Darkness Rises

by Jason Foss

  ‘You kidding? We’re an archaeology department, only just getting used to having our own photocopier. Still, I imagine the Business Centre does. If you hang on, I’ll try to hunt out the number.’

  He shuffled paper whilst she waited. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine, why?’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  When Vikki had rung off, Flint walked across to the Business Centre, marvelling at the reporter’s ability to shrug off all life threw at her ­– including dog excrement. When the magic message scrolled from the machine, it revealed a standard card from a Holborn antiquarian book dealer which read simply: ‘Dear... Mr Plant... Thank you for your enquiry regarding... De Nigris... We regret this book is not in stock.’

  The usual offer to order the book was crossed out. Underneath was handwritten, ‘Sorry, but we have no record of this book at all.’

  Curious, he thought. He was still thinking about the card the following day when a meeting at UCL gave the opportunity to visit the bookshop which had returned Plant’s request. In the gloomy but rich depths of the shop, Flint found himself quickly distracted by the archaeology section, touching his finger against the spine of a good few familiar volumes in faded hard jackets. Directly alongside was the section labelled ‘Paranormal’. Why did bookshops always do that? It made no sense.

  When asked if he needed assistance, Flint unrolled the fax. The tired shopkeeper looked at the facsimile of his card and shook his greying head.

  ‘Quite honestly I’ve never heard of it,’ he said with confidence. ‘It’s not in any of the catalogues.’

  ‘It could be something to do with folklore, or witchcraft.’

  ‘We have an extensive selection of books of that type, but I’ve never heard of it.’

  ‘Did you know Mr Plant? Did he ever come here?’

  ‘I think so; he’s a young man, about your age.’

  The shopkeeper proved to have a patchy memory for names, faces and facts unrelated to books, so still without an answer, Flint thanked the man and left the shop. It was only a short, sunny walk to the British Museum, where Flint dangled over the porter’s desk, quoting names of people who might help.

  Mandy O’Hearne was an old favourite. She was a year older than Flint, and he had spent a few futile parties flirting with her as a young undergraduate. Married, then divorced, she had become heavily involved in the movement of stock to the new British Library at St Pancras.

  ‘Hello Jeff.’ Her tone was attuned to the priestly quiet of the Reading Room. Mandy had not aged well, her smile wrinkled both cheeks up to and beyond her big hazel eyes, her face now framed by hair turning a premature grey.

  They walked towards the Library, with Flint explaining about Plant, the book and the mystery. ‘Can you hunt it out on the BL’s catalogues?’

  If the British Library didn’t hold a copy, no one would.

  ‘De Nigris,’ she frowned, ‘that’s familiar, but I can’t think why.’

  ‘A fellow named Plant hasn’t written to you by any chance?’

  ‘A museum curator?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  Mandy led the way through the high brown library doors. He’d miss the old place, Flint thought; no new building would be the same.

  ‘Plant, yes, two or three months ago,’ Mandy picked up the thread. ‘He came in. He’d written a pile of letters to us and said he’d had no reply.’

  ‘Can I see them?’

  She stopped. ‘Jeff, you might have all the time in the world, but I’m busy...’

  ‘It’s life or death, Mandy. Worth a pizza and a glass of cheap plonk...’

  She looked around herself and smiled wryly. ‘Still chasing the ladies?’

  ‘Old habits die hard. I’m meeting Jules Torpevitch and Sasha, you remember them?’

  ‘Sasha was my flatmate for a while,’ Mandy said. ‘Okay, come on.’

  It took nearly an hour to locate the letters. There were four, mostly repeating the same information. De Nigris was a grimoire, a magic book, written by a man named John Eastney in 1698. Plant claimed to be a student of folklore and his earliest letter dated to the previous autumn, well before Lucy had disappeared. This was Plant’s project-in-being.

  Mandy found the young librarian who had worked her way through the catalogues and verified what she suspected. Flint shrugged and Mandy ran her fingers through her hair as she apologised for being no more help.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s it. So far as we can tell, De Nigris does not exist. We’ve checked the manuscripts, the unpublished works, even our lists of lost books; it isn’t anywhere. There’s no record of John Eastney either, so this poor man is in for a big disappointment if he keeps on trying to buy a copy.’

  Mandy had earned her Pizza Venezia and Chianti at the Holborn Pizza Hut. Jules and Sasha had been there some time, their first bottle of wine already looked a little sorry by the time Mandy and Flint waved hello through the window. Over the second bottle, they chatted about Plant.

  ‘Thinking back, he was really nervous,’ Mandy said. ‘It was as though he was ashamed to be asking for this book.’

  ‘Or frightened?’ Flint asked.

  ‘He could have been.’

  ‘Has he told you about the rooster’s head yet?’ Jules asked, with a nod towards Flint.

  ‘No corpses at lunch, we have a rule,’ Sasha intervened.

  ‘He told me,’ Mandy said. ‘But I don’t want to think about it, not when I’m eating. I’m glad I never knew how crazy this curator really was.’

  ‘But is he crazy enough to hunt for a book which does not officially exist?’ Flint asked.

  ‘It happens constantly. People get the author wrong, or the name wrong, or they confuse a reference then become convinced they are right. We’re always getting people looking for non-existent books.’

  ‘How about occult books?’

  She sipped the wine then accepted a piece of garlic bread from Sasha.

  ‘All the time. It seems that we’re the last refuge of the insane. We get a few regulars, who are mostly harmless. They all seem to be seeking the Holy Grail or Excalibur or the Arc of the Covenant. Mostly they end up with Frazer’s Golden Bough or reading up Doctor John Dee.’

  ‘Names?’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t say; there are so many.’

  ‘What of your harmless regulars? Are there any who still have at least ten per cent of their marbles?’

  Mandy refused the last slice of pizza, so Jules took it. In the background, an Asian waiter dropped a tray to a cacophony of laughs and curses. The whole group craned their necks to watch, Flint being first to want the conversation back on track.

  ‘Mandy ­– you were saying?’

  ‘Oh, cranks. There’s one sweet old fellow with half-moon glasses, you can imagine the type. He calls himself a professor, although I’m not sure what of.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Leopold Gratz.’

  ‘Go see him, Jeff boy,’ Jules joked. ‘Get that perp, solve that crime.’

  ‘Make yourself useful, pay the bill, Jules,’ Flint responded, hooking out a banknote from his pocket, but not taking his eyes off Mandy.

  The librarian talked more of Gratz, and of others who often came to finger manuscripts of dubious potency. Most were men, most greying and bookish. Flint walked towards UCL with Jules, thinking of what he would do once the meeting was over. There were not many Gratzes in the London phone books, and only one ‘Gratz, Professor L. K., Occultist’.

  *

  Leopold Gratz was a self-parody, who had set his mind on an image and moulded his character around it. He lived in a basement flat near Barons Court tube station underneath what he called his office. A blinking, bespectacled man in his mid-fifties, he still had thick black hair and beard, but was wishing it to grey. His parlour offered a view of ankles and bicycle wheels and was decorated in antique-shop style. Its mean date was Edwardian, with trinkets tailing back into the nineteenth century and tip-toeing as far as Art Deco.

&
nbsp; Gratz greeted him with gusto. ‘It’s always good to meet a fellow student of the occult arts,’ he said, indicating that Flint was to sit in one of the reconditioned Chesterfields.

  ‘I’m not really an occultist; my main interest is ritual, the occult is very much a new field for me. I thought you could give me some basic pointers.’

  ‘And the British Library recommended me?’ Gratz seemed a little surprised, if obviously pleased to be finally recognised as a scholar.

  Flint could not play his full hand of cards immediately, so began to probe Gratz, offering tiny bits of information. From the corner of his eye, he could just catch a glimpse of a woman in an ankle-length Paisley gown who drifted into the room and out behind him, her hair tied up in a jade turban.

  ‘De Nigris... Black Book... John Eastney... no.’ Gratz shook his head. ‘I have read all the major occult works, and that one I do not know.’ He had a hint of Brogue about his voice. It was possible that the East European name was just another part of the veneer.

  ‘But why should a man search for a non-existent book?’

  ‘Perhaps he is deceived. There are many non-existent books about the occult.’

  To Flint, this seemed a contradiction. ‘Such as?’

  ‘The Necronomicon is a good example. A writer of science fiction invents a book of arcane lore as a plot device. His fans take it seriously and ask where they can buy it. Now, it is published in paperback. Several versions, all different, none genuine.’

  Flint mulled over the thought and bought thinking-time by asking, ‘What precisely is your own field of interest?’

  ‘Sceptic,’ he stated with a smile. ‘The paranormal has always fascinated me, but always disappointed me. I was once, after a fashion, a mind-reader who thought he could foretell the future.’

  One glance at the basement flat qualified the extent of his power.

  ‘As you see. Now I study and write about the occult. Ghosts, witches, demons. It is a fabulous field of study but sadly lacks substance. And you, you too are a sceptic.’

  He did read minds, thought Flint, or rather had trained himself to judge characters.

  ‘I’m investigating a cult.’

  ‘What sort of cult?’ Gratz asked, his deepening interest betrayed by a twitch of his eyebrow.

  ‘I was hoping you’d be able to tell me. I’ve done some regular reading, plunged through Golden Bough this week, but I still need some up-to-date data. How much is horror-book nonsense and how much is real?’

  Gratz linked his hands across his paunch and began to twiddle his thumbs as he thought over the request.

  ‘Where can I begin? This is a vast field. There are many forms of occult practice in the modern world. People call this the New Age, new religions, old religions, a guru for every taste.’

  ‘I’m an archaeologist. I’ve dabbled with traditional religions and analysed ritual in an academic sense, but I’m not familiar with the substance of pseudoscientific beliefs. I’ve always regarded them as dangerous nonsense, illogical, defying common sense.’

  ‘Common sense, no ­– it is a question of belief. Millions of ordinary people, mainly women I might add, dabble in such things as astrology or tarot cards. It is a form of belief, although most are simply finding ways of justifying their own actions. Now, that sort of person won’t interest you. You want to know about people such as myself in younger days, who feel they have some hidden power or need a new mysticism in their lives. So we have ESP, mind-readers, palmists, diagnosticians,’ he sighed, ‘faith healers, dealers in herbs and homoeopathic remedies. I could offer you a list a yard long.’

  ‘What about magic?’

  He smiled. ‘Magick, with or without the ‘k’. Even in this day, even in the Western world you will encounter witches, warlocks and covens.’

  Gratz began to go into deep detail, Flint nodding all the time and taking the occasional note to show he was paying attention.

  ‘The purest follow Wicca, the ancient religion, what you might call white magic. Others follow a more corrupt line, black magic. More obscure still are the true Pagans, followers of Celtic or druidic lore. Not so ancient as Wicca, but tuned to the powers of the natural world and enjoying a revival, I feel. Your cult may even be Satanists, followers of the Devil. Satanism is, of course, just an inversion, nay a perversion of the Catholic belief. Black masses are like holy masses, with words spoken backwards, inverted crucifixes...’

  ‘I’ve seen the films.’ Flint weighed up the alternatives.

  ‘Of course there are many more beliefs associated with other cultures: voodoo...’

  ‘These cultists are British. Very British; folklore and maypoles, a little herb lore. Potions and Latin spells, moonlight masses. I can’t be more precise.’ He thought over the strands of evidence remembered from Plant’s office.

  ‘Some modern witches’ covens do mix their sources: a little true Wicca, a little druidism, a little astrology, even a dash of black magic to spice things up. They are confused, of course, but most settle down to their own rules, their own ceremonies.’

  ‘What about sex?’

  Gratz raised both eyebrows. ‘Sex is important to some. Crowley’s Golden Dawn was centred around ritual sex-magic back in the 1920s, but that sect was dominated by men. The true ancient British cults are female-dominated and female-orientated. They may involve fertility rites, but these are more than simply an excuse for perverse behaviour.’

  Flint now had a clear picture. He had read so much; it was time to throw in the key question. ‘Okay, so what part does human sacrifice play?’

  Gratz frowned.

  ‘I’m searching for a missing girl.’

  ‘Aha! That missing girl, Lucy Gray, stray student.’

  ‘You read the papers.’

  ‘I have followed the case, Doctor Flint. The burning museum, the disappearing curator. Fascinating ­– you must tell me all about it.’

  ‘But human sacrifice?’ Flint pushed the point, disappointing his host.

  Gratz gave a worldly sweep of an arm. ‘It would be highly unlikely in this day and age. Most witches are harmless, whilst serious students of the black arts are too intelligent to risk such outrageous behaviour.’

  ‘Even Satanists?’

  ‘Especially Satanists.’ He flashed his eyes. ‘They can be cruel, obsessive people, but they live in the normal world. Eating babies and sacrificing virgins is too perverse even for the blackest cult.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ Was the man genuine or covering up for friends? ‘There’s a lot of Satanist accusations in the papers... ‘

  ‘Even if a cult were evil enough to want to sacrifice humans, it would simply be impractical. What ­– is it ninety per cent of murders are solved? People cannot simply disappear these days like they could in the Middle Ages. There are many true followers of the old religion who will not even sacrifice a goat... ‘

  ‘…or a chicken?’

  ‘Indeed a chicken, but as I said, there are no hard rules. Many follow the occult way simply because of the freedom it permits.’

  ‘My student vanished without trace. Let’s just suppose the practitioners have totally lost touch with reality. Suppose they have become so locked up in their fantasy world they have driven themselves insane?’

  ‘Many are in the technical sense. If to believe in magic, demons and the spirit world is to defy conventional logic, then most of what you call practitioners are, by definition, insane.’

  ‘I’ve met the occasional witch in my time,’ Flint recalled the summer solstice, ‘but they are all on the social fringe. Are there many people involved who might be considered sane and respectable?’

  ‘Undoubtedly. If sane and respectable people can openly worship Allah, Buddha or Christ, I see no reason why they cannot worship the Mother Goddess or Odin without being ridiculed.’

  ‘But can these sane respectable people practise magic?’

  ‘Oh yes. The foundation of magic is belief. If you believe a Hail Mary will bring absolution
, it will. If you believe a curse will do you harm, it will.’

  Flint had recited similar lessons to his students, Lucy included. His thoughts turned directly to Lucy; Lucy plus unborn infant. He found himself tugging at his beard in thought. ‘If I wanted to penetrate a coven, would it be easy?’

  ‘Almost impossible if they knew they were under investigation. They are closed and secretive. Even if they have committed no criminal offence, members face ridicule and suspicion from people of more conventional outlook.’

  ‘But I could catch them in the act?’

  He nodded. ‘If you knew enough about them, could find their meeting places, or identify one of their members.’

  ‘I think we have some sort of sub-Celtic cult operating in the Darkewater Valley,’ Flint stated, ‘perhaps witches, less likely Satanists. Have you come into contact with anyone from that area?’

  Gratz thought. ‘One or two, but no one who confesses to being a true practitioner of magic. I could give you a few names, if that would help.’

  Flint passed over a pad and for five minutes watched Gratz scribble names, cross them out and rewrite them, all the while qualifying his decisions by muttering. The list came back, with two dozen lines filled. More work for Tyrone.

  ‘I thought I’d add everyone in that region. Sometimes coven members have to travel a fair distance.’

  ‘How many are there likely to be?’

  ‘Well, they like to pair, but revere the number three. Three pairs of pairs is twelve. Thirteen to a coven, twelve plus one. Larger gatherings might be, say, of forty: three thirteens and one, but that would be exceptional.’

  ‘Who is the one?’

  ‘In pure Paganism, the priestess.’

  ‘Not a high priest?’

  ‘Possibly, but the power is vested in the woman. A priestess will normally officiate, but a priest may also be present. Perhaps a young girl will play the role of The Maiden, standing in for The Goddess. One day, she may become the priestess herself.’