanished.

  Chapter 7

  After visiting the Italian Deli and the chemist shop on Farringdon Road, Nomsa and Sarah turned into Mount Pleasant Street. Before the junction with Phoenix Place, the road performed a tight zigzag bend, the strange by-product of centuries of haphazard town planning. Knowing that the pavement disappeared on one end of the street before reappearing on the opposite side a little way up, Nomsa took hold of Sarah’s hand. She was surprised how cold her daughter’s fingers felt.

  ‘Darling, where’s your glove?’

  Sarah gave her mother a sideways glance, her mouth breaking out in a cheeky grin.

  ‘Mum, I think I left it in Dad’s pocket.’

  Nomsa’s face dissolved into a warm smile. ‘Well then, we’d better get home before you lose anything else.’ Nomsa’s words were muffled in the large woollen scarf around her neck. Glancing left and right, mother and daughter crossed the road.

  The Jaguar accelerated hard out of the bend, shooting the needle of the rev gauge into the red. Suddenly, the driver saw the two figures marooned in the centre of the road ahead. In the back of the car, the passenger had a brief flash of recognition: the faces from the photograph in the study, the faces on the beach.

  ‘Drive! Drive!’

  Frozen in the middle of the road, Nomsa and Sarah could only watch as the high-performance car careered towards them. Without thinking, Nomsa pushed her daughter to the side, but it was too late. The leading edge of the car’s bumper acted like the blade of an axe.

  Nomsa’s body jack-knifed in on itself. First her head slammed down onto the bonnet with the force of a hammer before being whipped backwards as her legs were pulled violently underneath the vehicle. The moment the back of her skull hit the tarmac it fractured into three pieces, driving shards of bone deep into her brain.

  The Jaguar’s sophisticated on-board computer tried to make sense of the data from the traction sensors in the front wheels. A light on the dashboard momentarily flashed a warning, alerting the driver that the front wheels had temporarily lost grip on the road. Equating the frictional coefficient data with a road surface covered in wet leaves, the computer instantly sent back a cascade of electronic instructions to the Jaguar’s front wheels. Instead of wet leaves, the tyres were spinning on human flesh and the squashed contents of a shopping bag.

  The mother’s raw instinct to push her daughter a fraction of a second before the impact changed the young girl’s centre of gravity. That, combined with the colossal shearing forces of the Jaguar’s curved bumper, tossed Sarah into the air like a rag doll. With limbs flailing at her side, her body cart-wheeled in empty space. Below her, the front of the Jaguar reared up off the road, running
over an unseen obstacle. Sarah was soon caught by the irresistible pull of gravity, and her body hit the road with a force that seemed too big for her small frame. Sarah rolled forward and came to rest face to face with her mother’s mangled body. Like a mother watching her daughter sleeping soundly, Nomsa’s expression was frozen in an unearthly stare. A dark halo of blood began to grow from beneath Nomsa’s head, oozing out in a dark circle.

  Now moving at no more than a jog, Blake turned the sharp corner in the road. What he saw lying at his feet made him stop in his tracks. It was Sarah’s cap. He couldn’t move forward. Then his gaze extended further up along the road. A sudden shock of terror pulled at his insides when he saw the two lifeless bodies lying on the tarmac.

  Chapter 8

  3 months later: Wednesday 18 March

  A black cat stared intently at the robin pecking at invisible traces of food. The cat sat almost motionless except for the small sideways movement of its ribcage as it breathed and waited patiently for the right moment to strike. Unaware of the other animal’s presence, the bird hopped frenetically from foot to foot up the gravel path, continually reorienting its body towards the next morsel. Slowly, the cat arched its back and tightened the muscles around its shoulders in preparation. It edged forward, its shoulder blades moving up and down like the pistons of an engine as it closed in. The animal exploded into a committed sprint across the graveyard towards the bird.

  Blake’s fingertips followed the letters of Nomsa’s name. Her headstone was a simple affair: pink granite with three lines of lettering carved into it: her name, a series of dates, and a simple dedication.

  The light that brought me here has taken me home.

  It was the same inscription on her mother’s gravestone in Harare. He took a step back and saw flecks of mica in the pale granite sparkle in the early spring sunshine. Blake’s breathing faltered momentarily, and tears filled his eyes. His hand plunged into his coat pocket and tightened around something soft. He squeezed it tightly. It was Sarah’s glove.