“So who wielded the knife? Was that you?”
“Not me.” A frown. “There was someone on the bank who had the knife after you died. Someone you know. Someone who had their own dream: who’s bringing their own share of blood and death with them. Andy Hughes.”
“So what’s this all about? Why the dreams?”
Franklin shrugged. “To be honest with you, I’m not entirely sure. But it proves that I was right all along. Events are in place, Mr Lotson: events that will bring an end to the evil in All Souls. Why you’ve been dragged into it is a mystery.”
“Perhaps it’s a premonition. A warning not to get involved.”
“That would be the best answer, wouldn’t it? No, there’s something else…tell me, what have you found out about the college so far? What did the Master tell you today?”
“Nothing much. Just that the only dark events in the college have your name stamped all over them.”
Franklin grinned. “Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he? And you believe him?”
Phil didn’t answer.
“No, of course you don’t. You know he’s hiding something. And he’s scared, isn’t he? Why do you think that is?” Jason Franklin sighed. “I bet he said no-one else has heard the whispers. Let me tell you this: I’m not the only one who has heard them. And this year, more people are going to hear them.”
Phil scratched his beard. “You really believe this? You refuse to consider that these voices are nothing more than the whisperings of your own disturbed mind?”
Franklin cocked his head and grinned smugly. “Come off it, Mr Lotson. I don’t hear the voices anymore. Not because of effective drug therapy but purely because I’m not on college grounds anymore. They keep giving me the shiny little pills though: they think I still suffer delusions. ‘The voices in his head are gone, that’s a start. But oh dear, he still believes he’s some sort of chosen one. Still has visions of pseudo-religious figures telling him to destroy.’ They tried to say it’s my way of rationalising my crime, my madness. But not anymore. Now they don’t know what to say.
“They’re scared, Mr Lotson. None of their drug combos stop the visions I have, and they’re not going to accept my explanations, are they?”
“It’s hard to believe that what you heard were really the souls of the dead, Jason.”
Franklin shook his head firmly. “Not when I mentioned names. Gave physical descriptions of how they died, how old they were, who their family members were…you’d think that would be enough for someone to request an investigation into the college. Instead I’m reviled and hated by the relatives of those who’ve disappeared. They think I’ve used their life stories to weave in some ‘elaborate web of fantasy’ as one of the tabloids called it.”
“Okay, go back to these…visions. What form do they take?”
“Here.” Franklin pointed to the coffee table. On top of the stack of old newspapers and dated magazines were several sheets of neatly folded A3 paper.
“This is what I see in my visions. Of course they won’t let me near the art materials in the Occupational Therapy room now, not after they saw these. And don’t ask me how I got hold of the pens. Crayons and felt tip pens wouldn’t have the same effect.” He winked.
Phil unfolded the first picture. A pen and ink sketch of a clearing in a densely wooded area. No, wait, it was…he squinted and pulled it closer.
A woodland glade. An oak wood. Jason Franklin had used fine point pens to draw in meticulous detail the leaves on the trees, the boles in the ancient trunks. There was no snow in this picture, the oaks were in full summer splendour but there was no mistaking what this was an illustration of. The path that led away from the clearing and into the middle distance was the same one he, Andy and Rob had driven through this afternoon.
But through the gaps in the trees Phil could see no trace of the medieval stonework of the college buildings. Above the tree line, the sky was darkening. Heavy clouds vanished before night’s relentless onslaught, the sun retreating as though afraid to linger and illuminate the scene below.
A massacre. A horde of men in ancient armour: breastplates and shields glistening black with blood that spurted from their hopelessly outnumbered victims. Men and women, children also, clad in rough tunics and animal skins. Screaming soundlessly as short swords and spears were thrust into their exposed bodies with cold, calculated precision.
Their agonised expressions were a contrast to the cold, impassive stares of the soldiers who despatched them with clinical efficiency. Neither enjoyment nor horror at what they were doing but professional indifference. It was a job, nothing more.
It was their attitude to the grim task that made the whole scene so terrifying. If there had been even a trace of triumph or satisfaction on the killers’ faces it would have been a bit easier to accept, because at least they would have been expressing some form of humanity.
Perhaps Jason Franklin had intended that, to draw attention to the all too human faces on the helpless victims. The agony, the terror, the bewilderment. And then Phil noticed other members of the group. Four men, older than the rest and dressed in white robes. They too were being slaughtered, they too were in pain. But there was no trace of fear or despair on their faces. Instead there was cold fury, a rage that burned from their ink-drawn eyes and transcended the page.
Rage and knowing. Knowledge that one day this terrible slaughter would be avenged.
Phil lowered the picture with shaking fingers. “Very impressive, Jason. Very…graphic.”
“And very real. What I’ve drawn actually happened in places all over the country as the Roman war machine sought to destroy the strongholds of the old religion. The isle of Anglesey is best known for the slaughter of the druids, but it wasn’t the only site. You recognise the woods, don’t you?”
Phil nodded. “The glade isn’t there anymore, but yes, those are the woods at the west entrance of All Souls. Was this from a book you read?”
“From a dream. Two months ago.”
“And were you a…participant in this dream, like you were in mine?”
Franklin’s eyes bored into his. “Oh, yes. I was there. And how I wished I could wake up from it. But no matter how many times they stabbed me, speared me, I remained. My arms were cut away, my stomach run through again and again…and still I lived.”
Phil looked closely at one of the white robed figures, the expression of hate. “And judging by this…prayed for vengeance.”
“You’re catching on, Mr Lotson. Look at the next picture.”
Another drawing of the glade. This time, the butchers and their victims had gone. No blood stained the ground. This time the sun shone on a cold winter’s morning. Snow weighed down the limbs of the oaks. And in the middle, a huge fire burned voraciously, surrounded by a circle of twelve figures dressed in robes identical to those worn by the four in the last picture. Within the leaping flames a figure stood. Arms held aloft, head raised to the skies: an expression of agony on his face as the flames consumed his flesh. And something else.
Rapture. Phil looked up. “And this? A sacrifice?”
Franklin shook his head. “An offering. A voluntary one. I was in the circle, I watched the thirteenth member walk, of his own free will, into the fire.”
“But why?”
“I don’t know. I was in the body but not their minds. I could see, smell, hear - certainly feel. The agony was real. The cold morning air and the heat of the flames plucking at my robes: the smouldering as I got too close - all real. But I was an observer, nothing more. This time I couldn’t share their thoughts.”
“Does it make any sense to you now?”
“The next dream did.” He gestured to the third picture.
All Souls College, last December. This time Franklin had used coloured inks to show the destruction he had hoped to recreate in the Great Hall. Bright red and gold with more muted yellows gave the inferno a presence that felt so real Phil had the impression that if he put his fingers to it they’d com
e back scorched. And within there were writhing, tortured figures. Their expressions showed none of the rapture on the offering in the previous picture. Just pure agony.
“This was no dream, was it? This is what you came so close to achieving.”
“With one difference. I’ve been working on this for some time, but I only drew this section an hour ago. When your…friend Andy Hughes woke from his dream, I knew what I had to put down. Look to the left, by the chapel. Above the flames. See?”
Phil followed Franklin’s pointed finger to the object that was hurtling from the heavens. “The meteor,” Phil mumbled. “The Divine Judgement.”
“Look closely. See the face beneath it, in the flames.”
A human face, peering through a framework of twisting oak leaves and mistletoe branches. The face was that of an old man. Aristocratic and commanding. Heavily lined, cheeks wrinkled and creased with an age that no human being could survive. The eyes were a piercing, unearthly emerald colour, filled with despair and knowledge - knowledge of some ancient secret, something too powerful - or disastrous - to be shared with others.
The eyes…Phil looked from the drawing to Franklin’s eyes. And then back to the picture again.
The faces were different. But the eyes were the same, and not just the unusual emerald colour of the irises. The knowledge, the sharing of an ancient secret. Jason Franklin had it.
“The dead are screaming for release. The meteorite, the Divine Judgement - it will flare again, Mr Lotson. All Souls is going to burn. And when you know just what has happened there, you’ll beg to help me start the fire.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Andy Hughes kept a steady pace on his way down Mill Road, a gentle, easy jog rather than the full pelt he wanted to break into. His Maglite bounced in the rear pocket of his jogging bottoms alongside Emma Robertson’s swipe card. His breath misted in the night air, clouds forming in front of him and breaking apart as he ran through them. His nostrils twitched in disgust at the smell of kebabs and cheap burgers that permeated the empty street. The conversation with Pearce played through his mind like a looped tape recording.
I’m not holding anything back, Andy, I promise you. I’m receiving very little in the way of information myself.
“Liar,” Andy breathed as he crossed over to Parker’s Piece. In the harsh glare of the streetlamps he could see the snow on the grass was cut savagely by meandering bicycle tracks and the footsteps of Christmas shoppers.
“You knew Michaels and Rob Benson were housemates.”
I was asked not to relay that information. The people searching for Michaels have set rules. Terms and conditions of the job, you might say.
“Rules? What bloody rules?”
And then Andy had heard something in Graham Pearce’s voice that he’d never believed possible. Fear.
“So you’re frightened, eh, Pearce?” He paused by the central lamppost in the park known to generations of undergraduates as Reality Checkpoint, marking the boundary between the central university area and the “real world” of non-academic Cambridge.
He stared at the dancing metal figure of the carp at the base of the pole and he smiled with nostalgia. It was rumoured that the name “Reality Checkpoint” had been painted on it in the mid seventies by students from his own university, when it was the Cambridgeshire College of Arts and Technology.
A good place to pause, he considered. The eyes of the carp glared at him, as if recognising him as an Anglia Ruskin alumni and blaming him for the vandalism committed on its home. He stared back, frowning at the memory of another pair of eyes that burned into him…
An elderly woman approached, clutching a Galloway and Porter carrier bag full of books. She scowled at him and walked by. Andy froze as he watched her head off in the direction of the police station on Parkside, then relaxed when he saw her join the queue for the National Express coach opposite the station..
“Get a grip, Hughes,” he muttered, more quietly this time. After regaining his breath he broke into a slower jog, passing the University Arms Hotel and into St Andrew’s Street.
“They’re not his parents, are they? Who the fuck are they?”
Andy, I can’t tell you…too much is at stake. The party who commissioned me insisted on complete anonymity.
“I fucking bet they did.” Downing Street, Pembroke Street, running against the one-way traffic filtering into the multi-storey car park. He passed Pembroke College, St Botolph’s Church, heading for Mill Lane.
So why was I chosen? Be honest, Pearce, I couldn’t have been your first choice for this Mike Hammer bullshit.
Pearce had sighed on the other end of the phone before continuing. I think you know the answer to that yourself, Andy. You were requested by the aforementioned party.
Gave me a good reference, did you? Andy had laughed. Sounds like I’m being set up for something. Why don’t I just walk away from it?
He was on King’s Parade now. King’s College Chapel and the university church of Great St Mary’s reared above him, their snow-dusted pinnacles reaching for the stars in the night sky above. He ran past a young couple taking pictures of each other against the railings with their camera phones, into the road and overtook a slow moving cyclist.
Nothing to stop you, Andy. But the other party will not be happy. They mentioned Jennifer. Didn’t go into details, didn’t say what would happen to her…but advised me to mention her name if you were thinking of walking away.
What could he do? Jen was incommunicado at the moment, her bloody mother wouldn’t believe him if he tried to warn her. So even though he knew he was walking into a trap, he had no choice.
There was one upside. For once, he knew Graham Pearce was telling the truth. During that telephone call he had realised Pearce was too terrified to lie. And for someone to be able to put the frighteners on Pearce…this was obviously someone not to be messed with.
Not yet, anyway, he snorted as he jogged through the claustrophobic surroundings of All Soul’s Lane. Clare College to his right, All Souls to his left, hidden by the blackened clunch stone. But as soon as I found out who they are, heads will roll. No one threatens Jen, no one.
Onto the Backs, the Cam glinting blackly in the winter starlight. The West Gate of All Souls College was still closed, the sign ordering deliveries to be made to the Trinity Street gate, frozen with the fresh dusting of snow that fallen this afternoon.
Andy came to a halt, breathing deeply, the sweat rising from his body like mist. He eyed the line of traffic on Queen’s Road, satisfied that no passers-by were taking a nocturnal visit to the Backs. He was alone.
He stood in front of the West Gate, watching the CCTV camera complete its sweep. He waited, watching it sweep back in his direction, during which time he retreated into the shadows of the gateway. Satisfied that it no longer had him in its range he made his move. He ran to the gates, took hold of one of the railings and hauled himself up the six-foot distance to the top. He balanced precariously on the spaces between the wickedly sharp points of the railings, took a deep breath, and leapt over. He hit the gravelled pathway and rolled. Looked up at the camera, sweeping his way, he pulled himself into the shadows of the brick gateposts.
He was in. Now he needed to get to the point Pearce - or rather, the other party - had insisted on.
But before he could get to the chapel he had to get through the wood first. In the daytime, with companions and a vehicle, it had been unsettling. God knows what it’s going to be like now, he thought, heading down the path in a rapid sprint, anxious to be over the bridge and into the trees before the camera faced him again.
The oaks welcomed him with bowed, heavy limbs and darkness. Fresh snow began to fall and he disappeared from the outside world.
Far from Reality Checkpoint, he thought grimly.
* * * * *
Jason Franklin watched the Rover drive off into the night. He waved a sarcastic farewell and turned to Sam Dawson who was securing the entrance door.
“Given him
a fair bit to think about, haven’t I? What do you think he’ll do next?”
Sam gave him a disgusted look as he clipped the Man Down alarm back on his belt. “Probably won’t be getting much sleep, that’s for sure. You sick bastard.”
Franklin grinned as Sam turned on him. “Just telling the truth, Sammy boy.”
“Your truth, maybe. Go on, fuck off back to bed.”
“With the nut-jobs? Don’t think so, not sleepy anymore. Think I’ll do some more drawing.”
Sam snorted and pocketed the keys. “Do what you bloody want, but stay the fuck out of my way. You mention my past again - to anyone - and I’ll rip your fucking head off. You don’t scare me.” He pushed past Franklin and headed back to the kitchen.
Yes I do, Sam. Jason Franklin smiled as he wandered back to the ward. He wasn’t going to do any more artwork. He had an appointment with the man in the mirror.
He looked in the open door; saw the three beds with their sleeping occupants as faint silhouettes. Jack Bailey, Mick Appleton and Steve Langley. Poor fuckers, he thought. Society’s waste: chucked into the human equivalent of a rubbish bin.
He was under no illusions. He and the other three patients - service users…no, scrub that, inmates, were classed as beyond hope. Their disorders were beyond the reach of drugs and psychotherapy, but no one was going to admit it officially, that some patients were doomed to their disorders for the rest of their lives. No one was leaving the Phoenix Unit alive.
He’d heard rumours, mainly from the catering staff that dropped off the cook-chill meals every day, that the Phoenix Unit was going to be closed down and the four inmates transferred to a private complex on the South Coast - Fairlight House, where the Private Finance Initiative that ran the unit were based. Another cost-cutting exercise, although it was more likely that the companies based on the business park had something to do with it. Not a good selling point to clients and prospective customers that you share your office grounds with a loony bin.
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