by Simon Clark
Richard guessed that same detachment from reality was happening now. Probably part of the instinct for self-preservation. No matter what happened around you, no matter how bad, you kept going; you did what you had to so that YOU survived.
And Richard, in a blinding flash of insight, knew it was going to get worse – far worse – before it got better.
The first part of the journey, after rejoining the road, was uneventful. Michael looked as if he’d begun to relax as he skirted Manchester and powered the car uphill to the high roads that would carry them across the mountainous Pennines from Lancashire to Yorkshire. Sheep nibbled grass at the side of the road.
‘What do all the sheep have bleed on them?’ Amy asked.
‘Bleed? Oh, you mean blood?’ Michael asked.
‘They’ve blood on their wool.’
‘No. It’s just a red marker dye. So the farmer knows which sheep are his.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they let them wander about where they want. They’re not fenced in like cows.’
Richard leaned back against the headrest listening to Amy talk to Michael. After the night’s thunderstorm the air felt fresher up here; the sky was clearing and slabs of sunlight slanted spectacularly down into the valleys below.
A tractor lumbered uphill. A steady stream of oncoming traffic meant they couldn’t overtake. Richard noticed Michael begin the impatient tap of his finger on the steering wheel.
‘Is it close?’ Richard asked.
‘Closer than I’m comfortable with.’ Michael tried to pull round the tractor but a bus was coming in the opposite direction.
‘We’re doing twenty,’ said Richard, ‘is that fast enough?’
‘No. And we’ve not put enough space between us and the Beast since the motorway. Come on, farmer boy, out of the way.’
Joey twisted round to look anxiously behind them.
Christine said, ‘Can’t you pass him on the inside? The grass verge looks wide enough.’
‘I might have to if … come on, come on. Gotcha.’
An oncoming truck held back the stream of traffic behind it to give Michael the space he needed. He accelerated past the tractor and the Range Rover sped up the hillside road like a bullet.
Joey sighed with relief. ‘Thank God for that.’
‘Well, while you’re thanking God, can you ask Him to shift that lot out of our way?’
Ahead the road was blocked by, Richard guessed, forty to fifty sheep.
‘Damn.’ Michael sounded the horn. The flock walked a little faster, but the Range Rover was barely crawling.
‘Look at all those sheep,’ cried Amy with delight. ‘Sheepies! Sheepies!’
‘Christine,’ said Michael tersely, ‘make Amy sit down. And you best cover her eyes.’
Richard looked at Michael. His tone expressed far more than the words. Richard switched on the radio.
… thud-thud … THUD-THUD … THUD-THUD … THUD-THUD …
‘Jesus, it’s right on top of us!’
Michael drove at the sheep: their heads sounded as hard as concrete bumping against the metalwork.
The sheep bleated.
One sheep jumped to land sprawling across the bonnet, its horns scraping the paintwork. Richard had a glimpse of its terrified rolling eyes. The pink tongue slapped out to leave a streak of sheep spit on the windscreen.
Amy screamed.
‘Sorry,’ Michael hissed. ‘It’s them or us.’
Michael forced a path through the sheep at maybe fifteen miles an hour. Richard saw the sheep weren’t being badly hurt, merely buffeted away from the car. The main problem was that the car and sheep were both hemmed in by the narrowness of the road which was bordered to their left by a wall and to the right by a crash barrier that separated the road from a fifty-foot drop.
‘It’s OK,’ Christine reassured Amy. ‘Michael’s not hurting the sheep. But we’ve got to get through.’
Richard saw another sheep leap; this time over the crash barrier. It bounced away down the steep slope like a big ball of wool, legs and head swinging wildly as it cartwheeled.
‘Nearly through, nearly through …’ Michael whispered.
‘For Christsakes hurry it up,’ snapped Joey.
Christine whispered, ‘Oh, my God. It’s here.’
Richard looked back through the rear window. A road sign crumpled flat to the ground. The wall disappeared into a blur of stone shrapnel, as if heavy machine gun fire traversed along it, rushing with blinding speed toward the car.
‘We’re through. Hold on.’
Michael powered the car on.
Richard still looked back. The sheep were running after them. They’d sensed the thing’s approach.
He watched as first one sheep exploded, then a second, then a third, then five, six … dozens.
It was like watching balloons filled with red paint explode.
They were crushed with such unimaginable force that blood sprayed into the air twenty feet above the ground to create a crimson cloud.
‘Lucky there were no other cars nearby,’ said Michael as he accelerated safely away.
‘Yeah,’ said Richard feeling that creep of icy detachment. ‘Lucky.’ Behind him the last sheep had erupted into a spray of blood and internal organs.
Chapter 41
York
With forty miles of Tarmac between them and a carpet of sheep meat back in the Pennines, Michael pulled into the car park behind the Barbican Theatre, York.
‘It’s almost eleven.’ Michael pulled on the handbrake. ‘Our man should be here any minute now. Anyone want to stretch their legs?’
‘Is this wise?’ Christine asked.
‘Yeah,’ said Joey. ‘Maybe we should keep driving round until it’s eleven, pay this book collector Johnnie his money, then scarper.’
Michael opened the car door. ‘Don’t worry. We’ve put some space between us and Beastie. We’re OK for a good half an hour or so.’
‘Yeah, sure … it makes you think of the Titanic, doesn’t it?’ Joey pushed back his heavy fringe. ‘Richard, I said it made you think of the Titanic. Unsinkable and —’
‘Yeah, yeah, Joey, I heard you,’ Richard said wearily and climbed out into the sunlight.
York’s a tourist magnet. The car park was filling quickly and the roads were thick with cars and open-topped buses trundling round the places-of-interest routes.
Stretching, Richard looked round the car park for the man with the book that would get them out of this shit. There was no sign of anyone yet. Just keep praying the guy turns up, Dicky Boy.
He walked round the car, feeling the life come back into his legs after sitting for so long.
‘Don’t wander too far, Richard,’ Michael said. ‘Once we’ve made the transaction we’re out of here.’
‘Right.’
Richard saw Michael lean against the side of the car and pull a white envelope from his pocket. He guessed it contained the two-million-pound cheque.
‘Richard,’ Michael nodded. ‘Here he comes.’
Richard watched the motorbike pull into the car park, approach and stop half a dozen feet from Michael who smiled and nodded.
The rider, in black leathers, pulled off his helmet, revealing a man of around twenty-five with dyed blond hair. He stood astride the idling machine and asked, ‘Are you Mr Michael?’
‘Just Michael. Where’s Heath?’
‘He’s waiting across by the Minster.’
‘Have you got the book?’
‘Not with me.’
Michael’s smile didn’t falter. ‘I thought we had an agreement.’
‘It’s been changed.’
‘By Heath?’
‘By me. I’m his business partner.’
‘It’s Heath’s book. We agreed a price.’
‘He hadn’t discussed it with me.’ The blond man stroked flat his hair where it had been ruffled by the helmet. ‘The book was undervalued; we’re going to ask you for another million.’
‘From what I can gather,’ said the blond man, ‘the book is worth considerably more than that to you.’
‘Can I speak to Heath?’
‘No.’
Michael put his finger to his lips as he thought about it. ‘You know you have a gun to my head?’
The man shrugged.
‘Are you sure you speak for Heath?’
‘Yes.’
‘You do have the book?’
‘If you have the money.’
‘It’s a deal, then. Three million. You’ll still accept a cheque?’
The blond man’s expression was hostile. ‘I wouldn’t personally, but Heath trusts you.’
‘We’ve done business before.’
The blond motorcyclist buckled on his helmet.
‘Where are you going?’ Michael frowned. ‘Hey, I said where …’
The bike roared to the exit where its rider waited, revving the engine impatiently.
‘Damn,’ hissed Michael. ‘Back in the car, Richard.’
As they climbed in Christine asked, ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Michael’s just been shafted,’ Joey grunted. ‘I heard what he said. Three million quid for a bloody book.’
‘Not just any bloody book,’ said Michael in a low voice. ‘Hang on tight. We’ll have to follow him.’
‘Are we still OK for time?’
‘Hopefully. As long as the traffic doesn’t get too heavy. Richard, keep an eye on the bike in case I lose sight of it.’
Christine said, ‘But where are we going?’
‘To meet Heath, I hope. He’s the guy with the book.’
‘And you’re going to pay an extra million just like that?’ asked Richard in disbelief.
‘Want to know a little secret, Richard? I’d have paid twenty million for it and not batted an eyelid.’
‘For a book?’
‘Not just any old book. As I said earlier. What price do you put on a child’s life? So what price do you put on the future of the human race?’
Michael had to drive hard to keep up with the motorbike as it drove along York’s streets between rows of mediaeval timber-framed shops. Ahead, Richard could see York Minster, the twelfth-century church that dwarfed many a modern cathedral.
In a deserted side street, just behind the Minster, lying in its massive shadow, sat a vintage Jaguar. The motorbike stopped.
‘There’s Heath,’ Michael murmured. ‘Just hope he remembered to bring the book.’
Richard climbed out of the car with Michael. Absurdly, he began to feel like Michael’s minder. Not that anything should go wrong. Michael walked forward and shook hands with a small wisp of a man of about forty-five in a charcoal suit and silver-rimmed glasses.
‘How are you keeping?’ asked Michael warmly.
‘Not bad, thank you, Michael. Although all this heat is rather fatiguing.’
Michael, still smiling, dropped his voice. ‘Why all this cloak and dagger stuff with young men on motorbikes? I thought we had a perfectly simple business arrangement.’
Heath shrugged. ‘No fool like an old fool, is there?’ He smiled in the direction of the motorcyclist. ‘For the first time in my life I went and fell in love. All Tommy’s trying to do is look after me.’
‘Tommy’s doing a good job.’ Michael pulled out his cheque book and began to write a fresh cheque, resting on the roof of the Jaguar. ‘Three million. And you have the book?’
‘Justinian’s The Divine Epitome. Yes. You’ll —’
‘The Divine Epitome? You told my team you had the Constantine biography.’
‘You are interested specifically in the part that contains a copy of the Codex Alexander?’
‘Yes.’ Michael’s smile had vanished. He glared at the little wisp of a man in a way that Richard would have described as dangerous.
‘Don’t worry, Michael. The Divine Epitome contains a verbatim copy of the Codex. You’ll find an elegant rendition of —’
‘Richard,’ said Michael quickly. ‘Find out what’s wrong with Joey. I’ll finish off here.’
Richard glanced across at Joey. Christine was walking with her arm round him, Amy was leading him by the hand.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Richard, running up.
‘Joey’s feeling faint. It must be with sitting in that hot car. There, Joey, sit down. Put your head between your legs.’
‘Don’t worry, Uncle Joey.’ Amy said. ‘You’ll be all right.’
Joey sat down on a bench by the side entrance of the Minster. It was cool with plenty of shade.
Michael and Heath came up. ‘Is your friend all right?’ Heath inquired, peering at Joey who was leaning back against the Minster wall, his belly sagging out through his shirt.
‘He’ll be fine,’ Richard said. ‘It’s the heat.’
Still wearing the motorcyclist’s helmet, Tommy walked towards them, perhaps wondering if there was some kind of double cross being set in motion.
‘Don’t worry, Tommy.’ Heath smiled. ‘This gentleman’s just taken poorly, that’s all.’
‘You’ve got the cheque?’
‘I’ve got the cheque, Tommy.’
‘And I’ve got the book,’ Michael said, holding up the brown paper parcel. ‘How’re you feeling, Joey?’
‘Not too bad, now. It’s the heat.’
‘It’s happened before,’ Christine said, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘Ever since he was a young boy, if he got too hot he’d just flake out.’
Amy skipped forward to hold Michael by the hand and asked if the parcel in his other hand was a birthday present. Smiling, Michael pretended it was an early birthday present to himself.
Casually, Michael held out the car keys. ‘Christine. If you back the car down here we’ll get Joey into the back seat.’
‘Can’t we wait a few more minutes? I think —’
‘Christine.’ Michael tried to communicate more with his eyes than with what he said. ‘I really do think we need to be moving on quite quickly.’
‘Oh.’ She understood and hurried to the car.
‘We need to be getting home, too, Heath,’ said Tommy. ‘I’ll follow on the bike.’
Heath smiled apologetically. ‘That’s youth for you. Always in a hurry. Cheerio, everybody. Look after yourself, Michael.’
‘I will.’ Michael smiled.
Richard remembered precisely where everyone was at 11:22 that Tuesday morning. Joey on the bench. Amy holding Michael’s hand. Richard standing on the pavement beside them. Christine had reached the Range Rover and was opening the door. Tommy stood ten paces away beside his bike, waiting for Heath to reach the vintage Jag fifty paces away down the side street.
Richard remembered where people were at that moment so precisely because that was when, without warning, the Beast struck.
Chapter 42
Carnage
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ENTRANCE TO MINSTER
M/BIKE RANGE ROVER HEATH’S CAR
Richard could have drawn a diagram of it. Every detail, every damned detail burned itself deep into his brain tissue.
There was the quiet side street. It finished in a dead end. On one side, rising like a cliff face, was York Minster, the mediaeval church that had towered over the city like the eighth Wonder Of the World for, as near as dammit, a thousand years.
In the street were cars, a van, but no people other than himself, Amy, Joey (still faint and sagging like a bag of potatoes) and Michael holding the damned book parcel. There was Tommy, dressed in leathers, wearing the helmet, and sitting astride his bike. Christine now sat in the driver’s seat of the Range Rover, getting ready to pull it forward so they could tip Joey Barrass into the back. Heath, the wisp of a man, now three million richer, stood by his vintage Jag, smiling back at them.
Richard could see it all.
He could see every bloody thing.
The way the sun shone on the cars. The picturesque redbrick houses lining the other side of the street. He heard distant traffic, he heard the birds singing in nearby trees; he felt the heat of the sun.
Then he felt the blast of wind. It came down from a clear blue sky like a hurricane, almost knocking them flat with its fury.
Richard saw Heath look up at the sky as if he sensed the coming of the Lord God Jehovah in all His righteous fury.
BANG
The Jag no longer existed. Heath no longer existed. He vanished like the sheep had, back on that hillside road. Richard saw him simply burst like a balloon filled with crimson paint. There was a lick of blood on the pavement and nothing more. The car shrieked into a layer of metal scrap no thicker than a living room carpet.
Michael started shouting.
Then, after the downwards blast of air, there was a sensation of air rushing upwards. The Beast actually created a vacuum as it reared up for another blow. Richard felt the air being sucked from his lungs, pain stabbed his ears. Amy was screaming, her hands over her ears.
Then stillness. Complete, total, absolute stillness.
Silence.
From the ruptured van, newspapers torn upwards by the force of the suction floated slowly down like giant snowflakes from a mythical snow kingdom.
‘Run!’ Michael shouted. ‘It’s going to hit again!’
‘Christine!’
Richard began to run towards the Range Rover which lay between him and what was left of Heath. ‘Drive! Drive!’
He heard the starter motor turn. The engine wasn’t firing.
‘She’s flooded it,’ Michael yelled. ‘Richard. It’s too late!’
Richard looked at his wife. For a second their eyes met and a stream of meaning passed between them. He could do nothing to save her. She knew it, too. In her eyes he saw her love for him, her love for their children.
