by N. J. Mercer
Boyd nodded sombrely, a frown on his face.
“Why don’t the Seven do more for you? Give you powerful alien weapons or something?”
“Their aim is not to dominate. Besides, in the scale of the universe, I’m only one of a countless number of agents. I won’t get any special attention. This Trinity conflict is so big that no side would divert resources to somewhere like Earth when its highest life-form, man, has still got so far to evolve. There are many, many planets like ours where the dominant species has not progressed beyond existing only as a single state of matter. If Earth dies then we just join the list of billions of sentient life-forms that never made it beyond the earliest evolutionary steps.”
“So you’ve never met the Council of Seven then?” Boyd asked.
Johnny shook his head.
“I think we can help each other,” declared Boyd and extended his hand to be shaken. “I can appreciate where you guys are coming from.”
“Now you know a bit about us. We still don’t know who you are. Why don’t you tell us your story? I don’t want to be reading your mind; I mean, that would just be rude wouldn’t it?” said Johnny with a wink.
Boyd took the comment in the correct spirit and laughed it off before he removed his leather jacket to get comfortable. “As it’s so late, I’ll just tell you how I ended up here for now. The whole life-story thing will have to wait, if it’s all the same to you.”
There was no objection. Johnny and Sascha listened as Boyd recounted the circumstances by which he came to be involved in this affair. He filled them in on all that Martin had told him, providing them with the inside information he had gathered from the former Disciple. He went on to describe the events leading up to his timely intervention in the aircraft hangar. His audience got the impression that turning up in the nick of time was a habit for Boyd, who just insisted that he was guided by the Grimoires. Boyd went on to emphasise the importance Martin had given to a deadline that was now two nights away, reiterating what the Council of Seven had already stated. To Johnny, this was all highly valuable information, the assignment had taken a leap forwards – it was still looking tricky though. He knew that Boyd wasn’t passing on this wealth of information purely out of generosity; Johnny realised that to fulfil his obligations to his Order it would be very useful for Boyd to have a psychic ally, which is what he saw in him. The benefits of this arrangement were mutual. Boyd had already proven his worth in combat, and through his account of the conversations he had with Martin, Johnny now had some idea about what they were to confront: a group of Disciples based in the Scottish Highlands under the leadership of a powerful psychic who was aided by summoned alien entities, one of whom they had met already, the murderous Mr Kreb. Each man now had the measure of the other, and a bond had been formed.
“How did you get involved with this Order of the Earthly Eye then? It doesn’t sound like a club that advertises for members,” commented Sascha.
“It’s a very long story and like I said, it’s late; don’t you think we should just sleep for now?” Boyd replied.
Johnny looked at the fatigued faces around him and imagined how bad he must have looked himself. It was about four in the morning; rest was what they needed. Boyd’s story would have to wait. A mutual decision to retire was made.
“Mind if I have another cigarette?” Boyd asked as he reached for his packet.
“Sorry, Boyd, but yes, I do mind,” said Sascha from his bunk. “This place is stinking.”
Boyd apologetically stepped outside for his smoke.
“So, in the morning we go up to Scotland?” Sascha asked Johnny, uncertain as to whether a decision had been made in this respect.
Johnny was lying in his own bunk and had been about to drop off to sleep. He could tell that his friend, who had recently woken from a nap, was finding it hard to switch off. “Probably,” he replied. “I have a few ideas. One of them is to try and find this Martin bloke – for now we sleep.” Baccharus groaned and tried to get up. “Not so fast, pal,” said Johnny, reaching over to gently coax his familiar back onto the seat. “You need more rest. If you’re up and about now, it will take longer for you to get back to full strength.” Baccharus yielded and lay back down again.
Boyd re-entered and retired to another of the bunks, covering himself with a sleeping bag. The only sound outside was the occasional vehicle speeding along the nearby road. Just before he fell asleep, Johnny allowed his mind to drift into the world of psychic perception that lay beyond the five senses. In the distance he heard a voice calling, the one from the dream, but he was sure he was awake. It beckoned him to proceed northwards, to follow it, to help. An image of the valley flashed through his mind. “Find me here …” the voice whispered in the distance, echoing around the mountains, and there was the faintest suggestion of a chant in the background.
Chapter 9
As Johnny and his friends fell into restful slumber, Rachel awoke for the second time that night from a light and restless sleep. It was the very early hours and outside it was still dark. She lay alone in her room, the strange meeting with Martin very much on her mind. The previous evening, her foster family had noticed her subdued mood and commented on it, enquiring as to whether she was feeling unwell. She told them she was fine, just a little tired. Rachel was quite sure they weren’t suspicious of anything going on and had probably put any change in her manner down to the fickle, sensitive nature she was known for, simply Rachel having an off-day. By telling them she was tired she had not lied; Martin’s impromptu visit had brought back memories of her mother and reopened old wounds, acting as if nothing had happened for what remained of the day had been exhausting. The voice inside her that she had suppressed all those years ago was screaming out once again, it cried in anguish for her dead mother and for answers about what happened to her.
It was not just memories Martin had brought with him, there was also the old diary, a poignant physical link to the past. Rachel had managed to keep it stuffed inside her loose top until she had the chance to hide it beneath her mattress where it remained concealed from the rest of the household to be read later; alongside it was the strange amulet.
As she lay awake, the rest of her foster family slept; now, at this most unsociable of hours, was an opportunity to read the old journal. There were a few things to do first … while it was still safe. She got out of bed, turned on the small lamp and crept over to the ornate mahogany wardrobe in the corner of her bedroom. From it she dug out some clothing and a few choice possessions: a framed photograph of her mother, an old paperback and her own scribbled journal. It was depressing to think that in the tiny pile in front of her was all she valued; it had been a difficult life. She removed the amulet Martin had given to her from beneath the mattress. She emptied a little sports bag that she used for PE lessons and placed all the items in it, carefully putting the bag into a corner of the wardrobe then hiding it under a pile of clothes. This was preparation for tomorrow night, the night Martin said he would come and take her.
Rachel tiptoed over to the closed bedroom door, opened it a crack and quietly listened. She could just about hear the slow, steady breathing from her sleeping foster mother in the distance; her foster father was away for the night, as he so often was. There were no other sounds; given time, she was certain that the strange noises and vibrations from beneath the house would start again – plumbing indeed. Satisfied that she was the only person awake, she closed her bedroom door again, reached under the mattress and produced the journal from its hiding place, her heart pounding with anticipation as she did so. She slipped back into bed, holding the old diary close to her. Before she read it, she took the precaution of placing it inside a comic book, thereby concealing it from the view of anyone who might happen to enter her room. Her adrenalin flowed, firstly in response to the ever-present danger of being caught with this book and the questions it would raise, and secondly, from the anticipation of being close to her mother again through her words. Despite the lack of sleep she f
elt quite awake now.
Before she opened the journal, she noticed that there were pages torn from it and wondered how and when this happened; she would ask Martin the next time she saw him. With a deep breath she let the diary fall open at a random page. The dim light from her bedside lamp illuminated the text. Her first act was to stroke its pages and gently caress the writing with her fingertips; somehow, this brought her closer to the mother whom she had loved so dearly. She looked fondly at the large, curly script, and pangs of sorrow started to fill her. The sense of danger Martin had instilled managed to keep any emotions in check – Rachel remained all too aware that she could also fall victim to whatever it was that had taken her mother away.
She flicked through the diary, just looking at it, occasionally reading a few lines. It brought back distant memories: like the time when she moved to Hilvern village with her mother.
**
When Joseph McFadden passed away, having outlived his own children, he left behind a small bungalow to the only relative with whom he had maintained any contact, his granddaughter Louise Croft.
Recently separated from her negligent husband, it was an unforeseen opportunity for Louise and her young daughter Rachel, aged only seven years old, to move away from the misery of their inner-city Glasgow housing estate and start afresh in the old Highland village of Hilvern. Louise, energetic and hard-working by nature, soon established herself in the community by taking up different jobs in and around the village to make ends meet. She served part-time behind the bar in one of the main village pubs and helped the widow Mrs McGuiness run her farm shop situated a few miles out of town. She also worked as a domestic cleaner, carrying out chores in private households for anybody willing to pay her hourly rate.
The McGuiness store sold all sorts, and to many it was the quickest and easiest source for basic supplies such as groceries, solid fuel or toiletries. To procure more business for her cleaning service, Louise left a card in the store window knowing that the little shop was a hub for the people who lived in the more isolated, and often larger, houses scattered throughout the nearby valleys. If anyone needed help with cleaning, it would be the old couples who lived in them.
Soon enough, the advert was seen by a certain well-to-do lady who was in need of a housekeeper for her rambling country property. Following a few telephone conversations, arrangements were made to start work. For Louise, as a single mother, childcare was the bane of her life, so she was grateful when her new employer didn’t object to her bringing Rachel along; in fact, the lady said it would be a good idea as she already had three girls of a similar age.
**
Rachel remembered the day she visited the grand old house during her summer holidays. It was not the first time she had accompanied her mother to work. Doing so was a tedious necessity of her childhood, and she was expecting another boring afternoon of trying to occupy herself as her mother grafted away. To reach the house, they had driven along winding mountain roads and then turned into a long tree-lined lane, uncertain if they had gone the right way until finally their small hatchback car drove onto a magnificent pebbled driveway surrounding an exquisite country mansion house.
Rachel was impressed from the very moment she laid eyes on the vast property with its wild and beautiful gardens. For a girl brought up in a congested city, it really was quite a magical place. They were greeted at the door by an attractive woman who was approaching middle age; she was friendly and welcoming to them both. As Louise got to work, the woman took Rachel upstairs and introduced her to her three daughters. Rachel’s age fell somewhere between that of the three girls’, who initially struck her as being a little strange, she guessed it was because they lived in such relative isolation in the old house. Like their mother, the three were warm and open, and it wasn’t long before they became good friends.
It was funny thought Rachel, not for the first time, as she sat there reading the journal; it was funny how something so simple like the card her mother had left in the window of Mrs McGuiness’s shop could end up having such a profound effect on their lives. That card was responsible for her present situation, her new home, her new parents and, if Martin’s suspicions were to be believed, her mother’s death.
Rachel turned a thick wedge of pages to take the journal forward in time; she scanned the writing on the new page and then turned back a few leaves. She knew exactly what she was looking for. The journal didn’t have entries in it for every day, and after turning the pages back and forth a few more times she found what she was after, and it was not far from the section of missing pages. It was the record of an event that was to have far-reaching consequences for Louise, Rachel and the new family they had met. Her mother wrote about it in the following way:
17th March
Terrible day. I was helping Mrs McGuiness when she told me that one of her friends who worked at the hospital had just informed her about a girl who died. It was one of Elizabeth’s foster children and it sounded like Chloe. Her husband, whose name I can no longer bring myself to mention, brought her in. It was too late though, and nothing could be done for the child.
I was shocked; despite all that had happened I still cared for Elizabeth and the girls. I dashed over to their house with Rachel. I would have gone with Martin had he been around, but he was on a course in Germany for work.
Rachel was very quiet on the drive there. I had already told her about Chloe before we left; she looked sad and a little lost. I tried to explain that things like this happened sometimes and she quietly nodded, I could see she didn’t want to talk about it. I had asked her if she wanted to stay behind, she didn’t; actually, she was adamant about seeing the other girls.
During the drive I didn’t really think about what had happened with her husband a couple of weeks ago – when I reached the house, the horror of it all came back to me, and I felt sick. I knew he was out on business most days so the odds were he would not be around, there was no guarantee though. Given the circumstances of a death in the family, I think I could face him again, and if I did, I wouldn’t want anything to do with him except for saying hello and goodbye. If he was home, I decided I wouldn’t stay for very long.
We reached the house; even as I entered the drive I sensed things were different somehow. The place had a gloom hanging over it despite the perfectly sunny and warm day. His car was in the drive, it didn’t mean anything because he was often driven around by a chauffeur or a taxi.
I walked with Rachel up to the old building just like I had done so many times before, ignoring the negative vibes. I think Rachel felt them too because she was very quiet. I rung the doorbell, I nearly didn’t recognise Elizabeth when she opened the door. She always looked gorgeous, this time her face was pale, her eyes puffy, and her usually immaculate straightened hair was dishevelled. She was surprised to see me. I had already told her that I would no longer be working at the house; I could not bring myself to tell her the reason why, not yet. I don’t know if hiding what her husband had done was the best thing to do or confronting her with it. I didn’t dwell on the matter though; this visit was solely about consoling a friend.
“Louise, I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. “Have you heard what happened?” she asked and I nodded, and we hugged each other. She burst into tears; I also had to dry my eyes.
She invited me into the kitchen. Thankfully, there was no sign of her husband. Rachel would usually go up to play with the girls, this time Elizabeth led her into the kitchen with me to hear about the terrible news. She told me how a few days ago Chloe had been playing on her bicycle. Elizabeth was always very strict with the girls, never really allowing them to go beyond the boundaries of the garden. On this occasion, Chloe had managed to take her little bicycle onto the small roads outside without telling anybody. It was about half an hour later before everyone realised that she was missing.
Elizabeth and the girls had searched the massive garden for Chloe. She was nowhere to be seen. Elizabeth called her husband who rushed back home, had a q
uick look around the grounds, and then went out in his car to try and find her. After an hour of driving he saw her in a roadside ditch lying still and looking pale. He tried to wake her; it was no good. He rushed her to the hospital in his car. He carried her in. All they could do was confirm that she had died, most likely from a head injury. She was found on a route used by tired lorry drivers. The police thought she had been struck by an articulated lorry, probably without the driver even knowing she was there. Elizabeth told me about the difficulty of breaking the news to the rest of the girls and how tough it was for all of them to be dealing with what happened.
We were so upset. Both Rachel and I loved Chloe very much; everybody loved her. She was the youngest of the sisters and I always thought the cutest; she always made everyone laugh with her clowning around. The accident had happened only two days earlier. Since then Elizabeth had been depressed and couldn’t bring herself to do anything.
The house was a mess. Even though I didn’t work for her any more, I offered to clean up. Elizabeth refused, I insisted; so in the end we did it together. Rachel went upstairs to the other girls; they must have talked amongst themselves about what had happened. I think it must have been good for all of them to talk; kids have their own way of coming to terms with tragedies and often bear up to these things better than us adults.
Before we left, Elizabeth told me that she missed me not coming over every week like I used to and that the girls were missing Rachel. I told her I would always be in touch – what more could I say? I didn’t want to let her husband get away with it but, for now, I just didn’t know what to do.
On the drive back, Rachel didn’t speak. I was worried about her; she vaguely remembered the death of her grandparents and her great-grandfather who gave us the house. I could tell it was difficult for her to understand the death of a friend, another child. I talked to her about it when we got back.
