The Caretakers (2011)

by Adrian Chamberlin

  “Yes, I’ve told her what her role is, what’s expected of her. What awaits her.”

  Andy crawled forwards, his nails scraping on the stone floor, every movement fresh agony. But the look of defiance and hatred in Jen’s eyes steeled him. It gave him hope.

  “Bastard,” Andy hissed through the remains of his teeth. “Murdering bastard…”

  Franklin’s eyes widened at the sight of the battered, bleeding man crawling his way across the cold stone floor of the sacrificial chamber. He nodded in approval and genuine respect.

  “I’m impressed, Hughes. I really am. But save it. It won’t do you any good.” He glanced at Jen’s mutilated hand, then at Andy’s intact one.

  “Neither of you have much time left. The Fellowship will be returning shortly to complete the sacred task, so enjoy your brief time together.”

  Franklin stepped backwards and allowed the lovers to find their way together. He stared hard at Jen’s left hand.

  “No ring, Hughes? Shame on you. A good woman like this, you should have made a commitment a long time ago.” He lowered the SPAS 12 from his shoulder. He examined the gaping hole of the muzzle then stared at the pistol grip. He looked back at Andy’s left hand, the fingers splayed outwards, reaching for Jen’s unmarked right hand.

  “What’s the point, though?” Franklin said ruefully. “What would you do? Share your life with her, share the household bills, raising of children, so forth…none of that’s available to you now. But there is one thing you can share with her.” Franklin raised the SPAS 12.

  “Share her pain.” He brought the butt crashing downwards onto the knuckles of Andy’s left hand with enough force to crush them into a pulp, sever three fingers and strike sparks on the stone floor underneath.

  * * * * *

  Searles walked forward calmly, his gowned arms outstretched. Not a placating or conciliatory gesture but one of purpose. Secure in self-belief - a recent change, Jason realised. There was no trace of the Master’s former weakness or self-doubt in that walk. Not even horror at what his son had just done - or fear.

  He remembered the words the Senior Tutor had said to Franklin last year, just before unconsciousness claimed him.

  Like father, like son, eh Franklin? At that time he’d thought it was a private joke or a strange insult aimed at the head porter. But watching the Master of All Souls advance towards him he knew now what Nasen had meant.

  The desire for the end of Andraste, the destruction of the Fellowship of All Souls. The one thing Jason and David Searles held in common. But it seemed now they didn’t even have that in common. Searles smiled grimly, his eyes full of purpose and…

  Duty, Jason thought suddenly. The awareness of - and acceptance of-an onerous but sacred responsibility. He’s come to accept the duty of Master just as I’ve come to free him from it!

  He opened the door and stepped out of the cab. He smiled. Running in thick rivulets underneath the van was the blood of the Bursar, pooling around his trainers.

  But where was the body? He frowned, forgetting the approaching figure of his father for one moment. He turned and stared at the damage he had caused.

  The right door was hung precariously off the top hinges. The bottom one had sheared away completely. The door rocked back and forth in time with the wind. And even though both hinges on the left hand door had sheared away the door was still standing - but only because the tail lift had driven into it by a full two feet.

  He stared in wonderment. The blood on the raised anti-slip surface made a strange pattern, but not quite as strange as the severed top half of the Bursar that had fallen to his side, hands raised. The fingers were twitching, as were the grey and yellowish tubes spilling from below the Bursar’s broken ribcage.

  “Jason.”

  He turned to face the speaker. David Searles was four feet away from the open driver’s door. Jason’s eyes narrowed.

  He reached into the cab and withdrew one of the petrol cans. Hefting it in his right hand he advanced towards his father.

  “You don’t seem too concerned to see me, Master. Daddy!” Jason spat the last word out and Searles halted. He lowered his hands and sighed.

  “So you know, then. What do you want me to say, Jason?” His eyes were hard. No trace of weakness anymore, no regret - and no guilt. That was the hardest thing for Jason to accept.

  “Apologise? Beg your forgiveness for giving you life? That was my sin, my weakness, and I’ve suffered for it.” The Master’s eyes were chips of slate. “And the world almost suffered for it. You should never have been born, Jason. You were an accident, the result of my lust. A symbol of my failure, nothing more.”

  Jason felt the rage build in him at the cold, impersonal brush-off from the man who now finally admitted to being his father. He remembered the words of The Elder. Harness this rage, Jason. Unleash it against your father. His hand tightened on the petrol can.

  Searles glanced at it, a flicker of concern in his hazel eyes. But not fear. He saw the other fuel cans on the passenger seats and saw the bloodstained temperature probe on the dash. He shook his head slowly.

  “It would appear that you’re much better equipped this year, Jason.” He looked back to the petrol can in Jason’s hand and raised a pointed, steady finger at it.

  “But to finish what you started? Forget it. You’re too late. The propitiation is being prepared to sing as we speak. Andraste will be appeased in spite of your attempts to disrupt our sacred duty. It is only a matter of time before the police make their way here to apprehend you…but that will be the least of your concerns. You really haven’t planned this properly, have you? As my son, I don’t know if I should be relieved or disappointed.”

  “Neither. Be prepared.” Jason’s fury coursed through him now, ice cold and red hot. As cold as the snow that froze the unhallowed stones of the buildings of All Souls, as hot as the furnace that Andraste would turn the world into. An unnatural rage: that could only have come from one born of the bloodline of the Fellowship of All Souls.

  “Prepared,” Searles nodded, his eyes flicking from the petrol can to the severed body of the Bursar. “For what, exactly?”

  Jason said nothing.

  “Justice, retribution? Divine Judgement?” Searles took a step forwards.

  Jason became aware of movement, a noise behind him. One he had been expecting. He turned smoothly, the petrol can striking the advancing porter in the face. The porter staggered backwards, blood gushing from the shattered ruin of his nose. The neatly trimmed blonde goatee, now turning crimson, told him this was Street, the head porter’s younger deputy.

  Street swayed violently, hands clenched over the pumping fountain in his face. Jason raised the petrol can high over his head and brought it down, hard on Street’s crown.

  The impact sent jarring shockwaves up his arm. The crack of plastic and bone was followed by fluid splashing on his sleeve.

  He looked down in surprise. It wasn’t Street’s blood - that was spreading on the snowy flagstones of the path underneath the dead porter. He raised the can again to the light from the van’s headlights, and saw that the moulding seam had split.

  “Shit.”

  Now that he was alone Searles looked alarmed. He saw the fluid trickling down Jason’s arm, soaking the navy sweatshirt, saw the body of Franklin’s assistant twitching in its death throes on the steps of the Great Hall.

  “Shoddy piece of kit,” Jason muttered as he examined the split in the plastic. “Still, nothing lasts forever, does it, father?”

  Searles couldn’t reply. He opened his mouth to speak, only to have it filled with sharp, acrid liquid. He coughed, gagging as the petrol slipped down his throat.

  Jason walked around the black gowned figure, splashing more fuel from the damaged petrol can onto him, eager to get as much on his father as he could before it was lost to the ground.

  “Nothing lasts forever, dad. Twenty-first century plastic and fourteenth century stone - and all within - they all go in the end. Cons
umed by fire.”

  Jason threw the empty canister away. It hit the flagstones and made a hollow noise that echoed around the confines of Old Court. He watched Searles flapping in panic and genuine fear, a complete contrast to the arrogance and new-found contempt that had been displayed before.

  The Master rubbed his eyes with the sleeves of the gown, blinking furiously. The coughing subsided. Now he looked ready to run. His eyes searched Jason, watching for his next movement.

  Jason now stood by the near side of the Luton. He pulled the flap marked UNLEADED ONLY and pointed to the missing filler cap - and the rag stuffed there. He reached into his pocket and retrieved the lighter.

  Searles’ shoulders stiffened. He let out a long hiss of terror and backed away, his hands raised in supplication. Jason advanced, waving the lighter.

  “Come on, daddy! How about a big hug for your number one son? Just got time before we all go up in smoke!”

  Searles had moved behind the driver’s door. Jason shook his head.

  “No point hiding, daddy.” His thumb rubbed up and down the wheel. It made soft, threatening clicking noises. He spread his arms wide, grinning in triumph and anticipation.

  Then he saw what was tearing from the open door of the Transit parked outside the porter’s lodge. His arms dropped and his smile froze.

  What the bloody HELL?

  Within a second, Searles was on him.

  * * * * *

  It had been human once. It had been skinned, gutted and deboned, but it could only have come from a human being. Whether or not it was male or female - Dan or Emma - he couldn’t be sure. He didn’t want to be sure.

  Rob Benson’s hands trembled on the steel worktop. His nails scraped along the steel surface, and the rocking motion caused the Browning to rattle.

  He closed his eyes and tilted his head back. His breath came out in ragged bursts of mist in the freezing cold air. Now he knew what the Communion was. Why the boar was ritually buried. It wasn’t enough for the victim of Andraste’s choosing to be ceremonially tortured to death, for his or her soul to be eternally torn to pieces.

  The final insult, the ultimate horror. And the remainder given to the beasts of the forest…

  He swayed on his feet, felt the black and white tiles rearing up to meet him. He glanced around the empty kitchen. The fluorescent lights shone coldly on the catering utensils and shining white serving plates. He heard only the steady humming of the refrigerator units, the roaring of the fan ovens, a door opening to his left.

  Rob turned around, saw the door marked CATERING OFFICE closing behind the huge bulk of the head chef who walked slowly towards him. Even from this distance Cassell reeked of sour sweat and halitosis. His greasy, fat lips were parted in surprise and anger, a pink slug-like tongue poking between them. His overalls were stained with crimson patches and brownish yellow stains.

  “You again, boy? Come to get some scraps for your little doggie, have you?”

  The wheezy laughter of the head chef echoed around the whitewashed walls of the kitchen. Rob’s stomach lurched when he saw Cassell stretch out a hand to the knife rack to the right of the Catering Office doorway. Cassell didn’t even look at the selection. His sweaty fingers closed immediately around the largest blade, a carving knife that Rob thought wouldn’t have looked out of place on a Russian whaling ship.

  Fuck him! He’s got a blade, but I’ve got a shooter…he stretched his hand behind, feeling for the spot he was certain he’d put the gun. They met the cold dead meat of the boar’s stomach contents. Rob’s hand jerked away as if he’d touched a live electrical wire. His stomach flipped and he started to gag.

  “Found out our little secret, white van man? Good for you!” He raised the carving knife. The reflecting strip-lighting turned the four inch wide blade into liquid silver.

  Rob turned around, saw the Browning lay on the adjacent table - and lunged for it.

  His fingers closed around the pistol grip just as a heavy industrial saucepan flew past his ear and struck his hand with unerring accuracy. Rob howled in pain and the pistol spun away from his hand, falling to the floor where it fractured one of the tiles.

  A wet, clammy hand clamped onto his right shoulder and spun him round. Rob Benson felt rather than saw the tip of the carving knife placed under his left eye. All he saw were the eyes of Cassell boring into him; a cruel smile plastered on the sweating, pockmarked face.

  “Bringing guns into my workshop, boy? Not even Franklin would dare do that!” The point of the knife jabbed forwards, bringing a small drop of blood to the surface. Rob cried out in alarm and tried tilting his head further back, but Cassell’s fingers dug into his shoulder and held him firm. The head chef brought his chin to the level of his knuckles, his eyes inches away from Rob’s. He chuckled.

  “I’m guessing you’re friends with this Hughes man I was warned about.” Spittle flecked from his fat lips as he spoke. “Yes, you know who I mean. Let me tell you something.

  “This isn’t just a kitchen, delivery boy. Not even a ‘catering unit’ as them that runs the accounts and tries to sell the food to posh nobs would like to call it. Every year, this becomes my studio. This is where I practices my art, see?”

  In spite of the fear that held him frozen, Rob laughed.

  “Art? Art? Cutting people up and stuffing them inside a pig - that’s art? Fuck you, fat man!”

  Cassell took his hand from Rob’s shoulder and patted his cheek gently. The knife remained where it was.

  “It’s not an art you suffer for, is it Cassell? For fuck’s sake, why? Isn’t it enough that those poor fuckers are tortured to death - do you have to eat them as well?”

  “That’s the nature of the Communion, boyo. Andraste demands. Flesh of the offering binding to the flesh of one of her Children. The Fellowship consumes the flesh as Andraste consumes the soul.” He laughed again. “But to merge the two meats - it’s an art form, boy. One I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

  “That why you got so pissed off yesterday?” Rob snapped. The fear was fading, despite the cold steel under his eyeball. Rage and disgust replaced fear. “Me and Jasper almost spoiled your canvas, didn’t we?”

  Cassell’s face darkened.

  “Far worse than that, delivery boy. Your drunken little visit last night was far worse. Running over one of the Children of Andraste and taking its hallowed corpse away from the Nemeton - that’s never been done before!”

  “First time for everything…boy.” Rob risked a sarcastic grin. “Don’t worry; he’s resting in peace now.”

  Now Cassell looked worried. His grip returned to Rob’s shoulder and he dug his fingers in again.

  “Where is it?” There was urgency in the head chef’s voice. “Where is the boar?”

  “Last time I saw him he was nothing more than a pile of cremated ash in my warehouse - until he came back to life and attacked me.” Rob gritted his teeth. “Your mate Jasper saved me this time…but you’ll be pleased to know he won’t be pissing in your kitchens anymore.”

  Cassell stared wide eyed at him. Then he smiled.

  “Now you know the true power of Andraste’s children. How special those beasts are…and what an honour it is to be allowed to consume their flesh.”

  Knowing how much the boar had stunk when they’d forked it off the Transit yesterday Rob couldn’t agree less.

  “I’ll take your word for that, pal.” He wondered if Jasper had enjoyed the honour before he died. He must have swallowed a fair chunk of the beast’s blood and flesh when he savaged it in the warehouse.

  “You’ll have to. It’s an honour that won’t be extended to you.” He glanced behind him, to the open service doors leading to the dead catering worker hanging over the rail.

  “Now, I’ve got work to do. You’ve left me a little short staffed today. I’ve got enough work cut out for me as it is.”

  He took the blade from Rob’s face and extended his left arm as far as he could.

  Then he lowered the knife a
nd drove it into Rob’s stomach.

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  The pain was so great Andy couldn’t even scream. He rolled on the floor, knocking over the last of the candles. He held the ravaged ruin of his hand to his chest and then tried to thrust it away, as though the more distance he could put between it and him the less agony he’d feel.

  He couldn’t breathe. Vomit and broken teeth filled his throat once more. He spun round on the floor and became vaguely aware of a booted foot prodding him in the broken ribs. He didn’t hear the mocking words of the head porter.

  “Three each. Well done, Hughes. You’ve shared some of her pain.” Franklin lowered the combat shotgun to the floor and retrieved the flashlight. He shone it around the twisting, thrashing bulk of Hughes. In the light from the Krypton bulb the blood spraying from Andy’s injuries gleamed unnaturally.

  “Not as much pain as I’d like to give you, of course. But time’s pressing on.”

  He crouched down, resting on his haunches, and relit some of the candles. He took care to keep the candlesticks away from Andy’s thrashing legs.

  He remained immobile for some time - long enough for Andy’s agonised writhing to slow. He glanced towards the prone body of Jennifer Callaby and then back to Andy.

  “You’re a tough bastard, Hughes. I’ll give you that.” He spat on the floor. “And a dangerous one. I knew this fifteen years ago when you first set foot in the college. I saw the resemblance to Charles Harvey, I knew history was being repeated…I knew it was only a matter of time before you’d come and break the Fellowship and bring ruin upon us all.”

  Franklin crouched down, his knees inches from Andy’s severed, still twitching fingers. He picked one up and held it to the nearest candle.

  “Your rage marked you out as one of the blood. You had to be dealt with…and it was my idea to make you turn that rage against yourself. Didn’t think you’d come back, though.”

  In spite of the spiral of pain in which Andy was lost, Franklin’s words struck a chord. With dazed, barely comprehending eyes he lifted his head from the floor and stared at the head porter.

  So Franklin had arranged for Kelly to be raped by the two All Souls students. Pumped them full of drugs - or had they taken the coke themselves to give them courage? Either way, it didn’t matter. Franklin had engineered the whole thing. This was the man responsible for the attempted rape of Kelly. This was the man responsible for his fifteen years inside prison. And all because he was seen as a threat?