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

by Duncan Simpson

  Chapter 63

  The heavy wooden door slammed shut, and the sound reverberated in the open space of the stairwell. Somewhere on the other side of the door, in the vast interior of the cathedral, two hit men were hunting them like prey. Sabatini scanned the doorframe for a bolt, but the simple oak door had no visible locking mechanism from the inside.

  ‘They know the rod is here. If we don’t find it, all will be lost,’ said Sabatini.

  Feeling her heart pounding in her chest, she steadied herself against the elaborate iron railings surrounding Wren’s famous hanging staircase. The metal was cold to the touch, and it only temporarily neutralised the trembling of her hands. She gripped the ironwork tightly, straining to drag Newton’s coded instructions back into her mind.

  ‘Descend the eighty-eight stairs and open the stone door, as all will be revealed in a time, times and half a time.’

  Without acknowledging his companion’s words, Blake moved to the collection of decorating equipment neatly stacked on a chair against the wall. As he hauled its tubular frame towards the door, various-sized brushes and tins and a large plastic torch crashed to the floor. With his foot acting as a fulcrum, Blake tilted the chair backwards, and then, with a series of hard kicks, he jammed the top of the chair securely under the brightly polished brass handle.

  ‘That should buy us some time. We’ve got to be quick.’ Blake’s voice sounded detached, as if his thoughts were running three or four moves ahead. He turned towards the stairs and became aware for the first time of the space they were standing in. Wren’s cantilevered staircase appeared to hang in mid-air, as each step of the perfectly symmetrical spiral was supported by the step below.

  ‘Descend the eighty-eight stairs and open the stone door, as all will be revealed in a time, times and half a time,’ he repeated.

  Without warning, the door handle jolted downwards in a frenzy and then a force crashed against the bottom of the door. The chair wedged under the brass handle momentarily slipped backwards on the polished stone floor before securing itself once again under the ornate handle.

  Sabatini snatched the torch up from the floor as Blake grabbed her arm. ‘We’ve got to go now!’

  Jumping several steps at a time, they quickly descended the eighty-eight steps. The surrounding walls were perfectly smooth with no obvious ornamentation, recess or door to the outside world. Once at the bottom of the hollow stairwell, the two companions soon realised they had run into a dead end. There was no way in or out, apart from the door they had just come through, the same door that was now being forced open by two hired killers.

  The only feature in the stairwell was a large circular granite plinth in the centre of the floor. Just over waist high, it supported a platform several metres in diameter. The top was divided into twelve pointed chevrons of alternately coloured black-and-white inlaid marble, like the markings of a compass. At the centre was a small golden inscription: ‘On this moment hangs eternity, for no moment is backwards.’

  ‘It must be something to do with this,’ Blake said.

  Running along the perimeter of the chevron design was a circular brass track inset flush to the marble’s surface. A series of markings were uniformly engraved along its edge, dividing the metal track into regular increments. Sitting on the circular rim of metal was a small brass knob elaborately fashioned into the shape of a beehive.

  Blake stared at the beehive design. Something was familiar about it. He wracked his brain, and then it came to him: it was the same design that he and Milton had seen over a year ago in the back of the coded notebook found with Tarek Vinka’s body in The Faversham restaurant in Soho, the same notebook stolen from the Cannes residence of Didier Clerot. Before he could explain, Sabatini started speaking.

  ‘Look, it’s the sign of the society. The rod must be here.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Blake looked blankly towards her.

  ‘Don’t you remember Newton’s words in the crimson book? He mentioned a stone door and a lock in the shape of a beehive. In his alchemic writings, Newton used the beehive to denote a secret brotherhood. Like bees, the brothers would go out into the world in search of the nectar of God’s hidden knowledge. Once found, they would bring it back to the hive for safe keeping.’

  Walking around the marble platform as she spoke, Blake positioned himself next to the metal beehive emblem. He reached out and touched the engraved handle protruding about an inch above the flat marble platform. Much to Blake’s surprise, the brass knob moved easily under his fingers. He crouched down, his eyeline now level with the beehive insignia, to which he carefully reapplied pressure. He watched it glide effortlessly along the metal track, and as the brass insignia gently came to rest on the metal runners, a sound echoed throughout the empty space of the stairwell. High above their heads, the door handle started to jolt violently again.

  ‘They’re coming through the door!’ Sabatini’s voice was full of terror.

  Blake looked up to the doorway some twenty metres above their heads and saw the red glow of Christmas lights through a small gap beside the door. He refocused on the platform and the brass mechanism embedded around its edge. Biting the side of his tongue, he wrestled hard with the questions screaming in his head.

  Why would Wren place such a structure at the exact location identified in the map? It must be here. Newton’s annotations talked of a stone door, not a massive block of granite.

  Blake could taste the tang of blood in his mouth.

  ‘Carla … the inscription, what does it mean? It must be something to do with the rod’s location.’

  Sabatini was transfixed on the doorway, her face blanched of colour. Grabbing her shoulder, Blake repeated his question, and the strength of his voice snapped her out of her trance. She glanced down to the gold lettering at the centre of the marble plinth.

  ‘On this moment hangs eternity, for no moment is backwards.’ The words stumbled from her mouth. Blake’s eyes widened.

  ‘The movement of time. The inscription is about the movement of time. It’s a clock! It’s a clock! Just like his pocket watch. The prophecy will unfold in a time, times and half a time. The brass handle must be a pointer, like the hand of a clock.’

  Blake could hardly get the words out. His heart was beating so fast, he could feel its rhythm pulse along his shoulders and down the insides of his arms. He moved the brass handle back to its original position at one end of the circular track marked by a small engraving of what looked like a bee. As he positioned the beehive knob in line with the marker, he felt a faint click travel through his fingertips from deep within the marble platform. Blake pushed the beehive handle along the track to make a circuit around the marble platform. The brass beehive handle slid easily on its runners, and Blake realised that it was running on ball bearings set within the track. At first, he walked slowly around the perimeter, gently guiding the beehive emblem with his hand, but before long he was propelling the handle forward with a series of hard pushes.

  ‘One circuit complete. That’s the time,’ Blake spoke through gritted teeth as the beehive insignia crossed the start marker after one complete circumnavigation. ‘Now for the times!’ Blake redoubled his efforts around the plinth, the handle continuously gathering speed. As he completed another circuit, the handle appeared to be travelling under its own momentum. Fighting to keep up with its progress, Blake was now running around the perimeter of the platform, the insignia’s position just out of reach of his outstretched hand. After another entire revolution, Blake lost his footing and stumbled forwards. Trying to keep himself upright, he lost his grip on the side of the plinth and fell towards the wall like a stone ejected from a slingshot. As Blake’s shoulder slammed into the solid granite wall, he yelled out to Sabatini.

  ‘Stop it!’

  Before Blake’s words had time to echo in the empty stairwell, Sabatini stepped towards the platform, her eyes following the arc of the emb
lem as it travelled around the plinth. Her hand shot out and came down onto the beehive emblem, stopping it dead in its tracks exactly halfway round the disc of marble. A noise like grinding teeth sounded deep within the stone and sent strong vibrations through the handle, causing Sabatini to release her grip. Now sitting prostrate on the floor on the other side of the plinth, Blake’s face was frozen in a dumbfounded expression, his gaze transfixed on the dark recess that had opened up at the base of the plinth.

  ‘Carla, hand me the torch. I think we’re going to need it!’

  Chapter 64

  Whatever Denic said to the group of school children congregating around the large wooden side door scattered them like chaff in the wind. By the time Crossland had dragged the exhibition board in front of the closed entrance leading to Wren’s famous staircase, Denic had assessed the doorframe surrounding the door’s lock. He had already tried to force it open, but the door was blocked by something on the other side. Crossland positioned the large stand between Denic and the roaming eyes of visitors arriving through the main cathedral doors. Once the screen had been secured in position, Denic unzipped the dark green canvas bag at his feet. As his gloved hands strained to release the crowbar trapped at the bottom of the bag, the barrel of his Sig Sauer popped out from the opening. He tugged again. Finally, the steel bar was released, accompanied by the sound of metal scraping against metal. The sound was strangely reassuring to Denic’s ears.

  Whilst his partner was readying himself to attack the doorframe with the crowbar, Crossland became aware of an elderly couple that had just emerged from the main entrance hall. By their irritable demeanour towards each other, he guessed that the husband and wife were in mid-argument. The stick-thin husband was busy mimicking his wife’s complaints from his position safe behind her wheelchair. The vertebrae of his neck looked fused in a permanent stoop, as if he were battling against a gale. By the way the man struggled to change the direction of the wheelchair, his wife was of a much larger build, although it was hard to tell exactly owing to the copious blankets packed around her body. Without replying to the woman’s scolding, the man engaged the brakes of the wheelchair and set out towards the ticket desk. Now marooned in the centre of the entrance hall, the woman’s frustration towards her husband spilled out in a series of exasperated shakes of her head.

  The woman gradually became conscious that she was being watched by a huge man standing next to the exhibition stand. From across the hall, Crossland threw the lady a contemptuous stare, which caused her to self-consciously adjust the heavy tartan blanket on her lap.

  Finally, the sound of splintering wood came from behind the exhibition stand.

  ‘Max, we’re in!’

  Chapter 65

  The torchlight shook wildly on the rough stone wall as Blake and Sabatini hurried their way along the cold passageway. The air temperature had dropped noticeably since they’d crawled their way through the hidden recess at the base of the granite platform, and their breath was like pale smoke in the electric torchlight. The entrance led to an iron ladder some twenty feet further down into the foundations of the great cathedral before connecting to the cramped tunnel that they were now traversing. Without the torch that Sabatini had liberated from the pile of workman’s tools near the stairwell door, the space would have been completely devoid of light. The passage was narrow, with a coffin-like shape that allowed neither occupant to stand up fully straight.

  They were moving deep within the London clay. Contrary to the pact she had made with herself moments before, Sabatini looked over her shoulder into the blackness. Her breath had become shallow and rapid as she imagined the darkness consuming her. She looked forward again, her hand grasping the hem of Blake’s jacket. Just as her fingers secured their grip onto the jacket lining, the direction of the passageway made a sharp turn to the right.

  As they squeezed their way around the ninety-degree bend, Blake whispered to his companion, ‘Remember the turn marked on the map? We must be moving along the nave towards the great dome.’ Blake coughed, sending the torchlight juddering upwards. Sabatini imagined the staggering weight of Wren’s masterpiece bearing down on the roof of the tunnel. She began to repeat a prayer her mother had taught her as a child. She could feel her blouse sticking to her back.

  Continuing along the tunnel, Blake became convinced of two things. The first concerned their physical location. Although their dark and cramped conditions confused his senses, he was now certain that, since making the sharp turn in the tunnel, they were descending. His second insight was even more alarming. Going by the light’s fading intensity against the tunnel wall, he was sure that the torch batteries were about to give out.

  Blake came to a stop. The way forward was completely blocked by a stone wall. He felt Sabatini’s grip tighten on the back of his jacket.

  ‘Oh my god, we’re trapped!’ Sabatini’s voice was full of panic, and a film of ice-cold sweat began to form on her forehead. She felt the heavy darkness shroud her body, dragging her slowly down into the heavy clay. She dropped to her knees. Blake felt Sabatini release her grip on the back of his jacket, and he struggled to turn his body. The back of his head scraped against the rough surface of the tunnel roof and cut into his scalp. Only after Blake had positioned the fading torchlight in Sabatini’s direction did he realise that they had missed a doorway ten feet back down the tunnel, as its location was marked by a large dark rectangle contrasting against the pale reflection of the torch beam from the surrounding wall.

  ‘We passed it. Carla, it’s there. The passage carries on over there.’ Tracing its dimensions with the light, Blake marked the position of the opening in the wall. Suddenly, the torch made a gentle fizzing sound and then went out.

  Standing in the pitch black, Blake felt Sabatini’s warm breath against the back of his hand. He shook the torch barrel up and down vigorously. The batteries rattled inside their metal housing and the torch flashed back into life, but with an even weaker intensity than before. Wasting no time, Sabatini scrambled to her feet, and the two companions headed for the doorway in the wall.

  As they passed through the entrance, both became aware of a sudden change in the air around them, as if the atmosphere had become electrically charged.

  ‘Vincent, what is it?’ The timbre of Sabatini’s voice had changed and now echoed all around. Slowly raising the torch beam from the floor, Blake felt a surge of adrenalin as he tried to take in the view before his eyes.

  ‘Oh my god!’ said Blake. His stomach turned inside out. ‘It’s all real: the inner sanctuary, the New Jerusalem … It’s right here, under the dome of St Paul’s.’

  Crossland took the torch from the canvas bag and slammed it onto the stone floor. The Cambridge job had gone pear-shaped and this one was unravelling before his eyes. He stared at the opening at the base of the granite platform, knowing that it represented the only possible route of escape from the closed stairwell. With his mind imagining the brutality he would unleash on Blake and Sabatini when he finally caught up with them, he watched his partner disappear through the opening at the base of the plinth. Before moving to join him, his attention was drawn back to the canvas bag. He inspected its contents for several seconds before locating an object that caused a malevolent grin to cross his face. Slowly raising the serrated hunting knife to his lips, Crossland imagined blood dripping off its eight-inch steel blade.

  The space into which they had just emerged was substantial. To estimate its dimensions, Blake moved the torch beam across the face of each wall, but the light was soon swallowed up in the darkness. Even in the faltering light, he could make out the elaborate craftsmanship of the wooden panelling lining the walls and the shadowy outline of a large, heavy curtain hanging down from the ceiling. Close to the entrance stood a large metal candle stand, a small upturned spike marking the position for seven individual candles. The centre of the space was dominated by a large marble platform, about four feet high and eight feet
across. Made from fine white marble, it reflected any light that fell upon it, giving its surface a strange glowing luminosity. Its top surface was engraved with a perfect hexagram. As Blake approached, he could feel the hairs over his body rise.

  ‘Look!’ exclaimed Sabatini. ‘Move the light to the middle of the platform.’ Sabatini pointed at what looked like a roll of material placed at the very centre of the circular platform. Approaching the edge of the pedestal, Blake trained the torch directly on the object, which was a package of mildewed red velvet rolled tightly into a cylinder no more than two feet in length.

  Deep under the foundations of Wren’s great dome, Blake leant forward and took hold of the bundle in his right hand. Immediately he felt the weight of an object bound within its folds. Its centre of mass shifted as he brought it closer to his body, like a gyroscope pulling against the force of his hand. In the place where the bundle had been, Blake now noticed a small metal object gleaming momentarily in the path of the torchlight. With his free hand, he picked it up and brought it close to his face. It measured about an inch across and by its relative weight, Blake guessed it was made of pure gold. As he rotated the talisman in his fingers, the tips of its six-pointed star design felt sharp on his fingertips. He quickly put it in his pocket and returned his attention to the roll of faded, red velvet. Swallowing hard, Blake carefully began to unroll the parcel. With each rotation, his heart beat faster. After several turns, the velvet material fell away. Letting out an audible gasp, Sabatini stared at the object remaining in Blake’s trembling hands.

  Measuring about the length of his forearm, the dark cylinder appeared to be made from a piece of twisted dense wood. It was tapered slightly at one end, and its surface was perfectly smooth except for the precious stones inset along its length and a series of symbols carved along its surface. Blake brought it closer to the beam of the torch, causing a large shadow of the rod to rear up on the wall in front of him. As he rotated the rod slowly in his fingers, he became aware that its surface was getting hotter.