“The legends say that these pigs are the descendants of those Bladud was given when he was exiled, a thousand years ago, or more. The leper Bladud wandered westwards through the countryside with his leprous pigs, reviled and rejected by all who saw him. Until he came to this valley, the valley where this city now stands. In those days it was a valley of darkness, bounded by towering hills and high cliffs, where amongst the matted vegetation the exiled Bladud found black bubbling quicksands, steaming with unnatural heat . . . bright red rocks stained with the iron content of the spring waters . . . blood red . . . . He led his pigs into the waters. When they emerged they were cured—they were free of the curse of leprosy that had afflicted them. Bladud followed them into the waters, and he was cured, too. He founded the city on this site.
“But Bladud was a tyrant. His thirst for power was unquenchable. He ruthlessly destroyed those who stood in his way. He set up prison camps for his enemies on the hills around his new city. They were more like death camps. Most of the hills around here have never been excavated, but there was one small dig early in the twentieth century on Solsbury Hill, to the east of the city. In an area of just a thousand square feet, the remains of six hundred mutilated bodies were found. Smashed skeletons. The excavators were appalled. They’d never seen anything like it. Body upon body. Bone upon bone. Nowhere else in Europe—not until the twentieth century—has revealed massacres on such an immense scale. The finds suggest that the whole area was incredibly heavily fortified, and anyone—anyone—who disagreed with the regime was brutally disposed of. And I’m not talking about myths here. Barry Eliot has heard this from Karen. What I’m telling you forms part of AFFA’s oral and written history. In other words—for all intents and purposes—it’s true.”
“What about the pigs?” asked Kafka.
“I’m getting to them. Bladud loved pigs much more than he loved people. He had been despised and exiled by humans. Pigs had become his only companions—his leprous pigs. The descendants of his first pig herd became his—his killing machines. He bred pigs to kill. They became like pig Rottweilers. Again, this is what Barry has heard from Them. Bladud would have his enemies crippled, their joints smashed, then thrown as living food to his pigs. These pigs thrived on live human flesh. Bladud’s victims were thrown down deep holes—oubliettes, or ‘forgetting holes,’ they’re called—onto ever-growing mounds of the dead and the wounded, as food for the pigs that roamed the catacombs beneath the city.”
“Mounds of bodies?” I said, almost to myself. Putrefying corpses, animal and human, piled up. The fetid black liquid seeping from the crushed carcasses at the bottom of the pile, the writhing masses of larval flies, the sickening miasma emanating from it . . . . I lit a cigarette. I felt bad.
“That is a revolting story,” said Kafka. “Are you suggesting that what we heard in the tunnels last night were the descendants of these—these fucking man-eating pigs? Because if you are, then you’re even more of a lunatic than I thought you were. You can’t seriously be thinking of going down there?” He turned to me. “Valpolicella, don’t listen to this guy. He’s fucking crazy!” Then he stood up. His chair crashed to the ground behind him. The waiters were really taking notice now.
“Who the fuck are you?” he bellowed at Stonehenge. Stonehenge did a pretty good job. He faced Kafka down. He just looked him in the eye until he backed away. Kafka picked up his chair and sat down again.
“I am not your enemy. As I told Valpolicella, I’m an academic. I teach pre-Roman history at the University of London. When I was first told this convoluted and, I admit, barely believable story by Barry Eliot, I reacted much as you did. Though I didn’t knock my chair over. But the more I heard and the more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that it was—and is—true. I’ve always studied conventionally. I’ve never had much time for earth mysteries, ley lines, or crop circles. But there are just too many gaps in our understanding of the world. It’s been said that modern science has one superstition—which is the notion of coincidence. The same holds true for all modern branches of learning. Anyway, you heard the pigs. I’ve heard about them, but I’ve never heard them. You’re ahead of me there.”
“Ahead of you?” said Kafka incredulously. “And if we hadn’t got any fucking further ahead then we’d have been eaten by the fucking things. Well. If you’re right, which I seriously doubt, then you’re still a lunatic. An ancient cabal of power-crazed killers, protected by flesh-eating pigs, a hundred feet below the city? And you’re going to take them on?”
“We have to. Barry and myself are quite certain that this next sacrificial murder is to be part of one final ritual action that They must perform in order to get what they want—which is global dominion.”
I put out my cigarette and counted the butts. Six. Probably time for me to say something. There was a handy gap in the conversation and it had my name on it. Only thing was, I wasn’t sure what to put in it.
“Global dominion? Sounds pretty impressive. I guess a lot of people have fancied that over the years. Tried fairly hard to get it, too, I’d think. But none of them have got their hands on anything like it. Napoleon. The British Empire. Hitler. Stalin. No dice. They didn’t make the grade. They had huge armies, a big heap of weapons, military prowess, intelligence, egomania. And still, they couldn’t control the world. What makes you think that these AFFA bastards are any different?” Hey, that was good, considering I hadn’t rehearsed.
“Two reasons. Time travel. And mind control.”
I gaped at him. I nearly dropped my new cigarette. I almost inhaled a mouthful of coffee. I spluttered a little.
“You’re straight out of the box, my friend. Not quite all connected up right. I mean, are you paying any attention to what you’re saying, or are the words just coming out of your face?”
Stonehenge gave me a serious look. An exasperated look. Perhaps he really was a lecturer.
“They’ve been working on time travel for centuries. They perfected it in about 1950. Mind control was figured out a little later, in 1965 or thereabouts. The Philosopher’s Stone, when used properly, when used absolutely accurately, enables anything. Anything at all. And obviously travelling through time has been a human fantasy forever. And after literally centuries of trying, They managed it. By using the Philosopher’s Stone. And since the nineteen-fifties They’ve actually been using time travel. It’s conventional to see the increasing pace of technological development as a natural by-product of human intelligence. But where do these random and rapidly increasing instances of technological inspiration come from? Why are they happening more and more, faster and faster? Coincidence? Synchronicity? Or something else? Who does not fear where this is all leading to? We see the signs—we see pollution, ever more dangerous ‘accidents,’ radioactivity, destruction of our world, extinction of animals . . . and those things are happening more and more, faster and faster, too. What has been happening during the last fifty years is the result of AFFA taking ideas from our modern world and giving them surreptitiously to carefully selected, highly placed people in the past. A damaged world is precisely what They desire. A world of frightened, desperate populations, a world of terrified slaves. Can’t you see what kinds of trouble They have already caused?”
“I can see that I’m sitting in a café on a Sunday morning with an empty coffee cup in front of me. I can also see that it’s nearly midday. And I can see that I’ll find it easier to take this in if I’ve had a drink. Or three. So why don’t we continue this fascinating discussion about . . . time travel . . . and . . . mind control . . . somewhere without three under-worked waiters listening to every fucking word we say? I’m beginning to feel like I’m on stage and the script is—well, it’s really bad.”
Kafka mumbled something unintelligible but I figured it was agreement of some sort. Stonehenge nodded, got up, and paid the bill to a smirking waiter. And we walked out into the eternal rain.
Chapter 17
Basically Very Out to Lunch
The
city on a Sunday was pretty much like it was on a Saturday. Or any other day. Loads of people. And about two-thirds of them were tourists filming and photographing just about everything they could. I guess they thought the rain was sort of quaint or something. Atmospheric. Romantic. They probably thought it was delightful. Yeah, well. I thought it might be delightful to get out of it.
We went past the City Hall, which made me a little nervous because of ScryTech being underneath it. I made efforts to avoid the ever swivelling CCTV cameras. The memory of being given a talking-to in that field up by the motorway was still vivid, despite the events of last night. My life was beginning to seem just a bit busy.
We hiked it a little way down an alley to a small pub. A very small pub. Stone fireplace, four tables, barstools. Some kind of inoffensive jazz playing low. It suited my mood better than a huge, echoing café. Colin arranged some chairs while I went up to the bar. Stonehenge got out his cigarette-rolling equipment. By the time I got back, they had both settled down. They were making strenuous efforts to avoid each other’s eyes. Stonehenge was studying a wall. Colin was examining the ceiling. I realised that if anyone was going to get the joint jumping, it was going to have to be me. I kept my voice low, like the jazz.
“Hey there, Stonehenge. Good to be having a beer? Up here, in the city? Looking forward to meeting the pigs? Sure you are. Anyway, I’ve been thinking. And you’ll be pleased to know that the direction these thoughts of mine have been taking is towards the notion of believing you. Just for now though, you understand. If I spend too much time at parties talking about man-eating pigs, time travel, and—what was the other one? Mind control, that’s it—I’m going to lose friends faster than I do already. But, like I say, for now I’ve decided to believe you. The whole deal. You can say anything you like, and I’m right there, nodding like a little doggie. I’ve forgotten what I might have wanted to ask you. It doesn’t matter though, because I seem to be in some kind of fantastical nightmare.”
I took a holiday from talking to drink some of my beer and locate my cigarettes. I was bored. Listening to my own voice does that to me. The pub was filling up. I couldn’t figure out why there were so many people around, given that this was the worst weather I could remember. Maybe they were all involved in their own bizarre missions.
“So you don’t want to know any more?” asked Stonehenge.
I shook my head. “None of it seems to make anything any clearer. Right now I’m interested in staying out of police custody come tomorrow. If doing that means preventing someone being murdered—well, like I say, I’m a civilised guy. I’m all for stopping people getting dead. But if it means taking on a whole gang of crazies who are, like Colin pointed out, protected by equally crazy pigs, I’m not so sure that getting arrested isn’t the easier option.”
“You’re wrong,” murmured Stonehenge, “you’re so wrong. Every sacrifice they carry out means they become more powerful. You know about sacrifices? You know why a human sacrifice is more useful to Them than an animal sacrifice? Any death means that energy is being released. Energy cannot be destroyed. It can only be transferred. At its most basic level, sacrifice is just energy transferral. A sudden or a violent death releases a lot of energy very quickly. If the people doing the killing are prepared to harvest that energy, if they have the means to do so, then that energy can be stored, used . . . it can be controlled as any form of energy can be controlled. It can be channelled. As any form of energy can be channelled. The more death, the more energy. Look at what happened to the global economy after the Second World War. And 9⁄11? Very, very good for business.”
“Wait a minute,” said Colin. He peered at Stonehenge through slitted eyes. “Are you asking us to accept that these people, these ‘AFFA’—get their power through some sort of . . . transformer? That they can use death to . . . . Oh, for fuck’s sake, I don’t even know why I’m wasting my time here. Hey, Martin. Shall we leave this guy, who won’t even tell us his name, to spout on to some other poor bastard? Because, because . . . I can’t stand much more of this shit.”
I gave Stonehenge a glance with upraised eyebrows. A quizzical look, you could call it. I’m quite good at them. Then I turned to Kafka.
“Colin, you’re a reporter. No, I’m sorry. A journalist. An investigative journalist. You’ve been doing some investigating. And I can’t see why you want to stop investigating so quickly. Why don’t you finish the fucking job? Shit, I can even get you a gun, if you have any concerns that a gun might get rid of. How about you, Stonehenge? Think you might need a gun? I still know some useful people. I can get guns. Bullets. You know how to handle a gun, Stonehenge?”
He looked at me for maybe a minute, and then slowly shook his head.
“I can demonstrate. It isn’t hard. We’ll go out to the woods and I’ll show you the business. Point and click. Technology at its purest. Bam bam. Bye-bye, bad guy. Or good guy, depending on where you aim the piece. Isn’t that right, Colin?”
Kafka grunted unhappily. He looked at his watch. “Okay, okay . . . Valpolicella, you get the guns and the wherewithal to make them more than decorative. Stonehenge? Tell me some more . . . stuff. Background. All right?” Kafka got his notebook out, a display of professionalism I appreciated. Mentally I went through my contacts. Could I get hold of some guns? Probably. Maybe. I worried about this for a time. Stonehenge was talking to Kafka. I started to listen. Despite my better instincts.
“AFFA are seeking a new world. A new world order, to coin a cliché. They want to be like gods. Gods. The world we live in is too chaotic for Them. They don’t like it. Leaders They appoint get deposed, or voted out. Laws They get passed are reformed. That’s why they’ve been using the Philosopher’s Stone to subtly alter perceptions over the course of time. That’s why time travelling has always been so important to Them. If enough people have their perception altered, then that changed perception becomes reality. A new reality. So the Industrial Revolution, atomic energy, biological warfare, cloning . . . these are just ideas, right? Until they become reality. And then they are more, much more, than ideas. The idea that AFFA have has to do with total control. Total control means control of energy. For Them, energy is inextricably bound up with death. Take oil. Oil is nothing more than the black ooze left behind by the deaths of millions of organisms, millions of years ago.
“The new reality being prepared by Them is one of war, famine, and death. The end of consensus. A world controlled utterly, ruthlessly, by the spiritual descendants of King Bladud. What he achieved in this area of England will be worldwide. The apparatus has already been put into place. What we know as the military-industrial complex already exists. That’s an integral part of what AFFA are creating.
“Metaphorically, which is probably the best way to make sense of Their objective, we are talking about the end of the republic. The beginning of the empire. The empire of AFFA. And you don’t need me to remind you how it is that empires operate. Through ruthless suppression of opposition. Understand?
“We don’t know what else is down beneath the surface. The oldest tunnels, the ancient tunnels, are straight down, directly beneath us, directly below the city itself. Maybe the rest of the catacomb complex is equally old. Like Charlcombe.”
Colin had stopped writing. He was chewing on the end of his biro. “This is too much,” he said, “too wild. I can’t get this kind of stuff published. Apart from being basically very out to lunch . . . it’s . . . . But if it’s true . . . .”
He was sounding at least partly convinced. He was sounding like someone who was beginning to believe something he didn’t want to believe.
“You can’t prove anything . . . .”
“There’s nothing to prove.” Stonehenge was firm. “Why are you bothering with the idea of proof? It’s too late, Kafka. The time for proof is over. It’s time for action.”
I had to say something. I was getting upstaged here.
“Republic, empire, whatever. Is any of this strictly relevant? Er, excuse me, no, it isn�
��t. Is it random new age conspiracy bullshit, or is it some stupid concoction you’ve brewed up from terrible novels, wacko Internet sites, and I don’t know what else? For all I know you might be telling the truth. For all I know you really are some academic from the big town. But listen. Everything that is connected with this seems to land on my doormat. Not yours. Not Colin’s. Not Barry’s. Mine. Get it? It’s my fucking problem, okay? And I think that we’re approaching some kind of crisis point here. This is where it gets decided whether or not I get arrested for murder. Do the cops knock on my door tomorrow afternoon or not? Is there some unbelievably gruesome murder? Or not? Does this psychotic cabal of murdering bastards take over the world, or do I just get up in the fucking morning and put the fucking kettle on?”
I stopped talking for long enough to finish my pint. I lit a cigarette, too, but you’re probably used to that. I hadn’t killed the last one properly. It was still smouldering away in the ashtray. I kind of kicked it around with my little finger.
“And, to be frank, you’re the last person I want to be relying on to provide me with any sort of answers. I’ve had enough. Enough fucking talk. Enough of it. So let’s quit talking, hey? No more. Both of you, you come down into the tunnels tonight. Barry Eliot, too, okay? No more mysterious guy on the sidelines for Barry. That fucker is either in or I walk away. Clear?”
“No.” Stonehenge spoke quietly. “Barry is going to be involved in tonight’s action, yes, but not with us.”
Catacombs of Terror! Page 10
