by James Hazel
The warm air of the house brought a welcome reprieve from the chill outside, but it was short-lived. A sense of dread had crept over Priest. His hands and fingers no longer felt like they belonged to him. He was slipping away, powerless to stop the descent. Jesus, not now.
‘Mr and Mrs Ruck.’ Priest heard the skinhead announce them as if from a long, long way away.
A gangly man in a pristine black suit came forward and offered his hand, first to Priest then to Jessica. Priest took it, but didn’t feel the grip. Here and now, he told himself over and over again. Here and now.
‘Welcome, Mr Ruck. And Mrs Ruck. Welcome to the House of Mayfly. May I take your coats?’
Dazed, Priest handed over his coat. He stumbled back a few paces but felt a firm hand on his shoulder, steadying him. He turned. In an instant, he had wrestled his consciousness back. Here and now.
‘Sir, may I ask you for your invitation?’
Jessica had removed her coat and handed it to the butler. Beneath, she wore a blue gown that flowed like a meandering river to the floor. The material clung elegantly to her hips and waist. Her white neck was adorned with a simple gold chain, from which hung a single pearl. There was nothing fancy or extravagant, from the matching pearl earrings to the elegant cut of the dress; her understated beauty was simply breath-taking.
‘Sir?’
The butler was looking at him expectantly. To Priest’s relief he saw him through his own eyes, palm outstretched. Jessica took his arm.
From the inside pocket of his jacket, Priest pulled out an envelope and handed it to the butler, who inspected the contents, smiled robotically and then passed it to the skinhead, who placed it in a pile with other similar envelopes on a table behind them.
‘Thank you,’ the butler said. ‘May I ask if you will be using the spa after the lecture tonight?’
‘There’s a spa?’ Jessica asked.
‘Of course. Towels can of course be provided, Mrs Ruck, so please do not fret if you are unprepared.’
‘Thank you,’ murmured Jessica.
‘Now, a change to the order of play this evening,’ continued the butler. ‘Dinner will follow the lecture this time around.’
‘Because?’ Priest asked.
The butler smiled. ‘We prefer our guests to go to the lecture with empty stomachs.’
Jessica squeezed Priest’s arm. The lecture. If Georgie and Hayley were here, they had to be found without delay. One or both of them might be playing a central part.
‘A drink first?’ the butler enquired.
‘Of course.’
‘Very good. Myers will see you to the bar.’
Another man in a black suit stepped forward and indicated that they should follow. They set off, but the butler called them back before they reached the door on the opposite side of the room.
‘Mr Ruck! Aren’t you forgetting something?’
Priest stopped and turned, wondering if the game was up.
The butler was holding out two white hoods.
*
His head having been stuffed inside an ill-fitting hood, Priest’s anxiety level had notched up considerably. Not only was it extremely hot, it also stripped him of his peripheral vision – the material around the eye sockets was raised slightly, creating blinkers. Still, at least I’m back in the present, inhabiting my own body.
Myers led them through a labyrinth of hallways cluttered with ornaments and trinkets. Stuffed animals lined the walls alongside life-size oil paintings of arrogant-looking earls and ugly Victorian children dressed as dolls – all of them wearing ruffles. The house gave the impression of grandeur but it had ended up looking more like a film set.
They turned another corner. In the distance the sound of activity bled through the walls. Priest imagined people clinking glasses, talking excitedly, milling around drinking, as if they were waiting for a recital. Meanwhile, there was every chance that two girls were held captive, alone and terrified. He clenched his fists tightly. He felt sick.
Ahead of them was a grand staircase. As they climbed it, the noise grew louder. At the top, a set of mahogany double doors were thrown open and they were shown through to a large reception room occupied by perhaps fifty people – mostly men, squeezed into suits. A small group of more casually dressed academic-looking types in leather-patched jackets and designer jeans were huddled in a corner. There were a few women, but none as striking as Jessica. She had already drawn attention as she entered the room; they couldn’t see her face, but beady eyes had latched on to her body.
‘Let me announce you, sir,’ their guide whispered to Priest.
‘That will not be necessary.’ Priest took Jessica by the arm and plunged into the crowd.
No going back now.
‘A drink?’ Priest said.
‘Do we have to?’ Jessica replied.
Priest felt the flap at the bottom of the hood. It had been designed to allow the wearer to eat or drink.
‘Everyone else has glasses in their hands. It might look odd if we don’t.’
Jessica nodded. There was a bar to the right, extending the width of the room. Four bartenders and beer on tap. Rows of spirits were racked up behind and little dishes filled with peanuts were on the side. As they approached the bar it became clear that the room, although sizeable, was actually a mezzanine balcony overlooking another much larger room beneath: in effect they were standing in the lower circle of a theatre. They leant over the brass railing and looked down. Below them was a raised dais on which stood a table. The backdrop was covered with a heavy white curtain.
‘Is that where . . .?’ Jessica’s question tailed off.
‘Yes. That’s where the lecture is going to take place.’
‘There’s something about this place,’ said Jessica. ‘Something odd; I mean odder than all these masked people, odder than the whole set-up. It’s almost familiar to me . . .’ She tailed off again.‘What do we do now?’
‘Not sure. But we have to find a way to search the rest of the house. The girls have to be here. We need to find them, and quickly.’
‘Yes, please?’ The bartender beamed at them. He was sporting a Victorian handlebar moustache and looked like a film extra. He even had a rag hanging from his back pocket.
‘Madam?’
‘Blue margarita.’
‘Excellent choice! And for sir?’
Priest hesitated. What the hell is a blue margarita? ‘Tonic water,’ he said.
The bartender went about his work, whistling a tune and without any apparent concern for the hideous acts that had been planned for the stage below. Priest surveyed the room. Only one door in and out, which led to the stairs they had just climbed. Thereafter lay an infinite number of possibilities: this was a cavernous, sprawling mansion. Wandering around aimlessly in the hope of finding Georgie and Hayley was a poor plan.
‘Charlie,’ Jessica said.
‘What?’
He followed her gaze. On the far side of the room, their guide, Myers, was talking intently to two other men, also in black suits but wearing gold cummerbunds. They were looking across. Myers pointed to Priest and Jessica and his two companions began to weave through the crowd towards them.
Priest took a sip from his drink and turned away, not wanting to demonstrate any alarm.
‘Charlie? What do we do?’
‘Drink,’ he said to Jessica. ‘Relax. I’ll talk.’
At least the tonic water soothed his dry throat. Jessica slipped her hand around his arm. He gave her hand a squeeze. Her palm was hot; he sensed her confidence starting to wane.
‘Mr Ruck?’
‘Yes?’
The two men took up positions either side of Priest. He tensed, adrenaline surging through him. He was ready to fight hand to hand if he needed to. They hadn’t come this far to fail now, not when the stakes were this high. Georgie hadn’t signed up for this: she was in danger because of him. He had got her into this and he would get her out. And these men sure as hell weren’t goi
ng to stop him.
‘Your seat is ready, sir,’ said the first man.
‘My seat?’ Priest tried not to show surprise.
‘You have been designated a premium seat, Mr Ruck. Would you like to come down with us? You may watch the lecture from the balcony, Mrs Ruck.’
The first man stretched out his arm, gesturing towards the door. Priest shot Jessica a look. She raised her hand, letting him know it was all right.
He was about to follow his guide when she stopped him, placed a hand on his shoulder, leant in and kissed him on the cheek through the hood.
49
Priest was led out of the balcony room, back down the stairs and through a set of double doors into the theatre itself. Where one might have expected to see rows of seats bolted to the floor, there was only a large, empty space, save for a bank of cubicles set up near the front but off-centre. Four of them in all, staggered slightly so that, once you were sitting down, you couldn’t see any of the other observers. There was a desk in front of each chair. Writing paper and pens had been provided, a phone and a small reading lamp.
‘This is your seat, Mr Ruck,’ said the first man, pointing to the third cubicle along from the left. ‘May I get you another drink?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Tell me, when does the lecture start?’
‘In approximately forty-five minutes. In the meantime, please make yourself comfortable. If you need anything at all, please use the phone provided. It goes straight through to your personal attendant.’
‘Thank you.’ Forty-five minutes to find Georgie and Hayley.
The second escort pulled the chair back and Priest sat down. The two men bowed and withdrew.
As he had come in, Priest had noticed that one of the other cubicles was occupied. Another premium seat holder. A hooded head much larger than his appeared around the corner of his cubicle.
‘Wow, this is unbelievable!’ The accent was Deep-South American. ‘Twenty-eight grand for this seat and it’s not even real fucking leather!’
*
Jessica watched as Priest was escorted through the crowd. The doors shut after him and she suddenly felt completely alone. It was as though someone had thrown a bucket of ice-cold water over her face.
‘Another blue margarita?’
The barman with the Victorian handlebar moustache was beaming broadly again.
‘Yes,’ she said. She pushed her glass across towards him. It was empty but she had no recollection of drinking it. Standing by the bar, she was conscious of the heads that were turning, one by one, to look at her, of people – hooded men, mostly – talking, laughing. She clenched her fist tight, tried to break the skin with her fingernails, but her hands felt numb.
The barman placed another drink in front of her but she didn’t take it. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw trouble. A hooded man, leaning arrogantly against the bar, his body turned towards her, his gut barely contained inside his suit.
‘Interesting choice of drink,’ he remarked.
Jessica recognised his voice. Shit!
‘What is it, now?’
She turned slowly. Shit! Shit! Shit!
‘It’s a blue margarita,’ she said through gritted teeth.
‘Lovely. A lovely drink for a lovely girl,’ said Detective Inspector McEwen.
I must keep calm. It’s possible he doesn’t recognise me. Why should he? We barely met twice, but still . . . I’d know his voice anywhere, even if his fat face is squashed into a white hood.
‘Goldie, I’ll take one of those and another for the lady,’ McEwen shouted across at the barman.
‘I’m fine. Thank you.’
‘You must. I have not seen you at one of these lectures before. Are you a newcomer?’
Jessica picked up her drink and took a sip – slowly, so as not to reveal her shaking hands. ‘I was here last time.’
‘No, no. I would have remembered you. Undoubtedly.’
She felt sick. He had moved to within an arm’s reach. Close enough for her to smell his garlic-laced breath and stale sweat. She took a deep breath and tried to conquer her shock. He must not see how terrified she was.
‘I hear we have a very interesting programme tonight.’
‘Aye,’ agreed McEwen. ‘Intriguing, I’m sure.’
Jessica fought the urge to gag. ‘Are you a doctor?’
‘Oh, no, lass. I have more subtle interests in tonight’s demonstration. You could say I’m staff, really.’
Jessica put the glass down on the bar. ‘Staff?’
‘Aye. Like Goldie here.’ He nodded at the barman wiping a pint glass. The man grinned in return. ‘We get paid in kind, if you know what I mean.’
Staff. Unlikely you would be a paying customer on a detective’s salary. That also explains why you aren’t on the Mayfly database. I bet none of the staff are. And paid-in-kind just means they get to watch the show for free.
Jessica’s stomach knotted.
‘It’s been nice talking to you,’ she said. ‘But I have to use the bathroom. Please excuse me.’
She made to leave but McEwen grabbed her arm. His hands were hot and sticky. He pulled her back so his stomach brushed against her dress. He stank of alcohol.
‘Wait a minute, lass. Don’t I know you?’
‘No.’ Jessica knew she had replied too quickly. She could see McEwen’s small eyes through his hood looking at her, down her top, across her breasts, to her hips.
‘Are you sure we’ve never met?’ he slurred.
‘Never.’
He let her go. ‘Come back, when you’re done.’
She nodded curtly, turned and walked away through the crowd.
50
Priest inspected the phone in his cubicle. It looked as if it should have been hung on a hotel bathroom wall. There was no keypad, just a single button adorned with a familiar symbol.
‘Cute. A little mayfly,’ he mumbled.
‘What’s that, partner?’ The American craned his head round the divider again.
Priest pressed the button. After a few rings a woman answered.
‘Yes, Mr Ruck? How can I help you?’
‘How long is it until the lecture begins?’
‘Just over forty minutes. Can I get you anything?’
‘I’d like to use the facilities before the lecture starts, please.’
‘Of course, Mr Ruck. An attendant will be with you very shortly.’
The attendant arrived in two minutes. Thirty-eight remaining. He was stocky, around Priest’s height but lighter. Not the sort of person that Priest would ordinarily pick a fight with, but options were limited and time was short.
‘This way, sir.’
The attendant motioned for Priest to follow him. He sounded Scandinavian, Danish maybe. Priest followed, wishing his guide would walk faster. Come on, you slow fuck – time’s ticking!
It took them less than three minutes to get to the bathroom. Thirty-five remaining. The attendant pushed the door open and followed Priest in. There were no urinals, just a row of five or so cubicles.
‘Is this the gents?’ Priest asked. There had been no sign on the door.
‘This is the premium customers’ toilets, sir,’ replied the attendant.
‘So not many women pay for premium seats, then?’
‘To my knowledge, none.’
Priest ran his fist as hard as he could into the attendant’s stomach. Not a fatal or even incapacitating blow but enough to discourage any fight back. The shock of having the wind forcibly ripped from his lungs prevented the attendant from crying out or retaliating and he sank down in a heap against the door.
Knocking a man unconscious is a delicate business. Too much force might kill; not enough risks attracting attention.
Priest bent down. ‘Now listen. My preference would not be to hurt you, but I will if you prejudice my chances of walking out of here without attracting attention. How do you feel about that?’
&
nbsp; ‘Wh-who the fuck are you?’ the attendant groaned.
‘I’m here for the women.’
‘What? Are you mad?’
‘Where are they?’
Through coughs and splutters, the attendant actually wheezed out a laugh. ‘You’re crazy.’ He managed to draw back some of the lost air into his lungs and putting out a hand to steady himself, started getting to his feet.
Priest grabbed the man’s hand and twisted his wrist. He collapsed back down again, wincing with pain.
‘Where are the women you are holding for tonight’s performance?’ he demanded, more forcibly this time.
‘This whole place is crawling with guards – you can’t possibly think you can just walk out of here!’
Priest twisted harder and the attendant writhed in response. But Priest had leverage over him, and an extra couple of stone in weight. He placed his knee on the attendant’s chest and pushed down abruptly.
‘Shit!’
‘Look, I have dissociative disorder.’
‘Wha—’
‘So what? Means I bore easily and breaking your wrist then whatever other bone I can get hold of really isn’t the big deal, for me, that it should be.’
Their eyes met. Priest saw panic – and realisation. He relaxed his grip, just a little. An invitation, nothing more.
‘The wine cellar,’ the attendant gasped. ‘They are always kept in the wine cellar.’
Priest nodded, grabbed the man by the collar and dragged him across to a sink. He removed his belt and secured the attendant to the pipework. Priest tied the leather strap as tightly as he could – enough to stop the blood flowing to the captive’s hands. In minutes, they would be numb and useless. When Priest had finished, the attendant laughed, although his face remained twisted with pain.
Priest forced off one of the attendant’s shoes and a black sock.
‘Do you think you have any chance of getting out of here alive?’ the man spat.
