James Herbert

by Sepulchre

  'Yes, Felix, we're at Neatly' Cora told him.

  'Good,' he said, 'good.' He turned, sitting upright, one hand touching the door lever.

  Cam's gasp stopped him. Her eyes were wide as she stared.

  Halloran had become still.

  Puzzled, Kline looked from one to the other and, as he did so, flakes of skin shed from his face. A face that was bubbled and broken, thin tissue hanging loose in layered scales.

  As he frowned, more pieces fell away, falling lightly onto his chest and lap. He began to tremble.

  32 A SHEDDING OF SKIN

  The gun was in Halloran's hand before the bedroom door was fully open.

  Cora stood in the doorway, frightened by the weapon. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I should have knocked.' He waved her in, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and sitting up. He put the Browning back on the bedside cabinet.

  'How's Kline?' he asked.

  Cora closed the door and leaned against it, her hands behind her. 'He hasn't left his room since we got back.'

  'Have you sent for a doctor?' She shook her head. 'Felix won't allow that. He told me he suffers from psoriasis, a rare type of skin complaint that recurs every few years, but it's nothing to become. alarmed about.'

  'Some complaint. And he wasn't too relaxed about it when Palusinski helped him into the house. Have you seen him like this before?'

  'No.'

  'We really ought to get a doctor to take a look at him.'

  'He insists that we shouldn't. His orders are that we let him rest and send Khayed and Daoud to him as soon as they return from London. They have special lotions that can help.' She seemed uncertain. 'I didn't want to disturb you. You must be very tired.'

  'A clean-up and a change of clothes helped. I even managed to grab a sandwich.' fie extended a hand.

  'Cora, I need to talk to you. Please come over.' For a moment he thought she might leave. But then she walked to the bed. 'Sit by me,' he said.

  She obeyed, and immediately leaned into him, her head against his chest. He held onto her, surprised, but glad her reserve had broken.

  'Liam,' she whispered, 'I have such strange feelings, such a sense of dread . . .'

  'I can understand why. I get the same feeling about this dace.' She looked up at him. 'You too?'

  'Maybe it's a neurosis we're catching from Kline. You know he's mad, don't you?' -In a way I wish that were true—insanity would be easier to deal with. Felix is unstable and, as you say, neurotic; but not mad, Liam, not totally mad.'

  'He thinks you've been giving away company secrets.' Halloran had been deliberately blunt, the unexpectedness of the remark meant to throw her off balance so that lie could judge her reaction.

  'You're not serious,' she said incredulously.

  lie took her hand, now having no doubts about her loyalty to Kline. 'I'm afraid so. That's why all the fuss at Magma this morning. New locations of untapped resources have been leaked to one of your rival companies.'

  'It's happened again?' He nodded. 'Kline put the finger on you.'

  'But why? I wouldn't -' Halloran shrugged. 'You're closest to him.' She seemed to shrink within herself.

  'How could he even think that? Liam, I -' He pulled her to him again. 'I know it isn't true, and maybe Kline will see reason. Who can tell with someone so unpredictable?

  'I still don't understand why he should accuse me.'

  'I don't understand what makes you so loyal to such a bastard.' She didn't answer riight away. Then she said., almost sorrowfully: 'I depend on him.. He . . . Vs like a drug to me. I need him, Liam.'

  'Then you're as crazy as he is.'

  'No, don't say that, you don't know . . .'

  'What is there to know, Cora?' he said angryily 'Just what the hell goes on between you and Kline?' She began to weep. 'Help me, Liam,' she said quietly. 'Please help me.

  'How can I when you won't tell me what's wrong:” Cora began to fumble with the buttons of per blouse.

  'Make love to me. Hold me and make love to me, but gently, like last night, after you . . . Let me feel how good it can be again.' Baffled, Halloran stood up and crossed to the door. He locked it.

  The room's thick curtains were drawn against outside light, so that scattered artefacts of another age stood as dark shapes in the gloom. The smell of burning incense came from one corner, filling the air with a heavy and faintly acrid musk. Zodiac signs and symbols, drawings of horned beasts, of winged creatures, of single eyes, were roughly etched into walls and woodwork, obscure and patternless in the poor light. Books lay scattered around the floor. A canopied bed dominated the room, its four stout carved posts supporting layers of sheer drapes, the material hanging in loose folds.

  A dry, rasping breathing came from within.

  Kline lay on the bed, the skin of his naked body broken and ravaged, creating new fissures, causing paper-thin tissue to dislodge and fall away.

  He feebly lifted an arm, but the darkness was even greater inside the shroud and all he could see was a myriad of interjoining cracks. His arm fell back to his side and a sob escaped him.

  It couldn't be, it wasn't time. The ritual had been enacted, the psyche strengthened. The sacrifice made.

  This shedding of the outer layer had come too soon, and with it there was pain. But why, what did it mean?

  His unsightly body spasmed as another sob burst from him, and he felt the breaking of delicate tissue with the violence of the movement.

  Must lie still. Must not move until Asil and Youssef arrive with their salves. It was too soon, too soon!

  He was root prepared! And the pain had never been like this before. Hurry, my friends, bring me your soothing oils! Spare me from this wretchedness!

  Kline tried to steady his breathing for even the rising and lowering of his chest was loosening the dead skin. He moaned, a self-pitying sound, and salt from his tears stung the sensitive grooves around his eyes.

  And as he lay there, his mind absorbed in his own suffering, something inside the sepulchre that was hidden away in the blackest depths of Neath, throbbed once.

  33 INSIDE THE LODGE

  From his position by the main entrance, Monk watched the Shield operative descend the broad staircase and wondered what was inside the black case he was carrying. The bodyguard's thick lips set in a sneer, his heavy-set body tensing as Halloran approached.

  'I'm taking a look around the grounds,' Halloran told him.

  'You'll get your ass bit off.' The hope in Monk's high-pitched voice did not go unnoticed by the other man. 'I intend to stay in the car,' Halloran replied. 'Did the Arabs let you know how Kline is?' Khayed and Daoud had returned some hours earlier, rushing up to their master's roam immediately they learned of his condition.

  'They ain't been down,' said Monk, shaking his large head.

  *All right, let's assume it's nothing drastic. Dock the door behind me when I go out and don't open it far an}body until I return. I'm taking a spare key, but I'll let you know it's me before I come in just so you don't get over-excited. If I knock a regular three times it means there's trouble and I'm not alone. I'll repeat that knock after a pause so you'll know it's for real. You got that'?' Monk smirked rather than reply.

  'Check around the house every fifteen minutes” test windows and doors each time. And I mean test them -try them, make sure they're properly locked.'

  'What the fuck for?' Outrage accompanied the bodyguard's hostility now.

  'Just do it. I'll be back in about an hour. Any calls, far me: and you write down the message. Don't try and remember.” 'You think I'm stupid, talisman'?'

  'We both know it.' Monk's shoulders visibly straightened and he almost took a step forward. Only Halloran's hard-eyed smile stopped him.

  The Shield operative went by the American and unlocked one side of the double-doors. A breeze of cold air from the lake made him shiver as he stepped outside. It was like the first chill of winter out there instead of the coming of summer. Vic called back to Monk: 'Lock it and take out the
key.' Then he walked through the porch to the outside.; Although cold, the night had temporarily cleared, the moon, an edge sliced off, still low in the sky. There were thunderous clouds on the horizon. The slopes around the house and lake were of deep-toned greys, trees and shrubbery the darkest patches. The lake itself appeared smooth and unbroken. even though a wind ruffled the grass before it.

  Halloran climbed into the Mercedes, placing the black bag on the passenger seat beside him. He switched on the engine and lights and pulled away, gravel crunching beneath the tyres, bringing the car round in an arc. As he did so, he glimpsed the neglected topiary garden at the side of the house, the tortured shapes resembling surrealistic figures, misshapen limbs twisted towards Neath like a frozen tableau of anguished souls.

  He left the house behind, heading uphill towards the main gates, the woods soon closing around him, the car's beams seeming to swathe a path through the trees. Halloran kept a vigilant eye on either side of the road, searching for low shapes slinking through undergrowth, but saw nothing that moved. A sharp crack on his left startled him. A thin branch had snapped against the side window. Halloran eased over the road's centre, realising he had drifted too close to the edge.

  The Mercedes rounded a curve and from there the roadway became a straight line running up to the gates. Halloran eased up on the accelerator, approaching the beginning of the drive at a cautious speed.

  The headlights picked out the iron gates, and he dipped the beams to reduce the glare. His foot touched the brake pedal, slowing the car even more so that he came to the lodge-house at a smooth glide.

  Halloran pulled over onto the rough verge in front of the old building, switched off the lights and cut the engine.

  The lodge was in darkness, not even a glimmer showing from the grimed windows. Halloran sat there for several minutes, watching for any sign of life. There was none. But that didn't mean the house was empty.

  Without using the interior light, Halloran unzipped the black bag by his side. He lifted out the stubby weapon an inch or so, loosening it, making sure it wasn't snagged on the inner lining. lie carefully lowered the sub-machine gun again, then reached fur the doorhandle.

  A breeze ruffled his hair as he stood outside the vehicle studying the upper windows of the lodge. The moon was rising behind the building so that its frontage was an unlit void, the windows merely black shapes, barely distinct against the brickwork.

  Again the unshakeable feeling of being observed. Carrying the gun bag in his left hand. Halloran walked into the shadow of the house.

  The ringing of the telephone came almost as a relief. Mother laid the newspaper on the pile of Sundays, foreign as well as English, by his feet, exhausted with reading of yet more terrorist outrages and despairing of various governments' weakness in dealing wrath them, despite the vowed joint intention to do so over the past decade. Unfortunately it was the price paid for a world without major conflicts, the major evil giving ground to the lesser evil, a fact recognised by those same governments. Nevertheless, the atrocities committed in the name of so-called freedom or religious beliefs were hard to stomach and the time was coming when 'official' war would have to be declared on those countries and states who overtly supported and encouraged the multifarious terrorist groups. And even then the problem would never be eradicated.

  He stood up from the dining table on which more journals were spread and limped out into the hall.

  'I'm here,' he called out to Agnes, who was in the sitting room no doubt indulging herself in the current television trivia with her evening sherry.

  'Mother,' he announced into the phone, first removing the pipe from his mouth.

  'I'm sorry to disturb you. It's Sir Victor Perilock here.'

  'Sir Victor?' Mother's brain stepped up a gear, alerted by the gravity in the Magma chairman's voice.

  'I'd like you to meet me at my office once again. My apologies for calling on you twice in one day, particularly as it's a Sunday, but I'm afraid I had no other choice.'

  'That's perfectly all right. Do I take it Mr Kline and my operative will also be there?' A pause first. 'No.

  No, this will be strictly between you and me. It's rather serious, so do you think you could come immediately?'

  'Shouldn't take much more than twenty minutes this time of evening.'

  'It's very much appreciated. I'll let Security know you're on your way. One other thing: no one else must know about this. Can I have your word on that?'

  'Naturally, although I don't understand why.'

  'I'll explain when you get here.' When Mother replaced the receiver he went into his study and, as a precaution, wrote a note of his destination and whom he was to see, then sealed it an envelope on which he scribbled his wife's name. He left the envelope propped up on his desk.

  The stench at the back of the lodge-house caused Halloran to catch his breath. No doubt this was where the jackals were kept when they were not prowling the grounds. He shone the thin beam of the penlight around the yard, expecting to find kennels or a stockade of some kind. There was none, and no animals either. But the light reflected on something shiny.

  With a twist of the torch's head, the beam was broadened to take in more. Halloran recognised the three metal containers Khayed and Daoud had carried from the house the day before. All were lying on their sides, the lids close by, as though the contents had been spilled out. He moved closer, using the light to guide himself through the mounds of excrement scattered around the yard. Drawing near to one of the bins he bent low to shine the light inside. His foot crunched something beneath him. He shifted to see shattered bone where he had been standing, and realised that there were many more pieces around him, clean and meatless. At the bottom of the container there were clogs of maggot-infested meat, the jackals obviously having been unable to reach them. Much of the yard's putrid stink came from these containers.

  Halloran straightened, relieved at least that the beasts themselves were nowhere in evidence. He flashed the beam up at the windows, heedless of giving anyone inside warning of his presence; he had, in fact, already pounded on the front door, knowing that his approach in the Mercedes would not have gone unnoticed by anyone supposedly guarding the estate's entrance. The lodgekeeper might have been roaming the grounds with his pack, of course, but Halloran could not rid himself of the notion that there was someone inside. Even now he sensed he was being watched.

  He lowered the torch, finding the backdoor, then man oeuvred his way through the faeces and bones towards it. As expected, this door, like the front, was firmly locked. He moved along the wall to a window and, although also locked, this was less of a problem. Placing the bag on the windowsill, Halloran ,lid a knife blade up alongside the catch, then forced it aside, its movement stiff but yielding. He closed the blade into its handle, dropped it into his jacket pocket, then heaved at the lower frame. The window resisted at first before, with a groan followed by a squeal, it opened upwards.

  Halloran lifted the bag, switched off the torch. swung a leg over the sill. Once inside he quickly stepped away from the window, where moonlight had silhouetted his shape. He leaned back against the wall and waited, holding his breath, listening for sounds.

  The room smelled musty, damp, unlined in. Light from outside revealed sparse furniture: an armchair, its cushions lumpy, arms threadbare, a nondescript cabinet, neither antique nor modern, against one wall, a curled rug, and nothing else. Apart from the small rug, the floorboards were bare. Halloran flicked on the penlight once more, the beam still broad, and waved it around the room. Wallpaper hung away in strips and black fungus grew in the corners and near the ceiling. There were ashes in the ancient iron fireplace, but they looked solid, as though they had set many years ago. There was an open door to the right.

  Halloran listened for a while longer before allowing himself to breathe normally. He swept the light across the floor to make sure there were no obstacles in his path, them crossed the room to the door, unconcerned with the creaking of floorboards. Narrow
ing the torch beam, he peered out into the hallway, shining the light along its length. Moonlight glowed through the grime of the tiny windows above the backdoor. The hallway had a turn in it and he surmised that it straightened again and led towards the lodge's main door. The stairway would be in that direction too.

  lie eased himself from the room, holding the torch away from his bode. Keeping close to the wall opposite the door he had just left. Halloran slowly walked towards the front of the building. fie passed another door on his right. but did not try the handle, guessing it would Dead to a cellar.

  He reached the point where the hallway turned, and hesitated, listening intently far a few seconds. Only silence. But the smell of oldness was even stranger here.

  Halloran noticed a lightswitch close to where he stood and he reaches Diut, pushing it down with one extended finger, the thin torch gripped with the others. Nothing happened, and he was not surprised.

  Whoever lived in the lodge-house enjoyed the darkness.

  He went on, rounding the bend. and pointed the torch at the front door. There were large baits, top and bottom, rusted fixtures that looked as if they hadn't been shifted for decades. Another door nn his left, the staircase rising above him on his right. Halloran made his way towards the door.

  Slipping the straps of the bag over his left shoulder and changing the penlight to that hand, he used an elbow to push open the door. Its creaking was explosive in the silence of the house.

  Before entering, he shone the torch through the crack by the hinges, satisfying himself that nobody lurked behind the door, and only then did he step into the room. It was empty, devoid of any furniture, its curtains colourless with age and filth. The mustiness prevailed and here the mould festered in thick clusters. Ceiling struts could be clearly seen where plaster had fallen away. Halloran left the room, leaving the door open wide.

  The staircase loomed up before him.

  And it was from there that the worst of the smell wafted down.

  Halloran began to climb.

  Mather parked directly outside Magma's main entrance, disregarding the double-yellows. As he limped around the bonnet of his car, he could not help but gaze up at the towering building, its glass and bronze facade brooding under a sky that was quickly filling with leaden clouds from the east. He felt a charge in the atmosphere, the coming of an electrical storm.