Beneath the carving, at the end of the front pew, sat Nicholas Nasen. Aware of Davies’ approach, he turned and inclined his head curtly. The nearest he gave to a greeting.
“Are you prepared, Bursar?” Gruff, blunt tones. Like Franklin and Cassell, the Senior Tutor never used the names of the Fellowship, only their titles. Formal and distanced, another hangover from his military service.
“As much as I ever can be, Senior Tutor.” Davies took the pew opposite. “Are the others here?”
“They’re waiting below.” Nasen stared back at the carving. “It will begin shortly.”
As it always does, the Bursar thought. His shoulders slumped. With a resigned sigh he said, “Then we’d best join them.”
“Not yet, Bursar.” Nasen’s hand was raised, but he never took his eyes away from the carving of Christ. “We need to talk. Franklin told me about your secretary.”
Davies swallowed nervously. “Another trick of Andraste. I’m sure it’s nothing to be concerned about -‘
“I’m not referring to her…visitation, Bursar.” The hand was still raised. But now it folded in on itself, fingers curling, nails into palm. A fist.
A fist clenched in fury that came crashing down onto the pew. The crack of splintered oak reverberated around the small chapel like a gunshot. Davies almost jumped, and Nasen turned on him.
“I’m referring to the person she was last seen visiting. Franklin followed her after she drove away. She’s about to contact Freeland!”
Davies’ mouth gaped. “Freeland! But…why would she…”
Nasen stared at his scraped knuckles. Blood began to seep from them. “Ms Cox is a very strong character. She is not stupid. As Franklin led her back to her car she said: ‘Jason was right after all. Freeland has the answers.’ And she said she was going to see him. Tonight. We believe that this Hughes character sowed some seeds, and when Andraste tormented her…well, she obviously saw that as proof.”
“Proof,” the Bursar muttered. They both knew what that meant. If Freeland had the evidence still…
“You need not concern yourself with her. Franklin has informed me that she’s at home in Swavesey. She’s packing a few items for her trip to see Freeland. I have instructed him to take care of the matter.”
Davies’ head swam. He let out a strangled cry and stared at the eyes of Christ.
“Pull yourself together, man.” Nasen snapped, with visible contempt for the Bursar on his harsh features. “Franklin has his own ideas of discretion. The police will suspect nothing. A simple mechanical tinkering - the brakes on that Focus of hers needed looking at anyway. The A14 will be treacherous tonight with the severe ice, and there’s fresh snow on the way…”
Davies rubbed his knuckles against his mouth, his eyes squeezed shut.
“You would do well to take a leaf out of Franklin’s book, Bursar. It is bad enough that the Master weakens…but to have two of the Fellowship falter could destroy everything. Remember why we do this, Bursar. We owe it to mankind. We do this for the love of humanity.”
“Humanity.” Davies let out a high-pitched laugh. “We do this in the name of humanity, do we? It’s so easy to forget!”
“Never forget, Bursar. Never. We have other problems to deal with; Ms Cox is the least of them. Phillip Lotson and Andrew Hughes both visited today. Lotson saw the Master, gave an interview without consent from the College Council.” His lips drew back. “And Hughes came to see you and Ms Cox. Didn’t you think it was odd? Didn’t you spot his resemblance to Charles Harvey?”
Davies frowned. “There was a slight resemblance, I’ll admit, but…”
“No coincidence. If he and Jason Franklin meet, the outcome could be catastrophic.” Now Nasen looked nervous, but Davies told himself it was a trick of the light, a false impression brought about by the flickering candlelight. “Steps will have to be taken. Hughes will have to be dealt with at some stage, but our immediate concern is Lotson.”
“Why Lotson?”
Nasen licked the blood from his knuckles. “Simple, Bursar. I have it on good authority that Lotson was summoned to the Phoenix Unit tonight. There’s only one reason he could be there. Only one person he’d be visiting.”
“Which means he’ll be visiting Freeland at some stage.”
“Precisely, Bursar. Franklin’s talents will have to be called upon again.”
Nasen glanced at his watch, holding it at an angle to the candles to read the display.
“They’ll be conscious now. It’s time.” Davies followed the Senior Tutor to the sacristy. Inside, the carpet had been rolled back to reveal the hinged wooden door that the members of the College Council knew all too well - and where it led to.
The door was propped open by the missing wooden lectern. The eagle’s carved head looked upwards is if screaming against the weight on its shoulders. Simon Davies knew the feeling.
With slumped shoulders and shaking footsteps, he followed Nicholas Nasen down the flight of cold, damp steps to where the rest of the Council waited.
* * * * *
Andy Hughes knew it was impossible. It was just a small wood in the middle of a modern British city, for God’s sake.
He closed his eyes, held them shut for a full ten seconds, breathed in deeply. Then he exhaled and opened them. But his eyes weren’t lying.
The trees had closed in on him. Flashing his small Maglite behind him, he could see his footprints implanted on the frozen snow, leading to him. From their point of origin was nothing. The path had vanished.
The lights of the college that had beckoned through the gaps in the trees had vanished as well. He turned slowly, holding the torch outwards, carving a circle of light in the sylvan darkness. The snow on the branches was illuminated in a strange shade of blue. The crunching of his Nikes on the frozen snow was the only sound. That and his deep, heavy breathing. Nothing. No pathway leading in…and nothing leading out.
“Bollocks,” he hissed. “There’s always a way…”
He walked in the opposite direction of the footprints and stared at the trees barring his way. He could squeeze through the gap between the trunks but after that there were more obstacles, more trees to get round. Not a problem in itself but without a straight path to follow he’d be lost. He shook his head in wonder. Lost in a tiny wood like this…holding the torch up he could see no end to the wood in sight.
Well, can’t go backwards…
He pushed through the lower branches of the first pair of oaks, wincing at the lumps of snow thrown down from their limbs and landing on his neck. He shrugged them off and pushed forwards. On foot he had a better impression of just how ancient these trees were. The boles stared hungrily at him, gaping holes of blackness that seemed to stretch to the centre of the earth itself. The trunks were wider, thicker than he remembered.
A noise. A twig cracking? He looked downwards, surprised that there was little in the way of leaf litter. Just frozen earth beneath frozen snow.
The noise again. Behind him. He turned and stared. And dropped the Maglite in disbelief at what he saw.
The torch fell to the ground with a soft plop, but remained pointed in the direction of the thing that was breaking through the hole in the ground, illuminating the thing in all its horror.
It was identical to the boar they’d pulled out of Rob Benson’s Transit earlier, but the tusks were smaller - and sharper. The black bristles on its hide and dorsal crest gleamed in the torchlight as it heaved itself from the hole in the ground. Andy blinked, his mouth open in horror. The hole was rectangular, cut by human hands.
How the hell did I miss that? Identical to that in the lawns of Old Court, where the boar would be consigned to at the end of each Feast…a dead boar. A half-consumed boar.
Identical to what came his way now. The eyes were dull and opaque, all spark of life extinguished. Except for a tiny pinprick of scarlet within each centre.
The legs propelled the impossible thing forwards: the front trotters and the hindquarters powerfully
gouging huge chunks out of the frozen earth. Clumps of mud that bounced up into the gaping hole where its belly and innards had been.
Andy picked up the torch and backed away slowly. He felt frozen wooden fingers prodding his back. The boar opened its mouth and hissed like a snake. No steam from condensing breath. No warmth. No life…and yet not dead.
It leaped at him, its powerful hindquarters easily launching three hundred kilograms of beast into the air. Andy twisted, fell to the ground and rolled in the opposite direction. He watched the dead boar crash into the trunk of the nearest oak, its trotters scrabbling wildly on the wood, snow shaken from the tree by its impact. It turned, fixed him in its sights and launched itself again.
This time Andy wasn’t so fortunate. Its forelegs crashed into his chest, knocked him to the ground and punched the breath from his body. His head hit the frozen ground and he cried out in pain. The beast’s snout forced itself into his belly, the wickedly sharp points of its yellowed tusks tearing through the material of the sweatshirt, piercing the skin.
Pushing upwards, they would have passed through into his diaphragm if he hadn’t brought both hands crashing down on the top of its head, twin pile-driver blows that gave no pain to the creature but certainly prevented the tusks going any deeper. He forced downwards with flattened palms, a vain attempt to push the beast away.
It responded with impossible strength and power, its trotters scrabbling on the ground, finding purchase on his thighs. He grunted in pain, felt the tusks gain power once more, knew it was only a matter of time before he was speared…
His palms felt like they’d been pressing down on thistles. God knew what that creature’s hide was made of, but he knew they couldn’t be the bristles found on any normal boar. He forced his palms outwards, moving downwards; each hand finding an ear. Horrible coarse material, like old bone wrapped in ancient parchment.
He twisted and pulled. A loud rending and popping sound filled the tiny clearing as the boar’s ears came away in his hands. Without pausing, without planning, without thinking - just reacting - he reached for the eyes next, those cold, dead, sightless orbs. They popped like cold overripe plums beneath his gouging thumbs.
Then the elongated snout, tearing and twisting. This didn’t come away, but the soft fleshy parts of the tip were crushed to a pulp between his hands. No blood came forth, no warmth released by this piece of flesh.
No pain registered in the boar, either, it continued to battle as though unaware of the destruction being wrought upon it.
Andy fought with a blind rage and unconscious fury, the genie released from its bottle as it had been less than twenty-four hours ago. He gained the upper hand, twisting his body over, mounting the boar. He had its tusks in his hands now, his knees crushing the beast to the ground. He bent the head back, saw its lower jaw open…and then with a speed and expertise that surprised even himself, he took his right hand from the tusk, reached into the mouth and wrenched the animal’s tongue from its roots.
It flapped noisily as he tossed it into the snow. Then the legs, twisting them violently in his hands, hearing the rapid popping and cracking of sinews being broken, of joints twisted from their sockets.
It still moved as he got to his feet and examined his handiwork. It dragged itself forwards on broken limbs, its slack jaw and mangled snout trailing on the snow. Its eye sockets still seemed to see him, fixing him in a glare that was doubly impossible - neither eyes to see nor life to power it - but was there nevertheless.
Andy felt the sweat cool and freeze on his body, steam wafting into the night air to meet the fresh flurries of snow that started to fall. He was aware of the cold, liquid sensation of trickling blood - or its equivalent - on his thighs and stomach. But he was alive.
The beast sagged into the snow, its movements becoming more sluggish with each second that passed. Andy didn’t wait to see if it stopped altogether; he turned and despite the pain in his gored abdomen he ran.
He could see a lightening of shadows in front, and realised that he was on the right track at last. Each step was agony, but the faint glow of lights from ancient buildings fired him onwards - as did the sound of snorting and snuffling behind him. More than one creature made those noises - he knew the boar that had attacked him was not alone.
Through the cloisters and archways, his breath misting and his vision blurring into a haze of dark red, he powered his body onwards. Only when the sounds of the boar faded into the night did he allow himself the luxury of slowing his pace.
It was an eternity before he reached Old Court and laid tear-filled eyes on his destination: the chapel, where Pearce had told him to go.
He moved slowly towards it, hugging the cold clunch walls to share their shadows.
His hand on the door handle, he put his ear to the gap between the double doors and listened. No sound, perhaps it was empty. Take a chance, he thought. He took a deep breath and pulled the door open.
* * * * *
Simon Davies had always wondered why the robes were white. It was stupid and impractical - it showed the blood too clearly.
But it was part of the ritual, a tradition that could not be broken, nor even questioned. Everything had to be followed as the previous generations had followed. Nothing could be left to chance; one slight error, one tiny deviation from the propitiation could have dire consequences for all. Andraste would not forgive a second time.
Through the narrow eyeholes of his wooden mask he looked around the cellar, taking in the white robed and masked figures of the other members of the Council. There should have been no way of knowing who was who. But they knew. They all knew. They eyes gave everything away.
Cassell and Nasen’s were the only ones that weren’t filled with fear and self-loathing. They roamed the crypt, eyes fixing on the others and glaring, forcing them to be strong.
Remember your duty. We do this for the love of humanity.
Their eyes rested on those of the Master for considerably longer. It was he and his hesitation, his weakness, which had almost brought disaster upon them all. His anguished eyes, red from weeping, were the most noticeable. Davies sympathised, shuddering at the thought of the responsibility on Searles’ shoulders.
The two figures in the centre of the circle they formed were barely recognisable as human. When they still had their limbs: still had eyes, lips nose and ears - Davies knew that even Nasen had felt pity then. Knowing that this man and woman had friends and loved ones. Fathers worried sick about their disappearances. Mothers who would surely have killed themselves if they knew the suffering their children were undergoing.
That was all gone, now. The skin removal had reduced the offerings to something less than human. It should have made the penultimate stage of the ritual easier: knowing the offering no longer had a tongue with which to scream, eyes to weep and plead, ears to hear the sound of their own flesh being torn apart. The removal of all five senses, total sensory deprivation as demanded by Andraste.
But it wasn’t. This was the hardest part of all. This was when the Council were confronted with the final result of their work. A human being reduced to nothing but a quivering lump of raw meat that begged for death and an end to its suffering. Each member of the Council knew that death that would soon be granted. And that the indescribable suffering in the crypt was a mere prelude to what would follow when the offering left this plane to join Andraste.
The dismembered torso of the student Dan Bailey still quivered, even when the head was finally cut away. Davies had to turn away and force himself not to vomit, but that made him see the ravaged remains of what had once been Emma Robertson.
He saw Nasen remove his mask, a signal that this stage of the propitiation to Andraste was complete.
Davies took off his own mask, found himself staring at the bloodshot eyes of the Master. Searles blinked, and red fluid seeped from beneath his eyelids.
Blood had spurted into the eyes holes of the mask when the Master made the final cut on the woman. He was ashen-faced
, the blood from his victim the only colour on his face. He was sobbing.
The Council placed the masks on top of their folded robes. They left the scattered joints of meat to be collected by Cassell, and the others filed up the steps leading back to the chapel.
Their steps were heavy, but Davies sensed a tangible feeling of relief in the cold air of the chapel. The hardest part was done. At least he would not have to be involved in any more killings this year. He thought about Judith Cox and Phillip Lotson but forced it out of his mind. Franklin’s task, his responsibility. Not mine.
That relief evaporated when he came face to face with the carving of Christ. The eyes were open, staring at the Council accusingly.
Remember your duty. We do this for the love of humanity. Davies swallowed thickly and lowered his eyes.
Then raised them. The face of Christ…
The mouth was open, but not in a soundless scream, and no longer silent. The sound of mocking laughter filled the small chapel. Female laughter.
Not enough…one more…I DEMAND ONE MORE!
Davies froze. Even Nasen looked alarmed, as his horrified gaze met the Bursar’s. His fingers loosened and his knife fell to the floor, the sharp clattering of metal on stone almost deafening in the confined space.
SEARLES…you know of whom I speak. She comes tomorrow…take her and prepare her…
“How many more?” Searles cried in anguish. “Dear God, how many more?” He sank to the floor, kneeling at Christ’s feet. The carved face stared downwards at him with undisguised contempt.
She will suffice…for now. But then you must -
The voice of Andraste stopped as the door of the chapel swung outwards. The candles fluttered, the shadows even more animated.
Illuminated in the glow of the lampposts of Old Court, the bleeding, black clad figure stared in shock at the animated carving of Christ that writhed and squirmed on its wooden prison.
The Council turned as one and stared at him. Silence filled the small chapel, tension mounting between the members of the Council and one who had dared to enter the chapel during the ritual.
The Caretakers (2011) Page 20
