Heathen/Nemesis

by Shaun Hutson

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Julie whispered, her attention drawn to the vile display.

  Donna had her eye on something else.

  Further down the corridor another, larger exhibit showed the Spanish Inquisition. It featured several hooded figures and a victim being racked, while another was being hung from the ceiling on chains, his glass eyes fixed on a cowled figure carrying what looked like a set of rusty garden shears. The intention was castration.

  Another hooded figure sat at a desk, a book open before it.

  A book of Latin phrases. An old book.

  Donna looked round frantically for the entrance to the exhibit and found it nearby in the form of a metal door. She opened it and stepped inside, making for the book. She pulled it towards her and flipped it over, looking at the cover.

  The crest showed a Hawk.

  The cover felt cold and clammy, as if the book had been in a damp hole for months, years even. The pages were stiff with age, some of them split at the edges. Some of the writing was in Latin, the rest in the same quaint script she’d seen in the book in the library in Scotland.

  ‘Julie,’ she called.

  Her sister hurried over.

  ‘I’ve found it,’ Donna said triumphantly. ‘This is the Grimoire.’

  It was then that the hooded figure at the desk leapt to its feet.

  The cowl slipped away to reveal the face of Peter Farrell.

  Seventy-Eight

  Farrell lunged at her, his face contorted in an expression of pure hatred.

  His grunt of anger mingled with Donna’s own shout of surprise and Julie’s scream.

  Donna jumped back, pulling the book with her, allowing it to fall to the floor with a crash.

  Farrell leapt over the desk, not sure which to grab first, Donna or the Grimoire. He launched himself at Donna, who managed to avoid his rush, seeing him crash into the figure holding the castrating irons. An arm broke off and the metal implement went skidding across the dusty floor. Donna snatched it up as she saw Farrell reaching inside his jacket, pulling the .45 free.

  She swung the castrating iron with all her force and caught him across the back of the hand, the clang of metal on bone reverberating through The Torture Chamber.

  The gun flew from his grasp, but instead of trying to retrieve it Farrell came at her again.

  Donna swung the iron again. This time she caught him in the face with it.

  The blow split his cheek almost to the bone and blood burst from the wound and ran down the side of his face. Grabbing the book, Donna dashed past him towards the door where Julie was waiting.

  ‘Get them,’ roared Farrell. As if from nowhere, Ryker and Kellerman appeared from the shadows. Like two spectres rising from the umbra they rose up before the women.

  Donna pulled the .22 Pathfinder from her handbag, thumbed back the hammer and fired twice. The first shot carved a path through the shoulder of Ryker’s jacket without touching flesh; the second missed both men and blew the head off the model of Torquemada.

  Ryker dived to one side but swung his foot at Donna and managed to trip her.

  She pitched forward, the gun falling from her grasp and skittering across the floor. As she hit the ground, she fell on top of the Grimoire.

  Ryker leapt on her, trying to wrestle the book from her grip.

  Julie kicked out at him, catching him in the groin, but then she felt powerful hands fastening around her throat as Kellerman grabbed her.

  ‘You cunt,’ he hissed, squeezing until his fingers pressed deep into her windpipe.

  White stars began to dance in front of Julie’s eyes; no matter how she scratched at his hands she could not break his grip.

  She was helpless, supported by the hands but dying because of them.

  Donna pushed Ryker off her and scrambled to her feet, seeing that Farrell was now about to free himself and join the fight, blood pouring down his face. But it was Julie she was concerned with.

  Kellerman was tightening his grip on her throat, squeezing until Julie’s eyes bulged madly in their sockets as she fought for breath.

  Donna looked around for the gun and saw it. She dived onto the floor, snatched up the Pathfinder and rolled over. She fired once, and more by luck than judgement the bullet hit Kellerman in the shin, just below the left knee. The sound of the pistol was deafening inside the chamber, but even above the roar she could hear the strident crack of splintering bone as the tibia was shattered by the bullet.

  Kellerman shrieked and released his grip on Julie, clapping his hands to the wound. Blood ran through his fingers as he crashed to the ground, clutching the ragged hole.

  Julie, too, had fallen to the ground, barely conscious. Donna tried to help her up but felt herself grabbed from behind by Ryker.

  She pushed herself backwards and both of them went hurtling over the low chain that separated them from the exhibits. Donna landed on top of Ryker, winding him as he took her elbow in his chest. Again the gun slipped from her grasp.

  Farrell was out of the cage by now, racing towards Julie, the .45 out and lowered at her.

  He grabbed her around the waist and lifted her to her feet, the barrel of the pistol pressed to her temple.

  ‘No,’ Donna shouted, trying to struggle away from Ryker, ‘leave her alone.’

  Kellerman was groaning loudly, his lower leg smashed by the bullet.

  Ryker made a grab for the book but missed and overbalanced, crashing into the guillotine display. He cracked his head on one of the sharp corners and went down in a heap, clutching his throbbing skull.

  ‘Stop.’

  The voice boomed out, filling the chamber.

  Both Donna and Farrell turned towards the entrance.

  Francis Dashwood moved slowly into the chamber, closely followed by Richard Parsons.

  Dashwood was smiling.

  Seventy-Nine

  The stench was appalling.

  Donna noticed it as soon as Dashwood and Parsons entered the chamber. The unmistakable rank odour of death.

  ‘You have something which belongs to us,’ Dashwood said, jabbing a finger towards the book she held.

  ‘Your husband stole it from us,’ Parsons added.

  ‘Return it.’

  Donna swallowed hard, her stomach somersaulting as she inhaled the rancid stench that emanated from the two men.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked, seeing the pallid skin that hung in festering coils from their faces. Dashwood’s forehead was dotted with boils, one of which had recently burst. Thick pus seeped down towards his eyebrow.

  ‘Friends of your husbands,’ Dashwood told her, smiling, lips sliding back to reveal blackened teeth. ‘Now give me the book.’ The smile faded to be replaced by a look of anger. He held out a hand.

  Donna kept a tight grip on the Grimoire.

  ‘I’ll blow her fucking head all over the wall,’ hissed Farrell, pushing the barrel of the .45 forcefully against Julie’s temple. ‘Now give him the book.’

  ‘Fair exchange, Mrs Ward,’ Dashwood said. ‘You have something we want. We have something you want. Give me the Grimoire.’

  ‘If I do you’ll kill us both,’ Donna said, trying to swallow.

  ‘And if you don’t, Farrell will shoot you. Then we’ll take it,’ Dashwood told her.

  ‘Fair exchange. Her life for the Grimoire,’ Parsons added, nodding towards Julie.

  ‘Why does it mean so much to you?’ Donna asked, taking a step backwards, the book in her arms.

  Dashwood advanced a pace, his eyes fixed on the Grimoire.

  ‘Give it to me,’ he rasped. She heard the anger in his voice but there was something else there, too.

  Fear?

  ‘Give him the book or I swear I’ll kill her,’ Farrell said, looking first at Donna, then at Dashwood.

  Donna moved back another step.

  ‘Tell me why it’s so important,’ she demanded, opening it at the first page, smelling the musty odour that rose from the parchment-like paper. She closed her hand on the to
p sheet.

  ‘Don’t damage it,’ shouted Dashwood. Now Donna was sure it was fear she heard in his voice. He moved closer to her but she merely held her ground, one hand poised to rip the page free. ‘Don’t damage the book,’ Dashwood repeated.

  ‘You can both go, just don’t damage the book.’

  ‘Let her go, or I’ll rip this page out and all the others,’ Donna said defiantly, looking at Farrell.

  He kept his grip on Julie, the gun still pressed to her temple.

  ‘Shoot her,’ Parsons snapped.

  Dashwood shot up a hand.

  ‘No,’ he hissed.

  ‘I’ll destroy the book,’ Donna threatened. ‘Let her go.’

  ‘You couldn’t rip up a dozen pages before I killed you both,’ Farrell said, not impressed by her show of bravado.

  ‘Let her go,’ snarled Dashwood, glaring at Farrell.

  He hesitated a moment then released his grip on Julie, pushing her away from him. She stumbled and fell to her knees, one hand massaging her bruised throat.

  ‘Drop the gun,’ Donna said.

  Farrell did as he was told.

  ‘Now back off, all of you,’ she continued, moving across to her sister, the Grimoire still held in her hands.

  Dashwood didn’t move but his rheumy eyes followed the book.

  Farrell, Ryker and Kellerman, still clutching his knee and the wound just below it, moved out of the chamber, leaving the two women to face Parsons and Dashwood. The stench seemed to grow in intensity.

  ‘We made a bargain,’ said Dashwood. ‘Give me the book.’

  Donna glanced quickly to one side and saw the .45 that Farrell had dropped. It was a couple of feet to her right.

  ‘Give me the book and I’ll tell you why it’s so important to us. You said you wanted to know.’

  She edged closer to the automatic.

  Julie was leaning back against the wall, her head spinning, her eyes filled with tears of pain and fear.

  ‘A bargain, Mrs Ward,’ Dashwood continued.

  Donna dropped to one knee, snatched up the .45 and then straightened up with the barrel pointed at Dashwood.

  He chuckled.

  The sound echoed around the chamber. Donna felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise.

  ‘Take the fucking thing,’ she hissed and hurled it at Dashwood.

  He grabbed it and pulled it close to his chest, his eyes blazing.

  Donna raised the .45 until it was level with his head and steadied herself to fire.

  ‘Stay back,’ she said, teeth gritted, her finger resting on the trigger.

  ‘I have what I want now,’ Dashwood told her, moving towards the exit.

  ‘They’ll kill us,’ Julie croaked.

  ‘No, not us,’ Dashwood smiled. ‘We will not touch you.’

  Donna frowned.

  What the hell did he mean?

  She had the sights directly over Dashwood’s forehead; all she had to do was tighten her finger and she’d spread his brains all around the chamber.

  Perhaps she should.

  He was still hugging the book to him as if it were a nursing child.

  ‘Your husband was inquisitive, too,’ he said, smiling, showing his array of blackened teeth. ‘Perhaps you’re like him. You want to know about the Grimoire?’

  She nodded slowly.

  ‘Then I’ll tell you.’

  Eighty

  Kill him.

  Donna felt as if a tiny voice were whispering in her ear. She kept the automatic raised as Dashwood ran his hand over the cover of the Grimoire.

  Blow the fucker’s brains out.

  ‘You killed my husband,’ she said quietly, the words sounding more like a statement than a question.

  Dashwood shook his head.

  ‘It was none of our doing,’ he said. ‘He brought about his own death because of his betrayal.’

  ‘You murdered him.’

  ‘Is that what the police told you? That he was murdered?’

  ‘They said they were reasonably sure he wasn’t. That his death was an accident.’

  ‘Then why don’t you believe them?’ Dashwood asked, smiling thinly.

  ‘I don’t know what to believe any more,’ she said, keeping the gun trained on the other man. ‘All I know is his death is linked to that book.’ She nodded towards the thick volume.

  ‘Possibly. As I said to you, it is very important to us.’

  ‘And just who are you?’ she wanted to know.

  ‘Surely you must know by now. We are The Sons of Midnight.’ He spoke the words with reverence. ‘And always will be.’ Again that smile. ‘At least now we have our Grimoire back we can be safe again. Safe from men like your husband, who sought to expose us.’ He eyed Donna impassively. ‘Do you have any idea of the power this book contains? No, you couldn’t. Your mind isn’t capable of comprehending such power. The power of life. The power to give life.’

  He looked down at the cover of the Grimoire and touched the crest lovingly. Even in the darkness Donna could see his eyes blazing with a ferocity that belied the appearance of the rest of his body.

  ‘Edward Chardell, the author of this book, believed that life was immortal. Not so much in time, as in essence. This book,’ again he held it up, ‘was published as Chardell was dying. It contains his theories and his researches. The sum total of knowledge he’d spent years accumulating. He says that life exists outside and independent of Creation, and independent of birth too.’

  Donna looked puzzled.

  ‘He says that life can, and does, attach itself to inanimate as well as animate objects. Organic life can exist, can be made to exist, anywhere and within everything. Within the bricks and mortar of a house. Within a jewel.’ He smiled. ‘Within a car.’ He paused a moment. ‘Do you believe in ghosts, Mrs Ward?’

  Donna shrugged.

  ‘As far as Chardell was concerned, a ghost was merely living consciousness without a body to house it. The body can function without consciousness, in a state of coma or sleep. Why should consciousness not function without a body? It becomes a separate entity, able to enter objects at will, or if guided. Guided by men like myself. I’m not saying I can bring the dead back to life; there are limits even to my abilities.’ He chuckled. ‘But I have studied the words within this book and I can bring life to what were otherwise lifeless objects.’

  He pointed at the gun.

  Donna felt something pulsing in her hand, as if she held a beating heart. The sensation was vile. As she looked down she saw the .45 moving slightly, the butt throbbing in her grip.

  She did see it, didn’t she?

  The barrel seemed to twist, snake-like, the muzzle opening up like a mouth, growing wider.

  Donna dropped the weapon and stepped away from it.

  The .45 lay at her feet.

  She blinked hard and looked at it again.

  ‘No, you didn’t imagine it,’ Dashwood said. ‘The Church would call it a miracle.’ Both he and Parsons laughed aloud. ‘Fascinating, isn’t it?’ Dashwood said, smiling. ‘Your husband thought so, too. That was why he sought us out, why he wanted our knowledge.’

  ‘He was going to destroy you,’ Donna said. ‘He knew you needed the book to survive; that was why he took it from you.’

  Dashwood raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  ‘He wanted knowledge. He wanted to learn and he would do anything in order to gain that knowledge. He threatened to expose us, yes, but in order to expose us he first had to join us. To learn about us. The best way to destroy is from within. Your husband knew that.’

  Donna felt her heart beating more rapidly.

  No, this couldn’t be.

  ‘He wanted what we had,’ Dashwood said. ‘He wanted to be one of us.’

  ‘No,’ Donna murmured, shaking her head.

  ‘How well did you know your husband, Mrs Ward?’

  Donna was quivering.

  ‘How do you think he knew so much about us? Why should we consider him such a danger
unless he could damage us?’

  ‘He took the Grimoire. That was why you wanted him dead,’ Donna said.

  ‘But how do you think he got close enough to take it in the first place?’

  Donna shook her head.

  ‘What did he tell you?’ Dashwood asked. ‘Did he tell you he was one of us?’

  Donna didn’t answer.

  ‘No. He didn’t, did he?’ Dashwood said, smiling.

  ‘He couldn’t have been,’ she shouted. ‘I know about you. I know about what you do. You kill.’

  ‘Some things are worth killing for,’ Dashwood told her. ‘Some knowledge has a high price.’

  ‘He wasn’t one of you,’ she said defiantly. ‘He wouldn’t have done the things he ...’

  ‘What things, Mrs Ward?’

  ‘The initiation rites. I read about them.’

  ‘What wouldn’t he have done?’ Dashwood chided.

  ‘He wouldn’t have killed . . .’ The sentence trailed off.

  ‘Killed a child?’ Dashwood smiled broadly. ‘He wouldn’t have killed a child, is that what you were going to say? He wouldn’t have fornicated in front of us, he wouldn’t have taken the life of a child, he wouldn’t have urinated on the cross. You think he wouldn’t have pissed on Christ.’ Dashwood bellowed the final words, the noise echoing around the chamber. ‘How well did you know your husband, you bitch? How well did you know him? Could you see into his mind? You ignorant, stupid bitch.’

  Donna leapt forward, grabbing the .45.

  She rolled over, aiming it at Dashwood, squeezing the trigger.

  Nothing happened.

  He merely stepped back, away from her through the exit.

  As he did she saw him raise his hand, the index finger pointing at something behind her.

  Donna kept squeezing the trigger until, finally, she hurled the automatic away with a wail of despair.