The carriage began to move once more. Above the ground, fresh cold winds had long dried the previous night’s rain from the streets and set furls of cloud twisting above the grey concrete office buildings. Far below, the occupants of the rattling tube train sweated in the unhealthy warm airstreams of soot-encrusted tunnels.
Robert’s daily routine allowed him to beat a path from North London to the West End and back with little likelihood of detour. He was aware that he would have to learn to drive eventually, would have to go out and force himself to make some friends. That was what people did, after all, form a framework of acquaintanceship, of declared and undeclared lovers and enemies, people to be bumped into and greeted with affection or disinterest or feigned delight. But the thought of forced conversations with strangers at parties made him feel tongue-tied and dimwitted.
Maybe Sarah Endsleigh felt the same way. Ashcroft, the agent, had suggested that she was a drop-out. She argued with her mother, probably through the latter’s disapproval of her lifestyle. It appeared she had got in with the wrong crowd, as signified by the pair of thugs who hung around with her and by the strange photographs Rose had taken….What was it about Sarah’s picture that had briefly touched a chord of unease in his mind?
He turned over another page of the notebook and read on: ‘Notes on Nathaniel Zalian’. The surname rang a bell. Underneath was written: ‘Practicing physician at Hampstead’s Royal Free Hospital until 1980. Resignation requested after allegations of malpractice. Case settled out of court. Divorced 1981. Subsequently joined alcoholic rehabilitation program. Vanished after selling Hampstead apartment and closing bank account in 1982.’ Stapled to the page was a newspaper clipping from the Hampstead & Highgate Express bearing the headline: ‘Missing drugs case: Hampstead doctor suspended.’ At the bottom of the sheet Charlotte had scribbled: ‘Zalian—Ideals that soured’.
The next page was filled with circular diagrams drawn carefully in mapping ink. Across the top ran the heading ‘METONIC CYCLE’ and beneath, written in red biro: ‘Lunisolar Year for 1989’.
A frown crept across Robert’s face. It was at this moment, just as the train arrived at Camden station, that a vaguely formed idea began to grow in his mind. Shoving the notebook back into its folder he jumped up from the seat and swung out between the opening doors onto the platform. Taking the escalator stairs two at a time, he headed for the filthy telephone booths in the bottle-strewn foyer of the station.
‘Wait a minute, wait a minute, slow down a little, I can’t understand a word you’re saying. First of all, tell me what brings about this sudden change of heart?’ Rose’s voice was cool with suspicion.
‘I’ll explain when I get there. I want to show you what’s in the notebook I picked up from Charlotte’s apartment.’
‘You showed me already.’
‘No, I thought it was a draft of a novel. Now I think it’s much more than that. Hang on a sec.’ Robert rested the receiver on a stack of destroyed directories and turned to the tramp who was blowing a harmonica in his ear. ‘Here’s twenty pence. Please fuck off.’
‘Gor, bless you, guv’nor,’ said the tramp, jigging off to the next booth along. Robert turned back to the telephone. ‘I can get back to your place in about twenty minutes.’
‘I thought you had to be at work.’
‘I’ll call in sick.’
There was a sigh at the other end of the line. ‘If you want coffee you’ll have to make it yourself.’
‘That’s OK. You haven’t lived until you’ve had my coffee.’
‘Believe me, honey, I’ve lived.’ The line cut off.
Robert replaced the receiver and headed back down the escalator toward the Hampstead line platform. If nothing else, it would be a chance for him to make amends.
—
Robert looked at his watch. 2.15. Before him, spread out on the floor of Rose’s apartment, were over forty sheets of typed and handwritten paper which he had carefully removed from the plastic spiral of the notebook. Kneeling in the corner, swathed in her vast shapeless T-shirt, Rose looked patiently on. The smell of fresh coffee enveloped the lounge. Robert padded across the typed sheets in his socks and pointed out a particular page covered in type and pencilled diagrams. ‘It was this that started me thinking,’ he said, holding up the sheet so that Rose could read it. ‘A Metonic cycle. It’s Greek, to do with the phases of the moon recurring on the same days of the year. I checked my diary and, sure enough, there was a full moon when you took those pictures.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There was supposed to be a full moon, but it was cloudy. So?’
‘So, I’m looking through Charlotte’s notes for her new book and—did you ever read The Newgate Legacy?’
‘It’s next on my list after the new Jackie Collins.’
‘The book is strongly based on the present day prison system. The facts are very thoroughly researched. The style is almost documentary. Which made me think that these are factual notes for a new novel. But what was this book going to be about, I hear you ask?’
‘Amaze me.’
‘The study of a special group of people. A group that carries out its operations in accordance with the phases of the moon. There’s a list here. It’s headed by the deities Hermes, the messenger; Apollo, who’s associated with the sun; and Diana, the goddess of the moon. Then there’s a list of planets. Looks like Charlotte catalogued a full lunar schedule for the appearances of these people….’
‘…And they’re the ones her daughter is running around with. The people I saw on the roof.’
‘What do you think? Who could have put her onto such a subject in the first place?’ Robert rocked back on his heels and waved his hand across the spread-out sheets. ‘Now we have our scenario. Let’s assume that Sarah tells her mother about these people. Charlotte is more than just interested, she decides that it’s a great subject for a book. The daughter supplies her with information. Then something happens, we don’t know what. Maybe Sarah gets into trouble for revealing secrets to an outsider. She gets scared, argues with Charlotte. Tells her to give up the idea before they both get in trouble. And the next thing you know, the mother’s dead and the daughter has vanished, possibly abducted.’
Rose looked around at the door, then at Robert. ‘Are you the same guy who came in here a few hours back?’
‘I say “abducted” because if you look carefully at your picture of Sarah…’ Rose passed the photograph over to Robert, who tapped the face with his forefinger. ‘You’ll see that she’s not laughing at all. Couldn’t you describe that as a look of fear? Now, the notes are full of similarities with your story. Imagine that these people always operate from the rooftops. They run in packs, just like you saw. Listen to this:
Although it seems that some kind of initiation ceremony is necessary before a member may be ordained, a surprising number attempt to join in the course of a season. Most of the activities in which Sarah has participated seem to be of a fairly harmless nature, carried out purely for thrills. Indeed, there seems to be a rigid moral code among them which is constantly enforced by the group’s leader.
‘And this:
Today Sarah revealed what happens to those who fail to gain the status of membership. I fear they operate under no such moral compunction. There would seem to be an underbelly of…[this bit’s illegible]…which Sarah seems unable to expose. See ‘New Age’.
‘I think we have enough information here to take to the police.’ Robert gave Rose a smug grin and began gathering the papers together.
‘Except that you’re not going to take it to them.’
‘Why not?’
‘In the first place if you presented them with this “evidence” we’d either be arrested as accomplices, or laughed out of the station. Secondly, why not find Sarah yourself? You’ve got everything you need to do it right here.’ She tapped the stack of sheets Robert had bundled into her hands. ‘Then when you’ve done it, you can write t
he book.’
Robert’s eyebrows rose to the top of his head. ‘I think there are some risks involved here.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like getting pushed from the top of a tall building.’
‘Hey, fame doesn’t come cheap.’
‘If what I’ve read so far is anything to go by,’ Robert said, reaching for his coffee mug and draining it, ‘somebody may have already died just for knowing too much.’
Rose ignored him and waved her hands expansively around the room. ‘Well, Robert, I thought I’d give you the chance to come with me. I think I may go up there for a second look.’
He could see in her eyes that she was serious, and had already made up her mind to do it with or without him. ‘I don’t know.’ Robert rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘If I did come with you, we should really get started as soon as possible.’ He rose, crossed to the window and pulled the curtains apart. Overhead a pale sun cast wan light across the bristling hedgerows. ‘There may be a perfectly simple and rational explanation for what you saw. But if there’s really some kind of cult in force above our heads, then there’s no telling what they’ll do to Sarah.’
Together they gazed out of the window, into the misty coronae surrounding an already-risen moon in the darkening winter sky.
—
‘I have a few questions for you, Robert.’
‘Fire away.’ They were striding down the quiet Hampstead backstreet side by side. A brief rainfall earlier had left a smell of fresh greenery in the air. The reassembled notebook was wedged firmly under Robert’s arm. Chin up, he strode ahead whistling in a cheerful, tuneless fashion. His narrow eyes seemed to hold a soft, almost luminous glow. It was now nine o’clock in the evening. He had spent the rest of the afternoon with Rose, having first called the office and lied through his teeth to a disgruntled Skinner about suffering from a sudden throat infection. It was strange, but he felt comfortable with Rose. She seemed capable of adapting her energy and enthusiasm in any direction which seemed to her like a good idea at the time. Over a meal in the local Indian restaurant she questioned Robert about his work, his home life, his likes and his dislikes. She seemed to have an answer for everything, or if not, a question.
Robert, on the other hand, found it difficult to give an adequate account of himself simply because he was not used to being called upon to do so. Afternoon had slipped into evening and with it came a plan of action provided, appropriately enough, by Charlotte Endsleigh’s notebook.
Rose, meanwhile, had changed into a navy blue sweater of indeterminate style and size and was ready for whatever the evening held in store. Her questioning remained indefatigable, but Robert was quickly learning how to deal with it.
‘Where are we going first?’
‘Tell you in a minute.’
‘OK, here’s a thought. If this gang is so rigidly moral and harmless—as Charlotte points out in her notes—why would they murder an old lady just for jotting down their activities in a book?’
‘Don’t know yet. Next question.’ They paused together at a zebra crossing.
‘If they didn’t get on with each other, why would Sarah confide in her mother in the first place?’
‘Perhaps she felt she had to tell someone. She might have been in trouble. Then again, she might not have told Charlotte very much at all. The old lady was quite capable of making a few phone calls and finding out for herself.’
‘How come this “burglar” didn’t steal her notes, or destroy them?’
‘Maybe he didn’t know they existed. Or perhaps he couldn’t find them. The envelope containing the notebook had dropped under a table. My guess is that it fell from one of the boxes that Charlotte’s thieving relative was carrying out of the apartment.’
‘Shouldn’t we keep studying the notes before charging off like this?’
‘Yes, we should, but there isn’t time.’
‘Suddenly we’re in that much of a hurry?’
‘Like I said, if these people have abducted Sarah Endsleigh in order to keep her mouth closed, they may already have decided to close it forever. Weird cult, full moons, sacrificial rites, who knows? You want to play detective, you’re going to have to figure this stuff out for yourself.’
Rose slowed up for a second and watched Robert stride ahead. In his scuffed sneakers and scruffy jean jacket, with his long neck, unruly hair and soap-dish-sized ears, he looked more than a little demented. ‘Robert.’ He halted in his tracks and looked back over his shoulder.
‘Hmmm?’
‘There’s no history of madness in your family, is there?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Just that you seemed so different this morning. Scared of your shadow. A real wimp.’
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence. I still am a wimp.’
Rose shot a glance at the undernourished body striding ahead of her. He seemed to move in an awkward swagger of bravado, as if anxious to impress upon her the fact that he knew exactly what he was doing. Which he obviously didn’t. She smiled to herself.
‘I guess you are.’
‘So I’m relying on you to protect me if we get into trouble.’
They rounded the corner of the street and headed into the wind, falling silently in step as they set off on a journey which would take them further than they had ever intended to go.
Chapter 11
The Swan
Samuel felt terrible. For the past hour, cramps had been cutting through his intestines like white-hot wires. He clutched his stomach and sat down on the ledge overlooking the terminus platforms once more, waiting for the wave of nausea to subside. He was a large man who moved awkwardly, as if he was somehow ashamed of his size. He knew that his strength had been useful to Chymes. Now he wondered if he had outlived that usefulness. Below, the railway lines leading from Cannon Street station snaked out across the river, sweeping around to the left, where Southwark Cathedral lay blackened and neglected within a noose of tracks. The sun had set behind an unbroken bank of heavy grey cloud, as if the effort of providing a little watery winter light had finally proven too much for it.
Despite the falling temperature and the fact that he was only wearing a thin cotton T-shirt, rivulets of sweat ran down Samuel’s back and arms. For the first time in days his mind was unclouded by drugs. Now the mist was dissipating from his memory and he was free to face the terrible consequences of his actions. He had been a party to murder on two occasions. Yesterday he had participated in the death of someone whom he had once considered to be a friend. By the absence of his disapproval and his lack of ability to influence the horror taking place around him, he had implicitly condoned the atrocities committed on those he had once thought of as allies against a corrupt world. But this time something, some subconscious desire to reawaken himself, had made him refuse to take part in the nightly ritual of drug-taking. Earlier in the evening he had watched while the others shot themselves up into a conscience-numbing limbo and, as their minds submerged, his own had slowly returned and he had begun to recall events in the sharpest detail.
Later he had spoken up, had demanded an audience with Chymes himself. He was beginning to realize now that this had been a grave mistake, for how could he explain the burden of his guilt to a man who had no use for the very concept? Chymes had walked with him across the grey L-shaped section of the station roof, his arm around the waist of the shavenheaded giant like a teacher reassuring his favourite pupil. He suggested that if the latter felt so strongly about performing certain actions which would herald the start of the New Age, then perhaps he really should consider returning to the Insects below. Samuel immediately sensed the danger in agreeing to this. He had seen what had happened to others who had expressed a desire to leave the order and Chymes knew that he had seen.
Another wave of pain enclosed his gut like the tightening of a hot metal band. He leaned forward, dropping one hand to the ledge, and retched. To his horror, dark blood poured from his contracting throat onto the tracks far below. He
had eaten nothing today, had only drunk a single can of beer with Chymes. Could his agony be put down simply to his body’s withdrawal from poisonous chemicals? Perhaps it had caused an ulcer, or torn vital blood vessels. For a brief moment, the turmoil inside him subsided.
From behind him sounded the tread of heavy boots. Wiping his chin with the back of his hand, he turned to see Chymes approaching from the shadowed concrete canyon formed by the rear of the roof and the adjoining offices. As he stepped out into the centre of the station canopy there was a new sound—the slow, rhythmic wingbeat of a large bird. Grimacing, Samuel looked up in time to see a huge swan of almost ghostly whiteness swoop over the head of his master and land heavily on the rooftop before him. Uncoiling its long neck, it hissed and grunted like an old man snoring in his sleep.
‘Why, Brother Samuel, I thought you would have returned to the earth by now,’ said Chymes, his voice a stentorian bass.
Samuel did not care for his choice of words, but was in too much pain to say so. He breathed uneasily, his lungs labouring as they began to secrete blood. ‘What have you done to me?’ he managed to gasp, the wave of pain slowly building once again in the pit of his stomach.
‘I am afraid that it’s what you have done to yourself, Brother.’ Chymes drew closer, towering above the wheezing man who could now barely manage to sit upright. His long, sallow face was framed by a mass of black hair, greasily pomaded behind his ears in a style which gave him the appearance of a Victorian dandy. He reached forward with his metal hand, the polished steel fingers uncurling in a gesture of supplication. ‘You must realize that you have only yourself to blame for this turn of events, brother.’
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