The Job (Novella #10)

by William Meikle

  He took a look at the brand and nodded.

  “The protection is in place. Time to go.”

  We went back out of town in a sleek black van. I suspected it must be the same one I’d arrived in, but this time I was up front in the passenger seat while Robbins himself drove. He’d changed out of the cassock for the first time since we’d met, but he was still dressed all in black, and still exuded an air of priesthood. Not for the first time, I wondered if George hadn’t been close to the truth when he’d mentioned a cult.

  We drove, mostly in silence, out of the city, along the main road east, then onto the network of smaller country roads, taking a long, convoluted route around the house, checking for any guards we didn’t already know about.

  Robbins let me out in the woodland to the north of the house just after nine o’clock.

  “We’ll be back here at one, then every hour on the hour after that until morning. If you’re not back by dawn, we’ll assume the worst.”

  “Assume all you like,” I said. “If I’m not back here by one, I suspect I’ll be past caring, whatever way it goes.”

  The van drove off, leaving me in the quiet dark.

  It was time to go to work.

  9

  I made my way slowly, quietly through the trees. It was a clear night, and a half-moon showed through the branches, just enough to light my way and stop me treading on any twigs that might snap and give me away.

  I walked along on the same path we’d used on our abortive first burglary. I knew it was a straight track, a deer run by the look of it, all the way up to the edge of the house’s formal garden. But it felt different somehow. Last time, wee Carlson had led, and the woods seem less alien, less oppressive, when you’ve got company. This time it felt like the trees fought me all the way; branches waved in my face, snagged on my jacket, and threatened to trip me up underfoot. The breeze in the leaves sounded like whispering, conspiratorial voices plotting my untimely end and the crunch of dead and rotting undergrowth as I walked sounded like bones breaking.

  I was trying not to think of Carlson, or that poor wee dog I killed, as I fixed my gaze on the distant lights that told me I was approaching my goal. I stopped inside the wood, but with a clear view over the garden. When I looked down I saw several damp cigarette butts at my feet; I was at the same tree we’d stopped under on our last visit. And like the last time, I cupped a cigarette, lighting it with my back to the house, and hiding it inside my palm as I smoked so as not to give my presence away with the red tip as it burned.

  Now there was nothing to do but wait for the house to go quiet for the night.

  * * *

  That was going to take a bit longer than I had anticipated, for, despite it being late on a Sunday, there seemed to be more activity than normal in the house, and there were some expensive cars in the driveway that indicated that Campbell had guests.

  I settled in, leaning back against the tree and letting my mind drift, just waiting. Normally I’m pretty good at this part of the job, but there, in that dark wood, with the leaves whispering above and me being so close to the source of the chanting that had enticed me the last time, I started to worry and fret. I smoked more cigarettes than were good for me, and my mouth tasted like a dry ashtray by the time the front door opened and Campbell’s guests took their leave.

  Even then, I had a wait before I could move, for the light went on in the library that was my target, and stayed on for more than an hour. Every so often I saw a figure move around. It must have been Campbell himself at a guess, and I could only hope he wasn’t settling in for a bout of reading in his favorite chair by the fire.

  Finally, after what seemed an age, the lights went out, first in the library, then in the stairwell, then in the upstairs rooms. The house fell quiet, and the only light was the outdoor ones that lit up the gardens between the woods and the house. That wasn’t a problem; I’d worked out the route on our last visit, and once I was satisfied the coast was clear I made my way, crouched low, from bush to hedge to shrub to tree and finally up onto the stone patio outside the French doors of the library.

  I hope you sorted that alarm, I prayed to Robbins. Otherwise this is going to be a bloody short visit.

  I stood at the big library doors, all too aware that I was clearly visible to anyone who might be inside standing in the darkness. But just as I was about to try the doors, the one nearest to me swung outward, with only the faintest of creaks that wouldn’t be heard by anyone more than a couple of yards away.

  Nice trick, Robbins.

  I slipped quickly inside, in case the trick involved the door closing as quickly as it had opened, then stood, just inside the library, trying for calm and waiting to see if someone was about to leap at me out of the dark. The house felt quiet and sleeping. Somewhere upstairs in a bedroom an old guitar might be ringing, taking note of my presence, but everything else was still.

  Once I was sure I was alone in the library I wasted no time in getting down to business. It went like clockwork. I switched on the code breaker, held it up to the safe, the code came up and I punched it in. The safe door swung open with barely a whisper, and I reached inside. At the same time as I realized the safe was empty, the lights came up in the library and I turned to see Campbell in the doorway. He applauded, with soft handclaps that sounded like bells chiming my doom.

  “Well done, David. I knew I could trust you to do the wrong thing.”

  There was a scuffle to my left. George stood in the patio doorway, but my joy at seeing him was short lived. He had Robbins leaning, almost slumping, at his side. The black-clad man of the Sigil was bleeding badly, from nose and mouth, and George had blood on his knuckles.

  “I told you that you needed backup,” George said, and gave me a smile that had no humor in it at all.

  I’d not only misjudged my enemies; I’d also misjudged my friends.

  * * *

  Robbins made a lunge to get away from George. He almost made it too, but he stumbled, almost fell, and clattered into me. It wasn’t until I felt the cold metal of his amulet get pressed into my palm that I realized it hadn’t been an accident. I managed to palm the jewelry and squirrel it away into my trouser pocket while George was getting the man under control again. Robbins took another punch to the side of the head for his trouble, but his eyes were clear when he looked up at me, and he winked at me as they dragged him away.

  Maybe we still had a play here after all, but from my point of view, Campbell was holding all the cards.

  I certainly wasn’t going to get a chance to compare notes with Robbins. They split me up from him; the last I saw of him he was getting dragged away across the hallway as I was led up the stairs and bundled into my old room. The door slammed, the lock clunked, and the old guitar in the corner rang in welcome.

  The room was just as I’d left it, almost as if they’d been expecting me back, which I guessed was pretty close to the truth, given Campbell’s reaction of my recapture.

  I went over to the window and smoked a cigarette as I looked out into the night. My mind raced, and I felt the weight of Robbins’ amulet in my pocket, weight and heat, as if it was more alive than a mere piece of metal. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why he’d passed it to me, but I took a guess that he didn’t want it getting into Campbell’s hands. That probably meant that Campbell would be looking for it, and would quickly guess where it had gone. But short of throwing the thing out the window, I had nowhere to hide it.

  Then the guitar rang again, louder this time, and I had an idea.

  I stowed Robbins’ amulet inside the instrument, feeding it down below the strings into the body of the guitar. It only rattled if I shook it hard, and even then all it did was cause the old instrument to ring louder and more pure than at any time since I’d owned it. The sound brought back so many memories, so much mixed emotion, that I cradled her on my knee and strummed her softly, as if trying to calm her as much as myself.

  The old song came, almost unbidden, to f
ingers and voice and strings at the same time. The music made the magic made the music. So it goes.

  My love is like a red, red rose, that’s newly sprung in June.

  I’d learned that one on my mother’s knee. And as I sang it, there in the old house, with a fresh sigil branded in my arm and my old guitar on my lap, I heard something that I had not heard for twenty years.

  As I sang the chorus, the sweet, high, lonely voice of my old ma sang along with me.

  10

  I had to wipe tears from my eyes to see who was in the doorway when the lock clunked and the handle turned to swing the door open.

  It was my old traitorous pal, George. He grinned at me.

  “You always were a lousy card player, son. Where is it?”

  “Where’s what?” I asked, and for once I found I could make it sound like I meant it. Whether it was the house, or the guitar, or my new sigil, or even some combination of all three, it seemed I had finally found my poker face.

  George looked confused, for a second, then his own game face came down to mask it.

  “Never mind. We’ve been waiting for a long time to get that bastard Robbins where we want him. Thanks for helping us out with that. Now the boss wants you downstairs.”

  “The boss? I thought you were the boss, not Campbell?”

  He laughed at that.

  “Campbell? No, I said the boss, not the chief cook and bottle washer. It’s time we all met who’s really in charge here.”

  I slung the guitar across my shoulder as I got up and carried it with me as I followed George downstairs. He didn’t seem to either notice, or care, and I was happier knowing that Robbins’ amulet was where I could get to it if it was needed. The guitar seemed to agree with me on that score. It bounced against the small of my back as we descended, and the muted ringing of the chords in time with my steps almost made me feel like I was dancing down the staircase.

  * * *

  I thought we might be headed back to the library, but George surprised me by leading me to the rear of the house and through a door that had always been locked during my previous stay. It opened out into what was obviously the oldest part of the property, a long, tall room that appeared to have been a banqueting hall at some time in the distant past. It was now little more than roughly plastered walls, stone slabs for the floor and high, vaulted timbers making an arch of a ceiling overhead. The only splash of color was provided by a huge, painted set of concentric circles and strange markings on the floor. I had no idea what the circles represented, but it made my teeth hurt just looking at them, and the guitar agreed again, sending out dissonant, off-key chords in time with my steps as we got closer.

  Campbell stood inside the circle and had Robbins slumped, head down, at his side. He put up a hand to stop George and I walking on the painted area.

  “That’s far enough. You are my witnesses here,” he said. “Tonight, the Just One finally lays claim to complete ownership of his house.”

  Robbins was standing at Campbell’s side, but he looked to be out of things. I guessed he’d been hit by a whammy of sorts, either drugged or, worse than that, fallen victim to the Latin chanting that had caught me under its spell for so long. Whatever the case, Campbell wasn’t paying him any attention. All of his focus was on the book he had in his hands; I was finally getting to see the fabled Concordances, although I’d much rather it was happening in more congenial circumstances.

  Without any preamble, Campbell started to read from the book, a singsong voice that gained in strength and volume as he got into the rhythm of it. It was the same Latin chant I knew only too well by now.

  Rorate caeli desuper, et nubes pluant iustum.

  Peccavimus, et facti sumus tamquam immundus nos, et cecidimus quasi folium universi.

  Campbell’s voice rang and echoed, filling the room. Something beneath us responded, with a pounding like a drumbeat that sent vibrations running through my body and set my teeth on edge. I heard something else too, the faintest rustle, like pages being riffled in a wind.

  The drumbeat got louder. Dust disturbed by the vibration drifted down from the rafters to fall around us. Voices seemed to rise from below to join in as Campbell continued, the chant being sung now by a choir, a throng, a myriad of singers in a chorus that rang and bellowed like a huge church organ and filled the room with a song of longing and pain.

  Rorate caeli desuper, et nubes pluant iustum.

  A gray shape moved away from the far, darker, corner, moving through the shadows, coming closer. The gray thing came all the way forward to the edge of the circle opposite where George and I stood, crouched too low to the ground to be anything human, wispy and unsubstantial, but thickening with every repeat of the deep chant.

  Rorate caeli desuper, et nubes pluant iustum.

  Finally it took on enough substance to be visible. It sat, squat, low to the floor like a grotesque spider. A face, wizened and wrinkled, more rodent than man, looked up at Campbell. A bald scabrous head sat on a bulbous body from which sprouted half a dozen hairy, almost insect-like legs. A mass of moist tentacles in a fringe around the thing’s neck writhed and squirmed like a nest of snakes. Only the eyes were remotely human, although they were fully black, all pupil. They held Campbell’s gaze with a stare that spoke of an insatiable hunger.

  Campbell kept up the chant, and the chorus from below bellowed in time.

  Rorate caeli desuper, et nubes pluant iustum.

  And with each repeated line of song, the Just One grew ever more solid, and ever larger. It was already the size of a grown man, and showing no sign of stopping. Campbell’s voice faltered, and his gaze fixed on the beast; he did not look like a man that actually expected the result he was getting, and that caused his voice to falter, and take on a tremble that sounded like fear.

  At the same instant, George moved away from my side, retreating at haste toward the door. I guessed this show was more than he’d bargained for. I did not have time to deal with him, for Robbins, despite the bruising and blooding around his face, was now the most alert person in the room. He straightened, and looked me in the eye.

  “Now, Dave,” he shouted.

  I must have looked confused, for he shouted again.

  “You’ve got your sigil, you’ve got your totem. Now throw me my bloody amulet, and be quick about it, man. There’s no time.”

  I turned the guitar upside down and shook it until the amulet fell out, catching it by the chain before it dropped to the floor. As I took it in my free hand, I felt heat wash out of it, and when I threw it, one handed, it seemed to leave a faint trace of a rainbow aurora behind it as it arced through the air and into the circles.

  Campbell woke up enough to see it coming, but was too slow to stop Robbins leaning forward and catching it in mid air. Even as he took it in his hand, Robbins started to chant. It wasn’t Latin, it was something I didn’t recognize. But it sounded distinctly Scottish, distinctly Gaelic.

  His voice rang out, high and clear above the chanting from below that faltered and grew weaker.

  Ri linn dioladh na beatha, Ri linn bruchdadh na falluis, Ri linn iobar na creadha, Ri linn dortadh na fala.

  That completely woke Campbell from his momentary stupor. He turned toward Robbins, and reached for the amulet. Robbins slashed the man across the face with the edge of the metal circlet. Blood flew and spattered on the painted stone flagstones. The sight of the red enraged the watching beast, which started to press, as if trying to force its way through a barrier preventing it from getting inside the circle itself.

  “Sing, Dave. Sing, damn you!”

  The guitar rang loudly again as I took her in both hands. I strummed a chord, then my muscle memory and instinct took over as I joined Robbins in the Gaelic.

  Ri linn dioladh na beatha, Ri linn bruchdadh na falluis, Ri linn iobar na creadha, Ri linn dortadh na fala.

  The Latin chanting from beneath, and the accompanying drumming, died away completely, as if unable to compete with the Gaelic’s high song.


  “Louder!” Robbins shouted, just as Campbell lunged at him again. And again Robbins slashed with the edge of the amulet, drawing more blood, across the back of Campbell’s hand this time.

  Campbell screamed in rage, frustration and pain combined. He leapt forward, and Robbins stepped nimbly aside so that the other man’s grasp met only thin air. Campbell stumbled, and put out a foot to steady his weight, a foot that was planted firmly across the innermost line of the painted circles.

  The Just One roared, not in pain or anger, but in delight and victory. It leapt upward, into the circle, to fix itself in an embrace fully around Campbell’s body, the hairy legs gripping tight at waist and chest even while it started to eat the man’s face, tearing bloody chunks of cheek and jowl in gleeful frenzy.

  Robbins kept singing the Gaelic, but I faltered and stopped. I stepped forward, intending to reach for him, to help him make an escape from the bloody frenzy that was going on right beside him.

  “No!” He shouted. “Keep singing!”

  But that small pause had been fatal. The Just One dropped what was left of Campbell to the stone floor and turned its attention to Robbins. He held up the amulet and resumed the Gaelic. I joined in as quickly as I was able. I was almost in time, although one of the hairy legs of the thing raked across Robbins’ ankles and shredded his trousers, tearing through the material, skin and muscle all the way to the bone with one swoop.

  His high clear voice hitched then came back in strong when joined with mine. The guitar rang loudly my voice took on a tonal range and power I could not have managed alone even with the help of a professional P.A. system, and the Gaelic echoed and pounded through the hall. A drumbeat from below started up again, but this time it followed the Gaelic, and when a chanting rose to join my voice, it was Scots, not Latin that was in the ascendancy.

  Ri linn dioladh na beatha, Ri linn bruchdadh na falluis, Ri linn iobar na creadha, Ri linn dortadh na fala.