Blood of Angels (Curse of Weyrmouth Series Book 2)

by David Longhorn

  “Careful,” she said, taking out her phone.

  The young man saw an old man lying in a fetal position in a sea of garbage, arms clutching his legs, knees drawn up to his face.

  “You all right, mate?”

  There was no reply other than a moan of anguish. As he bent down, Gary saw that the huddled victim had blood running out of his mouth. He turned to shout back to his girlfriend.

  “Tell them to hurry up, he's bleeding!”

  Gary looked down again, reached for the old man's shoulder.

  “Don't worry mate, you're safe now, and help's on the way.”

  Two bloodshot eyes looked up at him, their pupils wide.

  “You're in shock, mate, don't try to move until the paramedics arrive,” advised the young man. “What happened? Who attacked you?”

  The figure on the ground made a series of inarticulate sounds.

  “Can't you talk?” asked Gary, puzzled. Then he saw that the old man was reaching out with a quivering hand for what looked like a piece of bacon lying among the heap of assorted trash.

  “What's that?”

  Then Gary knew what it was, and tried to stop himself from retching.

  “Oh, Jesus Christ,” he breathed.

  “They said it will be five minutes, tops,” said his girlfriend, a few steps away.

  Gary sprang up, interposed himself between her and the scene of carnage.

  “What happened?” she asked. “Was it a mugging?”

  Gary shook his head, ran a trembling hand through his hair.

  “Worse than that,” he said, face white with shock. “They must be monsters, animals! The bastards cut his tongue out!”

  Chapter 3: A Winter Night in Weyrmouth

  Erin was in Louise's office when the director returned to the museum.

  “Mike Smith's dead,” Louise said simply. “Definitely not natural causes.”

  Over the next half hour, the two discussed the horrific killing, and the message that had been left in blood on the victim's wall.

  “You think it's about me?” said Erin, flatly. “In your place, I would, for sure.”

  “It would make sense,” admitted Louise, perching on the edge of her desk. “Mike wasn't a bad person, I suppose. But he resented you, bitterly, because he thought the job was his by right. I've seen it before in men of that type. He was always making snide remarks, suggesting that you would never be up to snuff. He obviously wanted me to get rid of you before the probationary month was up, so we would not be liable to pay redundancy.”

  Erin nodded, brooding. The killing was as vicious as any carried out at the behest of the being called Nick. She had defeated him, or at least fended him off, in the cathedral the previous month. But there remained the question of the ghosts whose souls were trapped in the tower seven centuries earlier.

  “It must be the Seven,” said Erin. “For some reason, they think I'm going to save them.”

  “I recall you saying something about it when you were in hospital,” said Louise “But you were a little vague.”

  “Yeah,” laughed Erin, “off my head on diamorphine. And the actual incident was kind of confusing. But I recall promising to set them free.”

  Louise frowned.

  “And how, just out of interest, are you going to go about that?”

  Erin laughed, gestured helplessly.

  “Two things. First, try and understand this Weyrmouth Curse.”

  After a brief silence Louise asked, “And the second thing?”

  “Understand more about myself,” said Erin quietly. “About who I am.”

  Erin glanced at the pile of books on Louise's desk. Seeing this, Louise reached out and pulled out the book on Apocryphal Texts.

  “You read this, then?” the director asked.

  “Enough to know I might be – not the person I thought I was,” Erin admitted.

  Louise flipped through the book, held it out to Erin.

  “You read this chapter?” she asked. “The children of the Nephilim?”

  “Yeah,” Erin said. “How long since you started delving into this?”

  “Since I found out about your extra fingers and toes. Last month.”

  Louise looked uncomfortable.

  “It's okay,” said Erin. “It must have freaked you out. I'd have kept quiet until I was sure what was going on. Or less unsure. You know what I mean.”

  “Sorry,” said Louise, looking relieved. “I should have said something.”

  Erin shrugged.

  “Could just be coincidence,” she pointed out. “Which is why I asked the delicious Doctor Black – in fact, excuse me a minute.”

  Erin took out her phone and checked messages. There was one from the doctor. She turned up the volume and played it.

  “Erin? Thanks for getting in touch. I've made an appointment for you, and you'll get an email about that shortly. You asked about tests we did when you were with us–”

  A brief pause, then the small voice resumed.

  “There were a few anomalies. Nothing worrying, so far as we can tell, but there are things I've not seen before. Apart from the traces of the surplus fingers, I mean. Perhaps we can discuss those when you come in?”

  The message ended. Erin checked for emails, and found that her appointment was for the next day.

  “That's pretty quick for the NHS,” observed Louise. “Even in a case of serious injury. You've obviously got the good doctor's interest.”

  “Not necessarily in the way I want, though,” said Erin, wryly.

  “How do you know he's not married? Or gay, for that matter?” asked Louise.

  “Because when I was all doped-up and feeling no inhibitions, I interrogated the nurses about him in detail,” Erin replied. “I was very, very blatant about it.”

  They shared another laugh.

  “But, hey, let's talk some more about horrific deaths that baffle the police,” Erin went on.

  So they did.

  ***

  “No, and please get that thing out of my face,” said Carr to a local TV reporter with steady-cam. “We have no statement to make at this juncture.”

  He returned to the cluster of uniformed officers at the entrance to the taped-off alleyway. It was late afternoon, well after sunset. The scene was lit with powerful lamps, showing the drift of trash where the victim had been found. Forensic team members in white were going over the scene. But it was clear that the shocking assault on a pensioner was another case that would be hard to classify.

  “So,” he said, talking to the senior sergeant, “nobody saw anyone enter or leave the alley? Other than the old guy?”

  The sergeant nodded.

  “A couple of customers at the shops back there saw him go in. The couple coming out of the White Lion heard him shouting. Even with the usual margin of error the attack took place inside a five minute window.”

  “Great. Brilliant. Well, thanks – keep taking statements, usual rigmarole.”

  Carr turned away, took another look around. He could not ask any of the others precise questions. But he waylaid one forensic officer as she came out of the alley laden with evidence bags. They chatted for a few moments about the messy nature of the crime scene, then Carr asked about footprints.

  “None that I've seen,” the woman replied, frowning. “Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, nothing,” he said. “Just there was a footprint at the scene this morning. Smith case.”

  “Oh, right,” she said, with a slight smile. She seemed about to speak, then clearly thought better of it.

  “What?” he asked. “Something funny?”

  “You and Jen Deighton,” she said. “You two are getting quite a reputation. Always into the weird stuff. Better hope the boys upstairs don't hear about it. They don't like it. Wrong kind of publicity for them – tabloid stuff.”

  Before he could say anything, she had moved on.

  Great, he thought. Trashing my career prospects, one strange case at a time. I hope it's worth it.


  Carr picked his way down the alley, nodding to the rest of the forensic team. They were finished, so he could poke about. Not that there was much to see other than blood and garbage. He looked at the walls, half-hoping to see a message like that at Smith's flat, but of course there was nothing.

  Like they'd miss something that obvious.

  Numbered markers lay around the scene. Carr wondered idly which one designated the tongue. He pushed a heap of old newspapers to one side with his toe. It revealed nothing but worn tarmac.

  Nope, nothing here. My spider-sense is not tingling.

  “Leave her alone.”

  Carr glanced around at the mouth of the alleyway. There was nobody near enough to whisper in his ear.

  Not an adult's voice, anyway. Did I imagine it?

  He turned, looked down at the far end of the alley, maybe twenty yards away. A group of people were milling around behind the fluorescent tape, with a couple of uniforms making sure nobody dodged past the barrier. There seemed to be a lot of kids among the crowd, at least half a dozen diminutive figures wearing hoods.

  Some parents should be ashamed, he thought. Letting them gawp at something like that.

  ***

  “Do you have to go?” asked Jackie Roker as she ironed her husband's ceremonial robe.

  “Yes,” said Martin Roker, for what seemed to him like the hundredth time. “It's only once a week,” he added, turning to the sports pages of the local paper.

  “But what do you do that's more important than spending time at home?” Jackie persisted, turning over the white garment. “And why do you need to dress up like monks? I thought Freemasons only put on silly costumes on special occasions?”

  Roker sighed, put the paper on the floor beside his armchair.

  “We just rent the room from the Masons, it's not the same thing at all,” he said wearily. “And I have to go because I'm the leader now. It would be silly to have a meeting without the actual leader, wouldn't it?”

  “And that's another thing,” said Jackie, holding up the robe for inspection, tutting at a crease. “Poor Mister Park was your leader before, and look what happened to him!”

  “Poor Mister Park?” snorted Roker. “You couldn't stand him when he was alive! Said he gave you the creeps.”

  “That's as maybe,” said Jackie, dismissively. “The point is he ended up dead, along with all those other people.”

  “Police said it was a pack of feral dogs,” grunted Roker, dismissively. His wife stared across the living room at him as he got up and went out into the hall.

  “Yeah, right,” she shouted after him. “Because England's cathedrals have had this terrible wild dog infestation. For years!”

  “Look, love,” said Roker, putting on his coat as he re-entered the room. “I don't know what happened, but it's in the past now, and my – my group expects me to handle things now that Park is gone. So I'm going. Is that bloody thing ready or what?”

  “Here,” she said angrily, throwing the robe at him. “Go and do your silly ritual.”

  The white garment landed on Roker's head. He raised his arms and lunged at his wife.

  “Wooo!” he said, chasing Jackie round the ironing board. “You have aroused the Curse of Weyrmouth with your loose talk!”

  “Gerrorff!” she shouted, truing to fight him off as he tickled her.

  A springer spaniel hurtled into the room and began dancing around the couple, barking happily.

  “Now you've got Biggles all excited!” Jackie said, with mock indignation. She pulled the robe off her husband's head. “You'd better get going or your weird pals will be missing you.”

  She followed him out to the front door.

  “Seriously, you don't need a secret society to get on in life,” she said. “You're a good man, why do you need to associate with dodgy characters?”

  “They're just normal blokes who care about this town and its future,” he replied. “Nothing dodgy about it. Bye, love, don't wait up.”

  He kissed her quickly before she could say anything else, and went out into the night. Jackie stood looking after him. A blast of cold January air laden with a few stray flakes of snow made her flinch.

  “What's he really up to?” she asked.

  Biggles whined, looked up at her. Then the dog began to growl, looking out along the driveway to where Roker was getting into his car.

  “What is it, boy?” Jackie asked.

  The dog began to back away down the hall, then turned and fled into the kitchen.

  “Another silly bugger,” she said, slamming the door against the bleakness of the night.

  ***

  “Is this a good idea?” asked Louise.

  “Not really,” said Erin. “But it's the only one I've got right now. If the Seven are killing and maiming people on my behalf, somebody has to try and stop them.”

  Weyrmouth Cathedral stood in its own small expanse off parkland, the Cathedral Green.

  In January, the area was bleak. A few straggly trees dotted about half an acre of half-dead grass. The building was illuminated by an array of powerful floodlights, but this did not make it seem any less daunting.

  “If I knew nothing about this place,” said Erin, as they got out of Louise's car, “if I'd never been here, I still wouldn't like it.”

  “All the more reason to steer clear, I'd have thought?” said Louise.

  Erin set off across the Green, walking beside her, looking fretfully between the cathedral and her friend.

  “I know you want to help,” said Erin, “but don't act like I'm about to fall over sideways. That comes later.”

  “At least you've kept your sense of humor,” Louise observed. “I just hope they see the funny side.”

  They went up to the main entrance. The cathedral was open to visitors for another hour, according to a notice by the huge double doors. But when they went inside, there was no sign of anyone else.

  “Not a popular tourist destination, huh?” remarked Erin.

  “Not at night, definitely not in winter,” muttered Louise. “Nobody comes here when it's dark if they can avoid it. Especially after–”

  “Yeah,” said Erin, cutting Louise off. “I get it. I was there. It will be top of my list of ‘No-Fun Things To Do’ for a long while.”

  They made their way down the broad central aisle towards the altar that stood under the tower. Erin could not help but admire the sheer scale and majesty of the cathedral, for all its problematic origins. She mentioned this to Louise.

  “Yeah,” replied the Englishwoman. “Of course it would have been a lot more colorful in the old days.”

  “How d'you mean?” asked Erin.

  “Oh, they used to paint interiors in the richest pigments they could afford,” explained Louise. “Those pillars, for instance, they'd have been covered in paint. Maybe stripes or bands, but more likely elaborate figures of saints, that sort of thing.”

  Erin looked around her with new eyes.

  “So the walls would have been covered with murals? I get it. Like in Italy.”

  “Right,” said Louise. “Noah's Flood, David slaying Goliath, that kind of thing. Also more humorous pieces, of course. Sometimes painters put unpopular local dignitaries in Hell, for instance. Or they just went in for rude stuff – bare bottoms, big boobs. People's sense of humor hasn't changed that much.”

  Erin laughed.

  “The thought of people saying their prayers while a huge naked ass loomed over them is – interesting. I guess the Puritans got rid of all that?”

  Louise nodded.

  “After the Reformation, they whitewashed the history of the church in England – both literally and figuratively. You can still make out traces of paint here and there, badly faded of course. There's talk of restoring some of the murals, but whether they'll get funding I don't know. It's a costly business, requires great expertise. Oh, see? There's some original paintwork.”

  Louise stopped and pointed up into the shadows under the vast, vaulted roof. N
ear the top of the stone pillar was the vague outline of a face. Erin squinted up, then took out her phone, and took a picture.

  “I can enlarge it,” she said. “Something about that face looks familiar.”

  After a few moments, she had enlarged and enhanced the time-blurred image. It was still hard to make out, but Erin had a gut feeling she had seen that face before.

  “Nick,” she said, showing Louise the picture. “Or Saffron, when he – or she, or it – was working with you.”

  “My God,” breathed Louise. “Whoever painted this saw Nick in the flesh. Around seven hundred years ago.”

  The two women looked at one another, then continued along the aisle. For a few moments, there was no sound but their padding footprints and the dull click of Erin's cane.

  “He's a tenacious little bugger, obviously,” Louise said finally.

  “It's not him I'm here to see, though,” pointed out Erin.

  “Right.” Louise looked around as they walked around the altar, through a Gothic arch and under the tower. “So what are you going to do? Call up the ghosts with your mind? Whistle?”

  “I've tried thinking about the Seven a lot, believe me,” replied Erin. “No dice. Focusing on them obviously isn't enough. I think I have to be where they're trapped. In the fabric of the tower itself. Hold this for a minute, will you?”

  Louise took the walking stick and stepped back a pace.

  “Don't worry,” Erin grinned. “I don't think I'm going to explode or anything. And so far, there's been no Exorcist-style puking, either. I just wanted both my hands free so I could make contact with the fabric of this building. That's where they live, or don't live. Hard to find words for it.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Louise, quietly. “Horrible to think of them, buried alive inside this place. No wonder it always feels so cold.”

  Erin knelt down and, after taking a deep breath, placed the palms of her hands on a granite slab. The dressings had been removed from her hands a few days earlier, so the contact was flesh to stone. The cool floor felt good. But there was no unusual sensation.

  “Any luck?” asked Louise, moving a little closer.

  Erin shook her head.