Darkness Rises

by Jason Foss

  ‘Yes, the Celts always fascinated me.’ Flint had the knowledge to back up this story.

  ‘And me, being Gaelic, like.’

  ‘Do you like Clannad?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘I’ve got everything they pressed into vinyl.’ Here he was beginning to let some truth slip. Truth is a wonderful camouflage for deceit.

  ‘Me too.’ She smiled, and as she smiled, an idea began to hatch in Flint’s mind. Less hatch, fester and breed perhaps. She had nut-brown eyes which widened as Flint flashed his teeth, spoke authoritatively on the Celts and claimed the same musical tastes as she. Yes, she was lonely; those eyes said it. They dilated as he talked, barely flicking to other potential clients who picked at her wares.

  ‘Do you take lunch?’ This slick Grant Selby tried to ooze charm.

  ‘I’ve got sandwiches. I get my best trade around lunchtime.’

  ‘Ah well, I was just going to find somewhere. Another time perhaps, by way of apology? I’d love to talk about where you get your inspiration from. Do you market these? I mean, other than sell them yourself?’

  ‘No.’

  He sucked in his cheeks, thoroughly enjoying his game of deception. ‘Could alter that ­– I know one or two outlets which might take them.’

  Monica’s little shop, for one, he thought. He may have to waffle a little more if Michelle swallowed that bait.

  ‘Well, I don’t know.’ She glanced around at her wares.

  ‘I know a good folk club in Islington; they have an excellent double act on this week. You must come along.’

  Michelle thought for a good twenty seconds, then gave a nervous grin. ‘Love to.’

  They arranged time and place, with Flint suppressing both glee and disgust at what he had achieved. It shouldn’t have been that easy, but Flint had a decade of studied practice at the pick-up behind him. University had taught him more than how to date coins.

  Chapter 19

  Michelle enjoyed the Islington folk club. An Anglo-French couple performed a superbly professional set, but the French (and female) half stole the evening with a hilarious and talented imitation of a pig on a truffle hunt.

  ‘So what do you do?’ Michelle asked the heavily disguised Flint.

  ‘This and that. My granny died and left me a house. I sold it and used the proceeds to finance my life of ill repute. I do a little dabbling here and there. Books mainly, a few artefacts, you know; scarabs from Egypt, pots from the Aegean. I buy and sell, it doesn’t make one rich, but it’s quite distracting. It allows me to travel and meet people.’

  ‘Have you been to Egypt?’

  ‘Twice.’ Once would have been truthful, but twice made a better story. Flint discovered he enjoyed inventing fiction, especially when he could back up every unlikely yarn with a heap of anecdotes. Many diggers’ tales he had heard over the years were dredged from his memory and subtly altered to fit Grant Selby’s globetrotting lifestyle.

  ‘And what about you?’ he asked, already bored of this boorish Grant Selby character.

  ‘Oh, I don’t do anything interesting really. I came over three years ago with my brother. He got married and went back to Kilkenny. I hate him anyway, he’s such a sod.’

  ‘And have you many more family over here?’

  She shook the black cascade of hair, then in the interval began to relate a sad life of a ruptured family and failed career. Failed love affairs were probably back there too if he probed deep enough.

  ‘I’m just a mess, you see.’

  ‘Oh, you seem okay to me.’

  Just okay? her eyes pleaded for someone to take notice of her. Her tattoos called out for attention. Dragons and snakes intertwined on the tapestry of her upper arms. Flint felt a stirring in his darker self.

  ‘You seem to have built yourself a nice little niche.’

  ‘I survive, it pays the rent. You said you might know someone who wanted to sell my things.’

  He was a hostage in his own plot. He could not even risk Michelle and Monica meeting, so his one plausible contact was lost. Flint gave an inward curse and began to ferret for an excuse, but she saved him the trouble.

  ‘I thought about that, and I decided it wouldn’t be right,’ Michelle said. ‘I worked in a factory once and I don’t want to again. I design my own things, I make them and I sell them. It’s my world, see; I don’t want to be a capitalist.’

  Flint smiled, thinking how odd it felt not to have those hot bristles crowding his cheeks. He wondered if she could see straight through his naked expression.

  ‘You’re a woman after my own heart. People have said, “Grant, come into business with me,” but I just won’t have it. My life suits me as it is.’

  He bought her a fifth pint of cider. Grant Selby would have been disgusted, but Flint passed no comment. The girls on his digs all drank pints and most of them knew when to stop. Squeezing himself in by the bar he looked back at Michelle, deeply saddened by what he had heard. Her attitude cried out a textbook of psychological tags: neuroses, anxiety, depression and lack of self-respect. She would get drunk frequently and she would sleep around. He knew it because he had once walked the same snake-strewn path. A cider and a pint of ESB came into his hands and he pushed back towards the welcoming face.

  She touched his hand. ‘Thanks. I haven’t paid for one of these yet.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ve had a good week.’

  Her hand squeezed his and he squeezed back. Now what? He had learned nothing of value, but had absorbed enough hints that Michelle was in some way linked to Lucy. One of his anecdotes mentioned the obscure and dull market town of Durring and she had replied ‘Oh yes’ with authority. He used a great many Celtic and occult references and again she accepted them without a murmur. Only when he switched to Classical allusions did she admit to gaps in her knowledge.

  A bell rang out last orders.

  ‘Another?’ he asked, hoping for the answer no.

  ‘You must think I’m a lush,’ she giggled. ‘No, no more.’

  ‘Fine.’

  There was a deep lonely longing in her eyes that grabbed and held him each time he glanced her way. Seduction would be so easy, but completely wrong and not even necessary. His resistance began to crumble as another voice in his head whispered that it had been a long time since that final anaemic romp with Chrissie Collings in the houseboat. He had matched Michelle drink-for-drink and the alcohol was tugging at his moral ‘off’ switch. Those dragon tattoos had a sexiness all of their own. Her brown eyes reminded him of someone, long ago.

  Michelle squeezed his hand again and gave a sigh he interpreted as ‘it’s getting late’. He was reminded of the lyric of the Hazel O’Connor song, ‘Will you?’ Its saxophone drawl buzzed around in his head and refused to go away.

  The barman rang his bell for the second time. Would it be cruel or kind to say yes? Would it help him get closer to the truth? Can any single man resist the come-on?

  ‘Well,’ Michelle said, expecting something of him.

  He had been through so many one-month, one-week and one-night relationships in the past. One more would not be out of character ­– he could forgive himself in the end. He liked Michelle; she was funny when lifted away from her back story. They could grow into really good friends after this unlikely meeting, and would laugh one day when he told her who he really was.

  ‘Do you live near here?’ she asked.

  Even muddled by alcohol, Flint saw the question was loaded. ‘Out of town, Kent, Bromley way.’ But Grant Selby was a predator who would pounce, devour and only then retreat. ‘I could murder a coffee,’ he added.

  ‘You could call in at my place ­– it’s almost on your way.’

  Afterwards, Flint was saddened that he could smile, keep hold of her hand and say yes.

  *

  Night passed into day in slow, sensual turmoil. At dawn, Flint slipped out of Michelle’s devastated bedding and made an excuse to run. He offered another rendezvous rather than a simple promi
se to call her or look her up. Sleepily and happily, she accepted.

  Back at Central College, a yawning and hung-over Jeffrey Flint delivered the first lecture of the day to two dozen yawning and hung-over students. After an hour they were freed with his final burst of frenetic theory.

  ‘Right, so have I turned you all into little Marxists?’ Flint asked the class. ‘Go away and think about how you can apply Marxist theory to the Roman Empire. If you agree with me, I want to know why. If you disagree, I want to know why. Essays in by December first; anything later I use for Christmas wrapping.’

  The class clattered to their feet and shunted from the main lecture theatre. Political interpretations of archaeology was a bit steep for the poor dears in the second week of term, but the prospectus had never promised things were going to be easy. Whilst his voice had purred about the Old Imperialist attitude, his mind had relived the previous night: rough, sweaty and erotic in a squalid sort of way. Partly elated, but increasingly disgusted with himself, Flint stood down from the podium, thinking that Freud would probably be able to explain his conflicting emotions quite succinctly.

  He pushed out of the doorway. Tyrone was waiting, file in one hand, plastic cup in the other.

  ‘Suppose I said “Horned Man” to you?’ he said.

  ‘Say it and try me.’

  ‘Horned Man.’

  Flint shook his head. ‘Nothing, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Got a minute to come to the computer room?’

  ‘Sure, but let me grab a coffee first.’

  Tyrone was already within the computer suite when Flint, caffeine supply and a pack of chocolate biscuits joined him. Tyrone already had a terminal active and fingered a key to conjure data on to the screen.

  He accepted a biscuit and input ‘orned’.

  ‘It’s easier than searching on ‘Horned’; capitals and things. Here we go. The Horned Man. Sometimes known as The Protector or The Overlord. Person of influence who is outside the coven, but uses his power to protect it. In the Middle Ages, he might be a rich landowner who provided a place for the witches to meet in safety. He might appear at a Sabbat in the guise of a horned figure ­– here read the rest... ‘

  ‘I fed you this data, remember?’

  ‘Well, we’ve had three hints that Plant was afraid of a horned man.’

  Flint looked highly dubious. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Your postulate was that there was someone else involved in the Lucy business, in the cover-up if nothing else. Someone has helped tidy things up, making sure that once Plant was out of the way there were no more clues. Suppose there really is a Horned Man; someone higher than Plant, someone who doesn’t want you to find out the truth about Lucy, or just doesn’t want you poking around in his business.’

  ‘Assuming it’s a him. Let’s not get sexist.’

  ‘If it was a woman, she wouldn’t be called The Horned Man.’

  ‘Okay, okay. Any more daft ideas?’

  ‘It has to be someone important, someone powerful enough to frighten Plant. Now what about this for an idea: perhaps he is powerful enough to influence the police.’

  Flint looked at him. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘They were very casual about the whole case. So I’ve got a Who’s Who of the area and I’m adding all the senior policemen, judges, politicians...’

  ‘Hang on, I’m supposed to be the anarchist, you’re the budding pillar of society.’

  Tyrone looked sagely at Flint. ‘My dad’s a Conservative councillor, a builder and a Freemason. You wouldn’t believe what goes on in the real world.’

  ‘Perhaps I would.’

  ‘Right, so I’ll put them on. How far did you get with the bint?’

  What did he mean, precisely? Flint became instantly defensive. ‘She’s not a bint; she’s very sad and very lonely.’

  ‘But is she one of them?’

  ‘If she isn’t, she damn well should be.’

  Flint went back to his room, set thoughts of Michelle aside and turned his attention to preparing his night school class. He had entitled it ‘Aspects of Roman Archaeology’, which gave him licence to talk on any subject he chose. That Wednesday he had promised to summarise architecture and town planning, so all he had to do was fish out forty of his slides of Rome, Ostia and Pompeii.

  The class had grown since the beginning of term and now featured six ladies the far side of fifty, a couple in their mid-twenties and another half-dozen students of mixed sex and ages in between. Just as he was loading up his slide projector in the seminar room, a familiar tall figure walked in.

  ‘Hello Monica.’

  The tendons in her neck tensed as she whispered an embarrassed hello in return. ‘I’ll just sit here at the back,’ she said.

  The skeletal columns of the Temple of Castor and Pollux at Rome slid onto the screen and Flint turned off the main lighting. His talk went well; he worked without notes, simply chatting about each holiday snap as it came on to the screen. Class scribbled furiously, then afterwards peppered him with questions. Monica was the last to leave when the room cleared at nine.

  ‘That was very good,’ she said. ‘I’ve never been to Rome.’

  ‘You must.’ He poked an errant slide out of the carousel projector, then closed his slide box. ‘So, are you joining my class?’

  ‘I thought I would, if you don’t mind. Wednesday is my half-day closing and I always need an excuse to come to London.’

  ‘It’s a long way.’

  ‘Oh Jeff, don’t be so modest. You know why I’m here ­– I missed you. Thank you for your card, was Turkey wonderful?’

  ‘Yes, I should have talked you into coming.’

  ‘If only I could have.’ She pulled her dramatic sad expression.

  Why is life so complicated, thought Flint. ‘Are you going straight back?’

  She shrugged and again her face made apologies for her action. Flint found the mannerism cute and assumed she was embarrassed making advances to a younger man.

  ‘There’s a pub just round the corner which serves eight real ales and sixteen country wines; interested?’ he asked.

  Yes was the answer and within ten minutes he held a pint of Marsden’s Pedigree whilst she sipped at the plum wine. Flint felt the awkwardness melt away as they talked. It was a relief to be talking straight once more, after the charade with Michelle.

  ‘And what have you done with your beard?’

  ‘New term, new image. It always looked a bit nineteen sixties. I just need to have my jeans surgically removed and I’ll be a real person.’

  ‘I like you as you are.’

  Flint enjoyed a brief fantasy in which he cohabited with the owner of a wholefood and alternative lifestyle shop. It was the sort of hippy heaven he could warm to.

  ‘We haven’t seen you in Kingshaven since the summer; I thought you might be down.’

  ‘I’m trying to avoid the place — not you — just the place. It brings back unpleasant memories.’

  ‘I put your card up, but no one’s shown any interest in it. What is this De Niggers? What are you up to?’

  Flint touched his nose. ‘I have a cunning plan.’

  She wiggled a finger around in the air. ‘This is something to do with your mystery, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is, but I can’t tell you what.’

  ‘Go on, brighten my life.’ She leaned forward to encourage him.

  ‘No, Monica, people get hurt. I’ve got a hunch, but I’m keeping it to myself. I certainly don’t want anyone in Kingshaven to know. Word might leak from somewhere, or Vikki Corbett might splash it all over her newspaper.’

  ‘She’s a real bitch, don’t you think?’ Monica screwed up her eyes.

  Actually no, Flint didn’t think that at all, but Monica continued to dig in her claws.

  ‘I know someone who used to work with her, I’ve heard all the stories about Victoria Corbett.’

  ‘She always seemed okay to me. A little manic maybe.’

  ‘Be careful with her,’ Monic
a warned, ‘she’s not what she seems. She has only one person’s interest at heart, and that’s her own. You can be sure she’ll get nothing out of me.’

  Wow, he thought, Vikki must have sure trampled on a few toes in Kingshaven.

  ‘Could you do me a little favour?’ Flint asked once the character assassination was complete. He told her about Tyrone’s list of suspects and how he was trying to glean intelligence on each one.

  ‘Some of these people must come into your shop,’ he said. ‘Could you do a little spying for me?’

  She raised one eyebrow. ‘So you think the people you’re after might come into my shop?’

  ‘Frankly, yes. It would suit them perfectly.’

  ‘Where did you get all these names from in the first place?’

  ‘We’re archaeologists, we dig around. It started out with this ghost-hunter who calls himself Professor Leopold Gratz. He’s written a couple of books ­– do you stock them?’

  ‘No, are they any good?’

  ‘No ­– well they’re par for the course. I find a lot of this New Age stuff is complete garbage.’

  Monica glanced around in case the crowded room was full of her clients. ‘To be really truthful, so do I.’

  ‘Can I be really truthful now, Monica?’ It was time he displayed his hand. ‘I want to tell you something about myself.’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘Ask anyone at college about me and they will tell you I’m an unrepentant womaniser.’

  ‘I did,’ she grinned. ‘I know what the diggers said about your reputation, but I’m an adult, I’m not frightened. Frankly, I was surprised when...’

  ‘I didn’t try something on at Burkes Warren? So was I, so was everyone else I expect. I’d like to see you again, Monica, but I’d like to take things slowly.’

  ‘Is there someone else?’ she asked gingerly.

  ‘No,’ he said sharply, then wondered whether this was a lie. ‘It’s just that I’ve grown out of one-night stands.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ she said with deep sincerity. ‘I’m not a prude, but I’m not a bed-hopper either.’