Oculi omnium in te spirant, Domine, et tu das escam illorum in tempore opportune.
The eyes of all wait upon thee, O Lord, and thou givest them their meat in due season.
- Extract from Grace spoken at High Table, All Souls College, Cambridge
Fail not our feast.
- Shakespeare, Macbeth Act III Scene I
PROLOGUE
Durolipons, AD 61
Gaius Suetonius Paulinus was puzzled by the old priest’s smile. It was one of relief and satisfaction, as though the druid had witnessed a great victory.
He’s witnessed the end of his order, the Roman Governor of Britannia thought. He knows I’m going to kill him regardless of the promise I made to him on the Isle of Mona. And yet he’s content. I’ll never understand these people.
“You do not need to, Roman.”
Awen’s broken-toothed smile grew wider at the sight of the Governor’s stunned expression. “You would not understand.” He sighed wistfully, his breath misting in the winter air as he stroked the ground with his bony fingers, ground that had burned with so much heat parts of it had turned to glass. Shadowy, skeletal figures could be seen beneath the shining surface and it was only now with the rising of the sun that Paulinus realised they were the remains of the priesthood.
Paulinus suppressed a shiver. It would not do to show fear in front of the old druid, but the memory of what he had seen would never leave him. He almost relished the prospect of battle tomorrow with that Iceni bitch. Odds of twenty three to one, he mused. And I’d much rather that than face what I saw last night.
He pulled his cloak tighter round his shoulders and surveyed the scorched wasteland they stood upon. The closest oak trees in the sacred grove of Durolipons had been incinerated, wiped from the earth by a fire so pure, so fierce, it could only have come from Hell itself. Yet the trees that surrounded it were untouched. No scorch marks showed on the thick trunks. Heavy blankets of snow remained frozen on the twisted branches.
The air still stank of smoke even though the fire had long been extinguished, dead with the fierce cold of the winter night.
He inhaled and took in the sour aroma. The stench of cooked human flesh from the druids who had offered themselves.
“She’s gone,” Awen grinned at Paulinus. “She, and her Children. The world is safe.”
Paulinus grunted and spat contemptuously. “Your world, druid? Or Rome’s?”
“It matters not, Roman. All things pass. Even gods have their day.”
“As have you, Awen.” Paulinus smirked as he nodded to a centurion. The soldier advanced, his gladius drawn. But if the Governor of Britannia had hoped to see a trace of fear in the old man’s eyes he was to be disappointed.
Awen turned from the holocaust, gave a cursory glance to the approaching swordsman and stared deeply into Paulinus’ eyes. The Governor almost started. Gods, this man’s eyes aren’t human. That shade of green is unlike anything I have ever seen. And are those flecks of gold in the iris?
Surely not. It had to be the angle of the sunlight. Perhaps the inferno he had witnessed had temporarily affected his vision. Tiredness, also. He had not sufficiently rested after his cleansing of the priesthood on the Isle of Mona. Weeks of forced marching from the north-western wilds of this accursed land, a march against time to meet Boudicca before she turned any more of Britannia into the smoking ruins that Londinium and Camulodunum had become.
“You think me traitor, Roman? That our Order has banished Her from this plane…and thus condemned Boudicca to defeat?” He shook his mane of filthy grey hair and laughed, a cackle of old bones grinding together.
“No. The Iceni queen had no right to invoke Andraste. We beseeched her not to, but she would not listen.” A grey-skinned finger jabbed Paulinus’ breastplate. “She didn’t listen…but who can blame her? After what you bastards did to her and her daughters she was blind with rage. A rage that would burn the world with Andraste by her side…all because you wanted to teach her a lesson in humility!
“Just think how close you came to ending the world. Be glad some of the old priesthood were here, knew what was required…and were willing to pay the price.”
A smile broke through Paulinus’ sneer. “And you, Awen? What about you?”
Awen shook his head. “Kill me if you wish, Roman. I have done my duty - I came here to bear witness that Andraste is no more. Go now. Go and face Boudicca. You have only human foes to deal with now…so be grateful!”
Paulinus nodded to the centurion. Dispassionate, he watched the blade of the gladius slide into the druid’s stomach, feeling neither remorse nor joy. The priest’s hot blood steamed in the dawn air and painted the glassy ground a rich scarlet. The Governor inhaled deeply, and then frowned.
Another scent assailed his nose. A coarse, rich smell. Slightly peppery…
Boar, he realised. Wild boar.
He heard a strangled cry from Awen, one of despair rather than pain. He turned.
The old druid lay on his back, his death throes smearing the pool of blood beneath him into a bizarre pattern. His entrails steamed in the fresh morning air, but it was not the prospect of death that had made Awen cry out. The priest raised a shaking hand towards a darker patch of the woods where the sun had yet to shine.
“One survives! Destroy it…or it is all for nothing!”
Paulinus laughed as the beast slowly emerged from the darkened trees. It was huge, one that would easily weigh more than six of his legionaries in full battle dress - and would have presented a fair challenge had it not been in such a state.
It limped on burned limbs that were no more than charred, deformed sticks, scarcely able to support its weight. Paulinus could see ragged holes in its flanks; coils of intestines slipped from its sliced belly and trailed along the leaf litter.
It came closer to what had once been the sacred grove, grunting and wheezing, in obvious pain but determined to reach its destination. It lowered its head on the glassed ground, tilted at an angle with a sigh that sounded almost human.
It then let out a harsh squeal, more akin to the wolves that had haunted Paulinus’ nights in Germania than a wild boar. Black blood dripped from its maw onto the scorched, melted earth of the sacred grove.
“That? Look at it, druid! It’s dying, no threat to us.” Perhaps the heat had driven the creatures mad, some gouging and impaling each other as they fought to escape into the woods, away from the conflagration. This was obviously the sole survivor.
The eyes of the boar were glazed. Whatever spirit was in them had departed. And yet…
Was that a red glint in the centre of the eyes? Paulinus blinked and turned away from the creature. The rising sun had reflected in them, that was all.
“No threat at all, druid. So -‘
The old priest’s eyes were the same opaque black as the eyes of the boar. His hand lay on the blood-soaked ground, as motionless as the rest of his body.
Paulinus looked up to the centurion. “Come. We have a battle to fight. The Iceni bitch needs another lesson…”
His voice died away at the sight of the soldier’s shocked expression. He turned on his heel.
The boar had gone.
Impossible! How could it disappear like that? It couldn’t have been dead…but how did it get to its feet and lope into the surviving woods so quickly?
Paulinus took a deep breath. The druid’s parting gift, an act of sorcery to befuddle his mind and dull his military planning?
No. These druids are rabble rousers and madmen, no more. Put it out of your mind, concentrate on the coming battle.
They made their way out of the blasted grove, through the darkness of the thick oaks to join the road south. But Suetonius Paulinus couldn’t stop himself lo
oking at the boar’s resting place one last time.
Sunlight reflected off the glassy ground. The blood of the druid and the boar slowly sank into the ground, out of sight.
CHAPTER ONE
Two pieces of bad news were waiting for Andy Hughes when he returned home from the questioning at the police station. The first was a letter from Jen. The second was the person sitting on his sofa reading it.
Combined with what had happened earlier that night at The Porterhouse confirmed the old maxim, they always come in threes. He knew something was wrong when he saw Jen’s Saxo had gone, replaced with a silver Mercedes that was coated with fresh, powdery snow. That car belonged to only one man.
I don’t need this, Andy thought as he rubbed the teeth marks on his forehead. Looking at his fingers he realised there was still a bit of dried blood there. He rubbed it, watched it flake away and fall to the ground. Red flakes lay on top of white flakes, soon obscured by the fresh snow falling to the ground.
He pushed the door open, not surprised to find it unlocked. The house was still warm. Jen had left the central heating on for him, realising that the walk home from the police station - whatever time they released him - would be a cold one.
It was the only warmth in the room. The Christmas tree was sparse and cheerless with the lights switched off. All plans for a quiet Christmas together were well and truly scrubbed now with the presence of the man on the sofa.
Graham Pearce looked up from the letter and smiled warmly. As if he was just an old friend come to pay a social call, embarrassed at having arrived without proper notice. His appearance didn’t correspond with his past, or his reputation: a slightly built man who looked more like an accountant than a villain. The elegant, well cut suit and dull grey tie underneath the sober, business-like overcoat added to the illusion. The thinning grey hair was neatly trimmed and combed. The warm grey eyes seemed to smile innocently from behind his owlish, horn-rimmed glasses. His hands were raised as if in supplication.
All an act. When those hands were raised like that someone was going to suffer.
“Hello Andy. I hope you didn’t mind me letting myself in.” Even the voice gave no clues to his profession. Well spoken, crisp and professional.
“Where’s Jen?” Andy already knew the answer. That letter Pearce held had what looked like her handwriting on it. Wherever she had gone, she had gone willingly.
“I think you’d better read this for yourself.” Pearce passed the letter and sat back in the sofa, his hands in his lap. He cast an eye towards the overflowing bookcases, eyebrows raised at the contents. World History and the Penguin Classics. Dickens, Hardy, Dostoyevsky, Flaubert. Recent volumes, purchased and read thoroughly. Not old, forgotten course books from a long abandoned academic career. Above the middle bookcase was a framed quotation. Pearce read it and smiled.
“‘A room without books is like a body without a soul.’ Very nice. Seneca, I believe.”
“Cicero.”
Pearce grinned. “I see you kept up your learning, then.”
Andy didn’t reply. He read the letter.
I’m sorry to do it this way, Andy, it began. Handwritten, in blue ink. The ink had run in the latter part of the letter, splodges caused by what could only be tears.
But I think you knew this was coming. I can’t go on like this. I know you love me and would never do a thing to hurt me, and God help me I love you too. I think I’ll always love you.
But I’m scared, Andy. I’m scared of the darkness in you. The violence. You’ve never raised a finger towards me, you’ve never threatened me, never even raised your voice to me during our arguments. But I’ve seen how easy it is for you to lose control, how much you rage at the world. And it’s not just what happened to you in the past. You were born with this rage, Andy. A rage that is one day going to destroy you - and probably everyone who loves you.
When you called from the police station, telling me what you’d done…I realised that the time is coming, and has probably already arrived. And I don’t want to be in the fallout zone.
But that’s not the only reason I’m leaving you.
I found what you’ve been hiding. In the attic for God’s sake! Why bring that into OUR HOME?
He lowered the letter and groaned. The letter ended with I’m going away for a while. With Christmas just round the corner I know it’s bad timing. But I need some time to think, to work out my options, what I want to do with my life. So I’m going to stay at mum’s for a while.
Please, don’t try to get in touch. I’ll talk to you when I’m ready.
Jen.
He tried to picture her as she climbed into her car, driving away from the two bedroom house on Didcot’s Ladygrove estate, their home for the last three years. Good years, mostly.
Would there have been tears as she closed the door? Or would there have been a smile of relief, a sense of exhilaration, freedom to start afresh? He didn’t know. All he knew was the pain the image of her leaving gave him: for the first time in his life a pain he couldn’t deal with.
He had suffered physical pain before. He had been beaten, kicked, slashed at with broken beer bottles. It came with the territory. All part of the job. But it was physical pain, felt for mere moments - and then returned twice-fold upon the instigators of the violence. As it had been last night at The Porterhouse.
In his three years of working there his colleagues had accepted and respected him, but also kept their distance. They could see there was something unique about Andy Hughes. He certainly looked the part of a professional doorman, six foot two, solidly built. Shaven head and a hard, appraising stare, a permanent frown on his angular features, but all this could not disguise the fact that Andy Hughes was different.
A difference they could not identify. It wasn’t his refined manner of speaking, his command of language. All sorts make a world, and becoming a doorman was not the worst career choice a university dropout could make.
It was partly his eyes. They were a shade of green that few people had ever seen, the shade that Jen had first been drawn to when they’d first met. A luminescent, piercing green with flecks of gold that she said looked like the sort of glowing jewels for which Indiana Jones would cross continents.
But that wasn’t the sole reason. They sensed something else about him, the darkness Jen had struggled to live with. A darkness that was to be kept at bay, respected. And feared.
No-one feared that darkness more than Andy himself.
Before he’d arrived at the club he had the feeling that something else was going to go wrong. He’d ignored it, pushed the thought away, but all through the evening it kept crawling back, nagging at him. He knew why it wouldn’t be suppressed. The genie was going to launch itself from the bottle again.
The previous night’s dream of the horses proved that. The stampeding, unearthly white stallions, tearing up the ground and pounding flesh and bones into jelly…
The last time he’d dreamed of the horses was fifteen years ago, when his life had ended.
“A shame.” Pearce’s smile was far from sympathetic. “I’ve heard good things about Jennifer. Such a nice young girl, and she’s been good for you. Still, nothing lasts forever. Patience runs out, passion fades and dies. Perhaps she felt that she could do better than an ex-con with nothing to offer but a pittance of a doorman’s wages…’
Andy was on him in an instant. Pearce’s silk tie was clenched in his fist, his whole body raised off the sofa. Pearce’s expression changed suddenly. Gone was the smug, self-righteous smirk. It was not replaced with fear, as was so often the case with those who found themselves on the wrong side of Andy’s fists. Now there was a look of calm scrutiny, as though Pearce had been testing him, an appraisal of his reaction and reflexes.
“Good, Andy. Very good indeed. Do you know, for a moment I almost felt frightened then?”
Andy’s body went limp. His fist unclenched, the tie slipped from his fingers and Pearce relaxed into the sofa. One thing he could never do was a
ttack Graham Pearce. Not if he wanted to continue living.
Pearce straightened his tie fussily, tut-tutting at the tightened knot. He indicated the letter. “She’s right, though, isn’t she? Violence comes too easily to you.
“Look at the facts. It has been an intolerable strain on your relationship with the lovely Jennifer. It has earned you a prison sentence and a criminal record. You probably know that the owner of The Porterhouse didn’t want to employ you in the first place…but he owed me a favour.” He raised an admonishing finger. “You make people nervous. That club was getting too much attention as it was. The police were keeping a close eye on it, too close for his liking. Now, of course, it is very unlikely that it will keep its licence. That young man is fighting for his life in the John Radcliffe as we speak…”
“No great loss if he doesn’t make it,” Andy snapped. “Not after what he did. Even the Old Bill said he deserved it - when the interview finished, of course.”
“Well, that’s the problem.” Pearce sighed. “I had to call in a rather large favour to ensure you got away. Didn’t you think it odd that they released you when they did? ‘Reasonable force’ doesn’t come into this, Andy. They’ll know the SIA licence I got you was a fake. They’ll be watching you.” And me as well, his eyes said.
“Fine. Thanks for the update.” Andy said. He looked at the cards Blu-tacked on the walls, realising how many of them were addressed just to Jen. Even the card from her parents made no mention of his name. “I don’t need to remind you that the SIA ticket was in return for the favour I did for you. Looking after the thing that freaked Jen out - I’ve been holding it for over a year. When are you going to take it back?”
Pearce laughed. “Relax, Andy. I’ll send someone round for it after Christmas. In the meantime, I have a proposition for you.”
“Not interested.”
“Hear me out, please, Andy.” Pearce’s face was grave. He steepled his fingers. “I need your help.”
Andy frowned. “You need my help? What the hell for?”
“A very important job, which I’ll make worth your while. Six grand. That’ll get you back on your feet again. Think very carefully before you turn it down. It’s a lot of money.”
The Caretakers (2011) Page 1
