by Mike Bennett
What was this? What the hell was this? His mind raced for reason, for sanity. Could this be the prostitute’s work? Was this her revenge for ... for what? No, that was insane. But there was something sexual – sexually perverse happening here. There had to be. Why else would someone kidnap a middle-aged man, strip him naked and suspend him from ... from what? Where the fuck was he? A dark room. The air was cool, almost cold. A cellar? His eyes were now accustomed to the gloom and he focussed on the floor beneath him. He had to be about six or seven feet up from it. It was black, its surface rippled and shone dully like oil, then he realised it was just a sheet of clear plastic spread out over a large black square. But why? Why spread plastic over the floor? To keep it clean? What did that mean? Ejaculations? Whose? The doctor’s and the other man in the car who had kidnapped him? Oh Jesus, what sick game did they have planned? Panic returned and he fought, contorting helplessly against his bonds, his howls of anger and desperation loud only in his head as he gently swayed along with whatever it was he was lashed to. After a few moments, he realised it was hopeless. He gave up the struggle and allowed himself to hang, breathing hard through his nose and watching the dim light flicker on the surface of the plastic beneath him. But where was that light coming from?
As best he could, he looked up. The light got brighter as he did so. It was coming from a point ahead that he couldn’t raise his head high enough to see. It was candlelight, he was sure of that. He pushed his head back as far as he could, the skin of his bald patch scraping against the irregular metal surface of whatever it was he hung from. Then, he saw the source of the light and his breath stopped suddenly in his chest. Two candelabra, each with three candles burning, stood at either end of a long table that was covered with a deep red cloth.
Hanging on the wall behind the table was a painting. Red eyes stared back at him from the canvas. José recognised the subject of the painting immediately. He screamed, though against the gag his scream was a pitiful muted whine. The face before him was that of the horned beast. With the head of long-horned goat and the body of a man, it sat cross legged, a pentagram in the centre of its forehead, its wings furled behind it, and its malevolent eyes alive in the flickering candlelight. José suddenly understood that the doctor had meant it when he said he was going to die. He wasn’t going to be used as part of a kinky sex game; he was going to be sacrificed.
David walked down the stairs carrying the sword and trying not to look at the painting of Underwood that hung on the wall opposite. He knew the sensation had to be just his imagination, but he could feel the portrait’s eyes on him as he descended, commanding him to look up and meet them.
He stopped on the bottom stair and raised his head to look into the eyes of his Master. The face in the portrait smiled at him.
David drew the sword from its scabbard. ‘What are you looking so smug about?’
He pointed the sword at Underwood’s face, the tip of its blade aiming right between the mocking green eyes. ‘You should fear me, you know? I’m the one with the weapon here, and you – you’re nothing but a dusty old corpse.’
Underwood smiled back at him from the canvas.
‘Oh, but you don’t see it that way, do you? You think I’m just like all the other Flinch boys, don’t you? Someone to fetch and carry your bags and mop up the blood after your murderous mealtimes. But I’m not like them, y’see? Just because I told John I’d serve you, that doesn’t mean I actually will, you know. I’m my own man!’ The sword wavered slightly in David’s grip and he lowered it. He looked down to where the tip rested against the marble stair. In his imagination, Underwood’s portrait was on the verge of breaking out into guffaws. Then, David was suddenly struck by the simple truth of what he just said: rather than he being afraid of Underwood, it was Underwood who should be afraid of him.
Lydia had gone out, John was dead, and Conchita was busy upstairs. David tapped the sword against the stair. How fitting it would be to use it on Underwood, to just open the coffin, pull up his rotten old corpse, and chop his head off with a single slash of Matthias’s steel?
A smile, which almost exactly mirrored Underwood’s, rose to his lips. He looked up, his eyes bright with purpose. ‘You know, Milord, we may never get another chance to be alone like this again. Just you, me,’ he raised the sword. ‘And this.’ He slashed the blade through the air between himself and Underwood’s throat. He glanced quickly around, then, assured he was alone, turned and hurried down the corridor towards the library.
As he was passing the lounge, from the corner of his eye, he noticed something different. He stopped and looked into the room. Above the fireplace, the other sword had gone. That was odd. He went into the room and glanced around to see if the housekeeper was polishing it, but she was nowhere to be seen. Maybe she had taken it away somewhere to polish it with some special antiques-only polish. It didn’t matter. He turned from the room and hurried on down the corridor.
He knew the library door from childhood; it was a door he had always avoided whenever possible. As he approached it, he suddenly remembered why, and stopped.
When he was nine years old, Lydia had rewarded his confession that he’d almost peed his pants at his baptism the year before by daring him to go down to touch Underwood’s coffin. Determined to prove that he was no longer a silly little kid, he’d taken the dare. Immediately, Lydia had grabbed him by the hand and hurried with him straight to the library. She dragged a chair over to the bookcase against the far wall and climbed up, pulling books out until she found the concealed release switch. A few moments later, the doorway yawned open onto the stairs that led down into the darkness of Underwood’s crypt. She’d turned to him, grinning, pointing down the stairs with one hand while holding tightly to the door with the other.
He heard her voice again, taunting him from his memory. ‘Come on, Scaredy-Cat. What’s the matter? Afraid you’re going to pee your pants again?’
‘You’ll shut me in!’
‘Course I won’t, Davey. I wouldn’t do a thing like that.’
He’d taken a step closer to the door, then another. Then, he stopped. The darkness beyond the doorway seemed almost a breathing thing. He shook his head, ‘No.’
Suddenly, Lydia had lunged for him. He’d lashed out, terrified she’d manage to get a hold of him and pitch him into that terrible darkness. His fist connected with her face and she screeched in pain. He’d turned and ran as fast away as he could.
David blinked, returning to the present. He forced a little laugh. ‘Gave you a shiner didn’t I, Lyddie? And you deserved it too.’ He turned the handle and entered the library. All the walls were lined with books, but David’s attention was fixed on the panels directly opposite, against the far wall. He closed the door and walked over to them. What shelf was it? He couldn’t remember. Then an idea occurred to him: there was bound to be some dust. He stepped up close to the shelves and looked along each one towards the light from the window. There was a fine layer of unbroken dust in front of the all books – except one; a spot where the dust had been disturbed. He checked the books at that point and saw a very old paperback copy of Dracula. He smiled, and pulled it and its immediate neighbours from the shelf.
Behind them was a small wooden switch. He pushed it, and with a low click, felt the panel in front of him come loose from the wall. He stood back and took hold of the bookcase. It swung open easily on well-oiled hinges, and there before him, just as he remembered it in his nightmares, was the staircase to the cellar. A coldness crept up the stairs and poured around his ankles, the musty air causing his skin to prickle and crawl away from it. But this time, there could be no running away. David gripped the handle of the sword and drew it from its scabbard. He took a deep breath, and stepped through the cellar door.
9
THE RED SUN WAS SINKING behind the house as Lydia turned the Land Rover onto the drive of her Malaga home. As she approached the house she saw the cars of her guests were already parked outside. Everyone was here on time. She thu
mbed the remote control for the garage door and sang along absently with Oasis’s Live Forever as she waited for the door to roll open. She then drove inside and turned off the engine. She reached down and popped the boot open before taking her handbag from the passenger seat and getting out. As the garage door rolled closed she went around to the back of the car and opened up the boot. Inside was a loosely bundled blanket which she flipped open to reveal the sword she had taken earlier from the wall over the fireplace at Casa Underwood. Underwood’s sword was different to Matthias’s; its blade was shorter and heavier than the elegant weapon of her ancestor. As a young girl she had asked her father why the two swords were not of the same design.
‘Well, they aren’t some fancy display swords like you might get in some stately home, Lyddie,’ Arthur had replied. ‘They’re real swords, owned by real men.’ He’d pointed at the longer of the two. ‘This is your ancestor, Matthias Flinch’s, sword. It’s what they call a sabre.’
‘And what’s that one?’ said Lydia, pointing at the other.
‘That one is Lord Underwood’s, our Master’s sword.’
‘Why is it smaller than the other one? Why doesn’t the Master have the biggest sword?’
‘Well, he chose this sword himself, dear. Of all the swords that he could have had – and there were many – Lord Underwood chose this one.’
‘Why?’
Arthur tapped the blade of Underwood’s sword lightly with his finger. ‘Because this, Lyddie,’ he turned to her with an expression of comic wickedness on his face, ‘this does a man more damage.’
Lydia laughed and reached out her hands. ‘Can I have a go?’
Arthur chuckled. ‘No, my dear,’ he reached down and picked her up. ‘You might chop your toe off or something like that.’
‘I won’t, honest,’ she pleaded. ‘Please, Daddy.’
‘One day, Lyddie, when you’re bigger, maybe Lord Underwood himself will let you have a go on it – maybe even let you use it on a bad man who wants to hurt His Lordship. Would you do that for him?’
Lydia nodded fervently as if she were being asked if she’d like another scoop of ice cream. ‘Yes, I’d chop up anyone who tried to hurt the Master.’
Arthur laughed and nuzzled her hair. ‘Good girl, Lydia. Oh, you’re going to do us proud.’
The sound of laughter from inside the house brought Lydia back to the present. From beyond the door that led directly into to the house’s entrance hall, she could hear Gerald Benson guffawing at something.
She picked up the sword. It wasn’t in a scabbard. She checked the blade with her thumb: it was so sharp it felt almost hungry against her flesh. She slammed the boot shut. Then, with the sword in one hand and her handbag in the other, she went into the house.
Flamenco music was drifting from the lounge.
‘Hello?’ Lydia called.
Various voices came back in reply before Miguel, her personal assistant, came out into the hall to meet her. He was twenty-four years old and had lived with his parents in Malaga until Lydia had re-located him to a small house near the office in Almacena. His face lit up when he saw her. ‘Lydia, you are here.’ Then he saw the sword. ‘Oh my God, you got it! Can I see?’
‘Of course,’ she exchanged kisses with him on either cheek and let him take the sword.
Miguel admired the gleaming, battle-scarred blade. ‘It’s amazing.’
‘I wouldn’t go that far, Miguel. It’s an old cutlass, not a light sabre.’
‘But still, it is Lord Underwood’s cutlass, no?’
‘Yes,’ Lydia said with a smile. ‘It is.’
‘Lydia?’ called Cynthia Benson from the lounge. ‘Where are you? Come on in before Gerald eats all the finger food.’
Lydia entered the lounge. The Bensons were sitting on the sofa, each with a glass of wine and Gerald with a tiny bread stick daubed with Russian salad heading for his mouth. Lydia wagged a finger at him. ‘Gerald? Don’t you go spoiling your appetite, now will you?’
‘No fear, Lydia,’ said Gerald. ‘Cynthia’s exaggerating, I’ve only had a tiny bit, though she’s been carping at me like I’m Billy Bunter.’
‘Oh you big fibber, Gerald,’ said Cynthia. ‘You’ve been positively hoovering that stuff up.’
Gerald looked at the nearly empty dish of Russian salad on the coffee table. ‘Well, I, I like it,’ he pouted. ‘Damn it all, it’s Beltran’s fault for making such lovely nibbles.’
‘Where is Belly?’ asked Lydia.
‘In the kitchen,’ said Cynthia, ‘mixing up a jug of his one of his exotic pharmaceutical cocktails.’
‘I see.’
Miguel began parrying invisible assailants with the sword. Lydia rolled her eyes. ‘Put that down Miguel, it’s not a toy.’
‘Sorry.’ Miguel put the sword on the table. ‘How is your brother?’
‘Dull. I left him with John.’ Lydia turned in the direction of the kitchen. ‘Belly?’
Beltran entered carrying a tray adorned with five glasses and a jug of red liquid. Pieces of fruit and ice bobbed and tinkled in the jug as he crossed the room. ‘Hola guapa, how was your day?’
‘Oh, never mind my day, how was yours? Did everything go according to plan?’
Beltran set the tray upon the coffee table. ‘Perfecto. No, Miguel?’
‘Si, perfecto.’
‘Excellent,’ said Lydia. ‘But don’t say anything now; I want it to be a surprise.’
‘As you wish,’ said Beltran.
Cynthia leaned towards the tray and picked up one of the already-filled glasses. ‘What is this, Beltran?’
‘It’s sangria a-la Beltran: brandy, Cointreau, red wine, fresh orange juice, and of course, my secret ingredients.’
‘Tell us, Beltran?’ said Gerald, sucking Russian salad from his fingertips. ‘What is it you put in it? Ecstasy, that sort of thing? Hmm?’
‘I cannot say, Gerald,’ said Beltran. ‘If I tell you, it will not be my secret anymore.’
Cynthia sipped her drink. ‘Mmm, lovely.’
‘Thank you,’ Beltran picked up a glass and handed it to Lydia. ‘And your brother? Is he going to be a problem?’
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ said Lydia, accepting the drink. ‘He has no taste for the … necessary bloodshed.’
Beltran smiled. ‘It is an acquired taste, no?’
‘Yes,’ she raised her glass. ‘It certainly is.’
‘I propose a toast,’ Beltran announced. ‘To Lydia, resurrector of the Black Circle, and soon, also its Master – the Lord Underwood.’
Glasses were raised by all. ‘To Lydia.’ They drank.
‘Thank you, Belly, you’re too kind. But all I did was revive an old family tradition – and by that I don’t mean His Lordship.’
‘Ah,’ Gerald chuckled. ‘But a terribly important one if I’m any judge of these things. How old is the Black Circle, Lydia?’
‘It was established by Lady Vanessa Crichton in 1736 as the inner circle of the Sect. By that time, the Sect was growing and she wanted to reward its original members with special status.’
‘And special powers too, eh?’ said Gerald.
Lydia smiled. ‘Such things weren’t hers to bestow, Gerald.’
‘But she was one of your family, no?’ said Beltran. ‘You have noble blood in you.’
‘Yes, she bore Matthias’s son, at the command of her – and our – Master.’
‘I say, it’s fascinating stuff, isn’t it?’ said Gerald. ‘I wish I could get my hands on those old diaries of your ancestors. I mean, the scrapes they must have got themselves into, eh? The things they must have seen!’
‘Alas, Gerald, the diaries are locked up in John’s study for the eyes of the guardian only, so even I wasn’t supposed to see them – though of course, being the clever little thing I am, I managed to copy his key several years ago. I read oodles of stuff before John cottoned on to me and put that dratted code lock on the door.’
‘Oh, what a rotter,’ said Gerald, ‘I, of c
ourse, mean that in the nicest way possible.’
Lydia waved the matter away. ‘He was only doing his job as he saw it. In the time I had access to the study, I learned all I needed to know.’
‘And so, the Black Circle was re-born,’ said Miguel. ‘And now we stand on the brink of a new age of the vampires.’
‘Hear, hear!’ said Cynthia, raising her glass. ‘To a new age of vampires.’
They toasted and drank again. Then Lydia said, ‘Anyway, enough of all this toasting and arsing about. I want to get into something more comfortable, these shoes are absolutely killing me.’
‘Splendid,’ said Gerald. ‘Then onto the main course, eh? It’s been ages since we all got together like this.’
‘Yes,’ said Cynthia. ‘It’s been so long, poor Gerald’s dry skin rash has come back. Hasn’t it, darling?’
‘It has, yes,’ said Gerald, holding out his arm and pointing to a patch of white, scaly skin.
Beltran inspected it with interest. ‘Mmm, yes, I have just the thing for this problem, señor Benson.’ He gave Gerald a knowing wink that set both the Bensons off into a fit of giggles. Evidently the cocktail was beginning to take effect.
Cynthia ran her fingers up Gerald’s arm and onto Beltran’s hand. ‘Oh, Dr Morales, I do believe you’ve got the perfect thing for all ailments.’
Lydia knocked back the last of her drink and set the glass down on the table with a flourish. ‘Alright then, what are we waiting for?’ She slipped her jacket off and dropped it to the floor.
The others began to unbutton their clothes.
‘I say, Beltran,’ said Gerald, fiddling with his shirt buttons. ‘I think that mixture of yours is already starting to kick in. My fingertips feel wonderfully odd. I think I’m starting to come up.’
Cynthia looked at his lap. ‘Yes. Aren’t you just? You know, Beltran, I simply must get that recipe off you.’
David felt to the left of the cellar door and found the light switch. He pushed it and a light came on below to his right. He knew that if he looked down in that direction, that among the whitewashed stone pillars he’d see Underwood’s coffin lying on its plinth; but instead, he averted his eyes and focused on the stairs ahead of him. They too were of whitewashed stone but were scuffed black from the comings and goings of countless feet over the years. Whose feet? He wondered. All those hooded men and women of the Sect that had come down here to take part in the weird and twisted rituals of his father? Who were they? Some were, no doubt, rich and powerful; others merely useful, like his mother or Conchita.
