Heathen/Nemesis

by Shaun Hutson

  Parsons had fallen face down on the floor across the naked woman, his body torn and bleeding from the impact of the 9mm bullets. He reached out towards Donna, his fingers gradually twitching less and less.

  He lay still.

  Smoke hung like a gauze net across the room.

  Julie, on her hands and knees, looked around for the Grimoire. Donna could see that the only living people left now were herself, her sister, Ryker, who was slumped against an overturned table holding his smashed shoulder, and Dashwood, who stood defiantly facing her.

  Donna’s breath came in gasps as she looked from one man to the other.

  The floor was awash with blood from the dead man and woman and from Parsons.

  The Grimoire lay in the centre of the floor.

  A prize.

  The trophy in a game of death.

  No one moved.

  The retorts of the guns still filled their ears, the muzzte-flashes still flamed in their eyes. But the room was all but silent.

  Donna could see that Ryker’s .45 was lying within two or three feet of him. She saw his eyes dart to one side.

  He moved very slightly towards the weapon, still holding his shoulder. Blood was pumping through his fingers; every movement clearly brought him fresh agony, as the two pieces of his shattered clavicle grated together.

  Nevertheless, if he could just reach the gun ...

  Donna shot him three times.

  His body jerked as each bullet thudded into him, then he slid to one side and lay still, his chest and face covered in blood. It looked as if someone had upended him and dipped him in the crimson fluid.

  Donna aimed the pistol at Dashwood.

  Julie was crying softly now. Her hearing all but gone, her eyes stinging from the smoke, she could only watch helplessly as Donna and Dashwood faced each other.

  He was smiling.

  Ninety-One

  ‘You should have been dead by now,’ Dashwood told her. ‘Both of you.’

  Donna kept her eyes fixed on him and the automatic aimed at his head.

  ‘What did you hope to gain by this little show?’ The words were heavy with scorn. ‘You think what’s happened here tonight will make any difference? Do you think you can stop us? Your husband thought the same thing, and he ended up joining us.’

  ‘No,’ said Donna, shaking her head.

  ‘Why do you find it so hard to believe?’ Dashwood asked. ‘Did you know so little about him? Or were you too stupid?’ He glared at her. ‘He knew this place well enough. And our other meeting houses. He wanted our knowledge and he found it. He paid the price to be one of us. He abandoned all he believed in, all his morals, all his ethics. He had nothing left but us.’

  ‘It’s not true,’ Donna said tearfully.

  ‘He knew a woman called Suzanne Regan,’ Dashwood said flatly, as if he were telling her something she didn’t already know.

  The surprise registered on her face and Dashwood saw it.

  ‘True?’ he continued.

  She nodded.

  ‘Do you know what she was? She was what this woman was to have been.’ He nodded towards the corpse of the naked female at Donna’s feet. ‘She was a carrier. She had been for a number of our other members. And she was for your husband.’ Dashwood held Donna’s gaze. ‘You said you had read the initiation rites. You knew of the fornication, the offering of a child, the need to keep that child’s skull. Suzanne Regan carried a child for your husband. A child he then killed.’

  Donna’s body stiffened. She felt an icy coldness envelope her, as if she’d been wrapped in a freezing blanket.

  ‘He knew he had to sacrifice a child as an offering to us,’ Dashwood told her. ‘He made Suzanne Regan pregnant. She knew what would happen to the baby, but it didn’t bother her. She handed it over willingly, so your husband could kill it. He killed it in front of us, just as he had copulated with Suzanne Regan as we watched. He cut the child’s head from its shoulders as we watched.’ Dashwood shrugged. ‘We welcomed him into our ranks and then he betrayed us. He stole the Grimoire and threatened to expose us, as I told you. He knew too much about us.’

  ‘You’re lying,’ Donna said, wishing she could inject more conviction into her voice. She had lowered the gun slightly.

  ‘You traced us, you learned about us. You know that every member of The Sons of Midnight entered his name in the Grimoire. Your husband’s name is there. Look at it.’

  He motioned towards the book.

  Kill him.

  ‘Go on, look,’ he urged.

  Kill him and destroy the book.

  She had to know.

  Donna moved towards the Grimoire and flipped it open. There were hundreds of names there, some faded from the passing of time.

  ‘The last name,’ Dashwood told her.

  She turned a couple of pages and looked at the list.

  ‘Oh God,’ she whispered. She felt the freezing blanket being drawn tighter.

  On the parchment-like paper she saw her husband’s name, recognized his handwriting.

  Donna took hold of the page and tore it out.

  Dashwood shouted in pain, his teeth gritted, as he looked at the ripped-out page.

  Donna folded it and pushed it into the back pocket of her jeans.

  She tore out another page.

  ‘No,’ shouted Dashwood. A deep gash appeared above his left eyebrow, as if slashed by an invisible blade.

  He lunged at Donna, trying to get hold of the book.

  ‘Leave it, you bitch,’ he roared.

  She hurled the book away and fired at it, putting two bullets into the ancient tome.

  To her surprise and horror, blood exploded from the book.

  Dashwood screamed and clapped hands to his chest.

  Blood was jetting from two wounds there.

  Donna fired more shots into the book.

  Pieces of it flew into the air, propelled by the dark blood pumping from it.

  Dashwood dropped to his knees, holes appearing in his leg and stomach.

  More of the crimson fluid spilled over his lips. He turned to face Donna.

  ‘You know the truth now,’ he grimaced, teeth clenched, bloodied. ‘Search your house. The cellar.’ His eyes blazed. ‘He was one of us,’ he roared.

  Donna shot him in the face as he knelt in front of her.

  He raised his hands towards her and she saw the skin beginning to yellow, to peel away from his fingertips. A nail came free, pus and blood spewing from the digit. Huge pieces of flesh began to curl away from his cheeks, leaving the network of muscles beneath exposed. One eye burst in its socket. Dark fluid began to run from both his nostrils and suddenly the room was filled with an overpowering stench of decay, a nauseating odour that made the two women feel sick.

  Dashwood clapped his hands to his face and pulled them away dripping. Flesh was liquefying on his bones, the bones themselves crumbling.

  In a corner of the room the Grimoire was dissolving into a seething puddle of reeking muck, a gelatinous mess that looked like the contents of a huge, freshly milked boil.

  Dashwood fell forward and his body seemed to fold in on itself, his chest collapsing, lungs transformed into reeking sacks which burst, spilling more black fluid into the cavity of the torso. His legs seemed to shrivel, shrinking up inside his trousers, already stained with blood.

  Donna finally managed to stagger away from the sight. Julie followed.

  They headed for the door through which they’d entered, hurdling the body of Farrell, aware now that the breathing that had been ever-present since they entered the house had stopped.

  Blood oozed from the walls.

  All the way up the flight of stone steps and along that corridor the dark fluid coursed down the plaster and stone.

  They burst free into the hallway, then through into the room beyond, and struggled out of the window by which they’d first entered.

  The cool night air washed over them but could not drive the stench of decay from their nostrils
.

  Julie was already running for the alleyway that ran alongside the house. Donna took one look back at the building, then ran after her.

  The wailing of sirens already filled the air.

  It would be a matter of minutes before the first police car arrived.

  Ninety-Two

  From where they sat they could see the uniformed men approaching the house in Conduit Street. Donna watched them scrambling out of their cars, running towards the front door. Others headed off up the alley at the side of the building.

  She watched impassively, her mind blank, her eyes devoid of emotion. She felt as if every last ounce of feeling had been sucked from her. She was drained, incapable of movement let alone rational thought.

  And yet still Dashwood’s words echoed in her mind:

  ‘He was one of us.’

  She lowered her head momentarily and closed her eyes.

  ‘The police will be looking.’

  Julie’s voice seemed a million miles away.

  Donna raised her head and looked at her sister.

  ‘The police will be looking for whoever killed those men,’ the younger woman continued.

  ‘They won’t be looking for us,’ Donna said.

  Julie gazed at her for long moments.

  ‘Are you satisfied now?’ she said finally.

  Donna didn’t speak.

  ‘They’re dead. You’ve got what you wanted. How does it feel?’

  ‘We have to go back to the cottage,’ Donna said quietly. ‘Dashwood said I’d find the truth in the cellar. Only the cottage has a cellar. We have to go back and look there.’

  ‘Not we, Donna. You. I’m finished. I’m leaving now. If you want to stop me, you’ll have to kill me.’ There were tears in Julie’s eyes.

  Donna looked wearily at the younger woman.

  ‘I wanted to hate you for this,’ she said softly. ‘For what you did. For taking Chris from me.’

  ‘I didn’t take him,’ Julie protested.

  ‘I know he didn’t leave me, but like I said to you before, you shared part of his life. A life that should have been just mine and his. And I do hate you.’ She felt her own tears beginning to run warmly down her cheeks. A bitter smile creased her face.

  ‘You’ll never see me again, Donna, I promise you,’ Julie said, wiping her eyes. She opened the car door.

  ‘You think I’d just let you walk away?’

  ‘What else are you going to do? I’m sorry. Believe that, at least. I am sorry for what I did.’

  Julie held her sister’s gaze for a moment, then moved to pull herself out of the car.

  ‘I can’t let you walk away, Julie,’ Donna said almost apologetically.

  ‘You can’t stop me,’ the younger woman said, and swung herself out of the car.

  Donna slid her hand inside her jacket and pulled out the Beretta, keeping the pistol low, aimed at Julie’s stomach.

  She shook her head, tears streaming down her face.

  A look of fear flickered behind Julie’s eyes.

  ‘You’re right,’ Donna said, her voice cracking. ‘It is all over.’

  Donna turned the gun round quickly, bent her head forward and opened her mouth.

  She pushed the barrel into her mouth and squeezed the trigger.

  Ninety-Three

  Julie wanted to scream but the sight of her sister with the pistol jammed in her mouth seemed to freeze her vocal cords.

  Instead she made a frantic grab for the Beretta as Donna fired.

  The hammer slammed down on an empty chamber.

  The metallic click reverberated inside the car as Julie tore the pistol from her grip and stood panting beside her.

  Donna merely looked at the younger woman, then leaned across and pulled the passenger door shut.

  Julie looked down helplessly at the gun she now held in her hand.

  ‘Donna, I ...’

  The sentence trailed off, lost in the sound of the Fiesta’s engine as Donna started it up.

  She guided the car away from the kerb, away from Julie. As she pulled away she glanced one final time in the rear-view mirror.

  Julie was standing on the street corner, the empty gun clutched in her hand.

  Donna drove on.

  The journey became a blur of passing traffic and dark roads.

  She didn’t look at the clock when she left London; she had no idea how long it would take her to reach the cottage. Donna merely drove, her mind spinning. Two or three times she had to brake sharply to avoid hitting vehicles in front of her. She considered stopping at a service station for a coffee, but then decided against it. If she stopped she’d never start again. It was as if she was being forced on by instinct alone. All she felt was a crushing weariness, a similar feeling to the one she’d felt in the days after her husband’s death. A feeling that she had become an empty shell, sucked dry of feeling, unable to think straight.

  She stopped for petrol, standing on a deserted forecourt, the cold wind whistling around her. She shivered but the chill she felt came from within.

  She had achieved her goal. Parsons and Dashwood were dead. Farrell was dead.

  Why then did she not feel a sense of triumph?

  Perhaps because she felt that she too should be dead.

  All she felt was a growing feeling of desolation. Death and loss had become engrained in her life.

  She had no one now.

  She thought how easy it would have been to drive the car into a tree. She gripped the wheel more tightly and drove through the night.

  Ninety-Four

  It seemed like years, not days, since she’d been to the cottage.

  The assault on the property, which could have cost her and Julie their lives, seemed to have faded into the mists of time. Supposedly the mind pushes unpleasant things to one side in an effort to forget them. Donna had tried to do that with the events at the cottage, but as soon as she saw the building the memories came flooding back in an unwelcome tide.

  She sat in the Fiesta gazing at the structure. Even in the darkness she could see bullet holes in the stonework. The wood she’d used to board up the windows was still in place, although a couple of the sheets had come loose. One was slapping against the frame each time the wind blew.

  Donna slid out from behind the wheel and approached the cottage, fumbling in her pocket for her key-ring. She selected the front door key, pausing for a moment before turning it, images of her last visit running through her mind like a video recorder on fast-forward. She could see Farrell and his men trying to break in. She could see the blood. She could see Julie.

  Julie.

  Donna closed her eyes tightly, then took a deep breath. The image faded slightly. She entered.

  There was broken glass in the hallway, still. It crunched beneath her feet as she walked, moving through into the sitting-room, not bothering to turn on the lights. She moved quickly. and assuredly in the gloom, heading for the kitchen.

  There was a torch in one of the kitchen drawers. She retrieved it, flicking it on, allowing the powerful beam to cut through the blackness.

  She trained it on the cellar trap door.

  ‘Search your house. The cellar.’

  Donna hooked a finger into the ring on the trap and pulled, opening it. She shone the torch down into the underground chamber, ignoring the smell of damp that wafted up from below. She tucked the torch into the waistband of her jeans as she eased herself onto the ladder, climbing down slowly, afraid, as she’d always been, that the wooden rungs would give way. A spider’s web brushed against her face as she neared the bottom. Donna snatched at it, anxious to brush it away. The floor of the cellar was partly earth; it was the damp soil that she could smell so strongly.

  Donna took the torch from her jeans and shone it around.

  The cellar was less than fifteen feet square but it was crammed with tea chests and boxes, some of which were damp and mildewed. Spiders’ webs seemed to link the boxes like membranous skin. She shuddered as she looked around.
It was the first time she’d had a proper look inside the underground room; already she felt a sense of claustrophobia. Nevertheless she moved towards the first pile of packing cases, rummaging through them, not really sure what she was looking for but fearing what she might find.

  The boxes were mostly full of old newspaper, which had been used as padding around items of value. There didn’t seem to be much else lurking in there.

  She heard a noise from above her and froze.

  Instinctively she switched off the torch, standing completely still in the cloying darkness, her heart thudding against her ribs.

  Whatever it was appeared to be coming from the sitting-room, above her to the left.

  She heard it again.

  Donna suddenly realized the source of the disturbance.

  It was a piece of wood banging against a window-frame, blown by the wind.

  Flicking the torch back on she continued her search, checking more boxes, feeling her feet sinking into the earthen floor. The dirt stuck to her trainers. She muttered to herself, scraping the sticky mud off against a wooden box.

  Her efforts to remove the earth caused the box to topple over and Donna saw, beneath where it had stood, a piece of metal; a sheet of rusted iron about a foot square, only part of it showing through the dark earth. She aimed the torch at it, then dropped to her knees and began pulling at the clods. The odour of damp was thick and noxious but she continued with her task, finally exposing the metal sheet.

  It was covering a small hole.

  Donna laid the torch beside the hole, slipped her fingers under the sheet of iron and lifted, flipping it over.

  She snatched the torch up again and shone it down into the hole.

  The object inside was small, perhaps twice the size of a man’s fist, and wrapped in plastic.

  Her heart beat faster as she reached for it.

  Leave it. Go now. Walk away forever.

  She hesitated a moment.

  Get out now and never return.

  Donna had to know. She snatched up the object, pulling the plastic from it like a child would unwrap a Christmas present.

  The skull was unmistakably that of a baby.

  Parts of it were not even completely formed. The fontanelles had not yet joined.