The Genesis
Glitch
Stewart Ferris
Published by Accent Press Ltd 2017
www.accentpress.co.uk
Copyright © Stewart Ferris 2017
The right of Stewart Ferris to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of Accent Press Ltd.
eISBN 9781682996126
The world failed to end on 21st December 2012. This upset many people and was regarded by some as a cataclysm.
Three days later, an archaeologist barged past security at the Sky News headquarters in Isleworth, west London. She needed to find the live studio. It didn’t matter to her what laws she broke to get there.
Unaware of the commotion elsewhere in the building, a breakfast news anchor questioned her tall and bony guest.
‘We laugh at those people who want to sue because they spent their life savings thinking the world was about to end,’ said the presenter. ‘But Lord Ballashiels, you were part of the team credited with the discovery of the famous “Sphinx Scrolls”.’
‘Ratty,’ replied the guest.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Ratty. My soubriquet. Less of a mouthful than that Lord nonsense.’
‘Right,’ she continued. ‘Not everyone believed the scrolls were true. A Mayan despot cryogenically preserved and sent into orbit? I mean, come on, it’s hardly likely, is it? The scrolls talked about him returning to earth, reanimating thanks to something called the genesis procedure, and wreaking havoc on the planet. Even if you believed in it, you should have been happy for the predicted catastrophe not to occur.’
Ratty stared into her eyes, temporarily mesmerised by the coiffured irresistibility of a woman who knew better than to split an infinitive on live television. He squirmed within his leather jacket and looked self-consciously into the camera as he replied.
‘Goodness, yes, well, swings and wotsits, I suppose. Rough with the … six of one, half a doodah of the—’ He paused his flow of incoherence. ‘Me paenitet,’ he mumbled, ‘public speaking, not my thingummy.’ He scratched his long nose, gulped a lump of air and tried again. ‘When I realised the Mayan predictions were about as accurate as a … gosh, er, or about as imprecise as a … well, I felt a tad inconvenienced.’
‘Why was the survival of our planet an inconvenience?’ asked the presenter.
On the floor below, the archaeologist was out of options. She had taken a wrong turn and was now cornered by a portly security guard who sensed imminent triumph as he edged closer. She checked the Timex Expedition on her wrist. Too many minutes already wasted. It was vital that she find the news studio. Taking advantage of the guard’s outstretched arms, she head-butted him in the stomach. He fell to the floor.
‘As accurate as … bear with me. Anyway, I hadn’t bothered getting a turkey for Christmas. Too late now. Have to make do with a swan. Dashed inconvenient. Especially for Engelbert.’
‘Engelbert?’
‘My swan.’
The interviewer fought to resist expressing her distaste at the swan anecdote, not realising that the burbling of her guest was a fictional ruse aimed at avoiding two revelations: what he truly felt about the doomsday predictions in the ancient scrolls, and that he was planning to enjoy nothing more avivorous than a cheese sandwich for his Yuletide lunch.
‘You describe yourself as a historian,’ she continued, looking at her notes, ‘but really–’
‘No,’ said Ratty.
‘You’re not a historian?’
‘Yes and no.’
‘How do you describe yourself?’
‘I am an historian.’
‘Is that not what I said?’
‘Spiritus asper, you see?’
She shook her head and returned to her notes.
‘But really you seem to be a treasure hunt—’
‘About as accurate as a blunderbuss at fifty yards,’ he blurted.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘When shooting malodorous poacher chaps. Imprecise. Like the predictions in the scrolls.’
‘You shoot poachers?’ she asked, sensing a worthy tangent to the interview.
‘No, no, no. Never. No. Absolutely not.’
‘What’s your next project as a treasure hunter?’
‘Well, hardly ever.’
His latest non-sequitur left her speechless. She felt as if she were drifting out of synch with her guest. She shrugged at the camera, seeking to bond with a million similarly bemused viewers.
‘Nothing left to poach,’ Ratty continued. ‘Engelbert excepted, of course. The estate is a pale vestige of what it was when it was, if you see my thingy.’
‘Right,’ she said, not really paying attention. ‘And your next venture as a treasure hunter: where will that take place?’
‘Home,’ he answered, adjusting the fringe of his artificially jet black hair. ‘Second floor. Granny wrote in her diary about a bedroom she locked in 1937. No one’s been in there since.’
‘Your house is big enough to ignore a whole room?’
‘I think there’s possibly an entire wing in which I have yet to venture.’
This time she recognised deliberate exaggeration.
‘What do you expect to find in that locked room?’
‘Granny left clues in her notebook; well, sort of a diary, really. Actually, more of a list of which servants deserved a thrashing on any particular day.’
‘What did she write about the locked bedroom?’
‘Mainly warnings about never entering the room.’
‘Warnings?’
‘She was rather keen on writing curses, maledictions, that sort of thing. Shopping lists. Voodoo spells. Recipes. Incantations. However, she gave no reason for locking that accursed door. But I know 1937 was the year in which she became chummy with a moustachioed painter and decorator. Catalonian chap by the name of Salvador Dali. If there are some Dali doodlings in that room I shall be chuffed as a … gosh, mind’s gone blank as a … having trouble summoning an apposite simile. Is there any tea in this place?’
‘Talking of your house, some claim your house is mentioned by Aristotle. The prophecy relating to the end of the world, and the power that will come from the ruby tower. You have a turret made from ruby-red Elizabethan brick, known as the ruby tower. Is that right?’
‘And a chum by the same name. Give or take. I don’t mean her name is give or take. Would be weird. Anyway, Aristotle can’t have known about either of them, since Ruby Towers the chum is of a relatively recent vintage, and even the oldest part of the manor is barely a thousand years old. A mere coincidence or something or other.’
The interviewer had ceased paying attention to the rambling aristocrat and was pressing an intercom tight against her ear.
‘We’re getting unconfirmed reports of an explosion off the coast of Myanmar,’ she announced, her tone instantly sombre.
‘Burma,’ mumbled Ratty, with quiet indignation.
‘Eyewitnesses suggest it could have been a meteorite. Tsunami alerts have been issued for the region. More on that story as it comes in.’
The archaeologist ran into the studio and grabbed Ratty’s arm.
‘We have to go,’ she ordered, dragging Ratty from his swivel chair and
ducking the swipe of the guard who had followed her. A studio monitor distracted her with a shot of her dishevelled hair. She straightened her fringe. The security guard withdrew to the side of the studio, unsure whether it was appropriate for him to continue to tackle Ruby Towers on camera.
‘Ruby?’ Ratty sounded pleased to see her despite her chaotic arrival. ‘Did you hear that? Per chance our scrolls were right. Maybe the world is about to pop its bucket! Do you think it’s too late to cancel the heating oil? Why aren’t you digging up Iberian bones?’
‘Forget about that. Something’s come up. Quick.’
The guard made his decision. Ruby must be removed from the studio. He strode forth into the bright lights. Ruby saw his approaching shadow in her peripheral vision and elbowed him in his ample stomach.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Easy target.’
Ratty disentangled himself from his radio microphone and shoved it into the damp fingers of the guard who appeared to have no use for his digits other than the unhelpful apprehension of Ruby. The guard dropped the microphone and blocked the doorway. Ruby glanced at Ratty, then sprinted with him to the other side of the studio.
‘What could necessitate such profligate promptitude?’ blurted Ratty between breaths that would have benefited from fewer syllables.
‘It’s the Patient,’ Ruby shouted over the trill of an alarm that pierced the icy December air when she yanked open a fire-escape door. ‘It’s bad. Very bad.’
‘But I have a reservation for tea at Claridges.’
Ruby bundled her gangly friend into her Volvo. The security guard puffed after her. Livid veins threatened to rupture his temples. Sweating hands clamped around Ruby’s arm.
‘Why so cross?’ she asked, wriggling out of the guard’s slippery grip and into the driving seat. ‘I just gave you a free news story.’
As they threaded west through London’s tangled holiday traffic, she briefed her friend.
‘The Patient called. Someone’s holding him at Stiperstones.’
‘Holding? Like a cuddle?’
‘No, Ratty, like a siege. In your ridiculous manor house. An escaped convict. He’ll kill the Patient unless he gets a meeting with you.’
‘With me? The fellow only had to make an appointment. Have you telephoned Constable Stuart?’
‘I don’t think a village bobby on a bicycle is going to make the kidnapper quake in his boots. Besides, I’ve been told to keep this quiet.’
‘Do we know the rascal’s name?’
‘He used to work at the manor.’
‘A servant?’
‘I think they’re called staff these days, Ratty.’
***
Stiperstones Manor sat sickly amid Shropshire’s receding winter landscape. The stately Georgian stonework flaked and sagged, its chimney stacks tilted as if in sardonic salute to eight neglectful generations of the Ballashiels family. Ruby jammed on the brakes and skidded in the gravel beside the entrance portico.
‘The wise man does not expose himself needlessly to danger,’ said a pale man as he pulled open the impressive oak door of the manor. ‘And you are both more wise than you realise, for as the eyes of bats are to the blaze of day, so is the reason in our soul to the things which are by nature most evident of all.’
‘Haven’t the foggiest,’ said Ratty, reinforcing Ruby’s blank look. ‘So, Patient chappy, are you having a pleasant siege? It all sounds most thrilling. Who’s the cork-brained Corinthian? Have you offered him tea?’
‘There is no one holding me to ransom in your home, Ratty,’ said the Patient. ‘The story of my kidnapping was a ruse that I calculated would return you to this place post haste.’
‘Goodness, forked tongues isn’t the half of it. You’ve swallowed an entire silver cutlery set.’
‘I can’t believe you made me risk getting arrested for nothing!’ yelled Ruby. ‘I’m supposed to be starting a dig in Spain on Boxing Day and thanks to you I’ve missed the ferry and Ratty’s been humiliated on live television.’
‘Yes,’ said Ratty, ‘and then Ruby stormed the studio.’
She looked at the aristocrat for a beat before continuing at a level of decibels that was more than sufficient to demonstrate her feelings.
‘I know you’ve had a weird upbringing, Mr Patient, but remember who set you free!’
The Patient would never forget the debt he owed Ratty for releasing him from the cruel and unnecessary medical research that had blighted the first forty-five years of his life and had earned him his distinctive nickname. But today’s circumstances were exceptional. Someone had indeed been held at gunpoint.
‘We had an intruder,’ said the Patient. ‘I will show you where I put him.’
‘Crikey. I’ll bring the blunderbuss,’ said Ratty, opening an unlocked cupboard to reveal the antique weapon.
‘Is that thing safe?’ asked Ruby, horrified to see her friend armed with a comedic-looking gun.
‘This end is perfectly benign,’ he replied, pointing at the polished mahogany handle. ‘However, a prudent fellow would avoid the trumpety end.’
They followed the Patient down limestone steps worn smooth by centuries of servants’ feet into the labyrinthine basement.
‘So, you bagged a genuine miscreant, Patient chappy? Splendid!’
‘I observed him from the cottage. He avoided the road on his way to the manor. He entered via the rear door to the kitchen. I followed him inside and noted that he showed no hesitancy when locating the old servants’ rooms on the second floor. Without pause he walked past dozens of rooms directly to the door of bedroom twenty-three.’
‘The room my grandmother locked! Only a former servant chappy could know so much about the manor,’ said Ratty. ‘The blackguard would have known the place was empty when he saw my televisual rediffusion.’
‘Precisely. Outside bedroom twenty-three I apprehended him with your blunderbuss and directed him to this old butter room in the cellar.’
Ratty stopped.
‘The buttery? But—’
‘Here is the key.’
‘Yes, but a servant would know about ….’
He abandoned his sentence and looked through the keyhole. There was a wooden table, sideboards, cupboards, porcelain sinks, white tiled walls and a narrow, barred window. But no prisoner.
‘Before we open the door we should call the police,’ said Ruby. ‘He might be dangerous.’
‘Too late. Patient chappy said this fellow knew his way around Stiperstones. I fear the ne’er do well has skedaddled. When I was a tinker there was some kind of hoohah which resulted in the butler, the gamekeeper and the cook all serving time at her Majesty’s wotsit. It seems one of them recently found a taste of freedom and has returned to complete whatever ghastly sordidness he began. But any servant would know a fact about the buttery of which Patient chappy remains in wretched ignorance. Beneath the floor is a hatch and a chute, wide enough for empty milk churns to be rolled outside to the lower yard.’
Ratty unlocked the door. It swung open and confirmed his assessment.
‘So now we have an escaped convict on the loose,’ groaned Ruby. ‘Keep everything secure. Inform Constable Stuart. Break open bedroom twenty-three before anyone else does. Hide whatever your grandmother put in there. Got that?’
‘Er, lock up Constable Stuart and hide my grandmother. Yes. Got it.’
She sighed. A profound intellect existed somewhere beneath Ratty’s dense mask of incompetence. Whenever she doubted his sanity she reminded herself of the times he exhibited brilliance, albeit on occasions of sufficient rarity to warrant a place on an endangered list.
‘And be cautious,’ Ruby whispered.
‘I must say, Patient chappy,’ said Ratty, ‘I find myself in a state of wonderment, if not utter nigglement, that you should make a dashed hash of this by concocting a plan with as many holes in it as, er, er … help me out, old chuffer.’
‘It is unwise to judge the state of perforation of my plan until you have ascerta
ined its entirety,’ replied the Patient.
‘No, Mr Patient,’ said Ruby, ‘the intruder escaped and he’ll be back for room twenty-three. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow, maybe next year. Poor Ratty’s nerves could be on edge for months, and you know he has the constitution of a jellyfish.’
‘Quite. As if the world not ending wasn’t bad enough, now Patient chappy lets me down. Oh, when will the gods release me from their interminable game of tiddlywinks?’
‘Do you wish to hear more about the intruder?’ asked the Patient.
‘No,’ Ruby replied, ushering the two men up the stairs. ‘We should open that bedroom.’
‘Thing is, Rubes,’ protested Ratty, dragging his feet as if he were being press-ganged into taking his weekly bath. ‘Granny made quite a how-do-you-do in her diary about a curse that would befall anyone attempting a forced entry of the aforementioned chamber.’
‘Don’t be daft, Ratty. How could your grandmother possibly initiate any kind of evil from beyond the grave?’
‘You never met her.’
They arrived at the servants’ rooms on the second floor. Evidence of a break-in was everywhere: splinters of wood, flakes of paint, dusty bootprints in the carpet. A white six-panelled door dangled displeasingly from a twisted hinge. The number ‘23’ was plainly visible in dulled brass.
‘Patient chappy, this really is a most unpalatable wotsname. You’ve permitted a perfidious knave to steal Granny’s secret. I fear it may take more than a strong cup of tea to recover from such calamity.’
‘At least we don’t have to worry about the convict coming back,’ said Ruby, attempting a positive spin. ‘He’s got whatever it was he came for.’
‘Ruby is correct, to a degree,’ said the Patient.
‘Your opinion lacks its erstwhile gravitas, old lemon.’
‘If I may continue, Ratty, I knew of the trap door in the buttery.’
Ratty staggered back a couple of steps, reeling from the force of the Patient’s revelation. It was inconceivable that his friend could act with such ineptitude. This was more than incompetence – this was treachery. Ratty considered uttering a heartfelt ‘Et tu, Patient chappy?’ but opted instead for what were, in his mind, far harsher words:
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