by Davies, Neil
She looked quickly towards Jimmy and Candida alongside her. She was pleased to see they were both grinning too.
This would be sweet.
3
Susan groaned as the three figures approaching them threw back their hoods.
“Some people you just can’t get rid of,” she said, controlling the heartbeat that threatened to race out of control in her chest.
The Professor quickly glanced around.
“I wonder where the other one is?” he said, worrying that the fourth teenager might be circling round behind them.
Susan raised a hand to her face, feeling the scars, the bruises, her bent nose.
“Let’s just finish this, once and for all.”
Without waiting for her father, she gripped the bloodied, serrated bread knife in her fist and ran towards the robed figures, screaming as rage replaced fear.
The Professor mumbled, “shit,” and hurried after her, the axe held high, his other hand gripping a flat bladed screwdriver.
As the Professor and Susan began to run, so did Jimmy, Janie and Candida, their own weapons, two knives and a baseball bat, held ready.
The five closed on each other at an unhesitating pace, like two armies of old racing towards each other across the battlefield.
The moment of collision was fast and bloody.
Susan dodged sideways at the last second, Candida’s knife slicing the air where her face had been. Her own serrated blade swung upwards and across, the impact almost knocking it from her blood-slick fist. As she slipped on the grass, she turned quickly, afraid of a counter-attack, almost laughing as she saw the teenage girl stagger, blood gushing from her right cheek and neck where the blade had sliced through skin and muscle and cut into vital blood vessels. Her own brutality shocked her momentarily as she revelled in the loose skin and gristle that hung from the girl’s face.
The Professor did not even consider dodging. He ploughed straight on towards the boy wielding the baseball bat and swung the axe wildly before him.
Jimmy timed his swing perfectly. As the bat began to move, however, the still human part inside saw the woman’s knife cut Candida, saw blood fly from his girlfriend’s face and neck. His stomach rolled, his heart pounded.
Candida!
The swing of the bat faltered, lost impetus, making only half-hearted contact with the old man’s left shoulder rather than his head.
The Professor stumbled slightly under the blow but was able to quickly shrug it off, continuing his own swing with the axe.
The heavy blade thudded into Jimmy’s forehead, splitting the skull, cracking the bone down to the nose. As he fell, he pulled the axe from the Professor’s hand, so deeply embedded was it in his flesh and bone.
The Professor watched him fall, wondered whether he should try to retrieve the axe from the convulsing, dying teenager.
Janie, or rather the thing that controlled her body, incessant with rage at the defeat of her companions, leapt towards the Professor, stabbing her knife into his arm, his thigh, his side, in a flurry of fast but fortunately shallow blows.
The surprise of the attack, and the pain from the wounds, made the Professor drop the screwdriver, his only other weapon, and stagger away from the attacking teen, trying desperately to recover some semblance of control and defence.
Susan turned from the prone and twitching form of Candida. She saw her father stumble and fall as the remaining girl screamed and rushed at him, robes flapping in the night air like great, heavy wings.
For one moment Susan saw, not the girl, not the robes, but the underlying hideous, shrunken, misshapen creature with actual wings, leathery and veined, and bursting boils over its creased, oily skin. Then just as quickly the girl was back.
Susan clattered into the girl from the side, the two of them tumbling across the slick grass. A bloody blade flashed less than an inch from her eyes. She stabbed furiously with her own. The serrated blade slid into flesh and cut into muscle. She tugged, working the blade deep inside, ignoring another flash of steel as the girl almost managed to stab her.
The struggles subsided and the robed girl grew still, a last gasp of breath pushing into the night air, unsettlingly close to Susan’s ear.
As Susan stood, she looked down at her hand, gloved in bright blood, and the knife it held, drops of heavy gore dripping from the blade. She felt sick.
The professor struggled to his feet. Susan hurried to help him up.
“How bad are you hurt?” she asked.
“Not too bad,” said the Professor, wincing as he checked his wounds. “None of them are deep, fortunately. Guess she was in too much of a hurry. But we need to get after the others.”
Susan stopped him moving with a firm hand on his chest.
“First we get you bandaged up to make sure you don’t bleed to death, then we help the others.”
She looked at the three bodies lying around them, their blood rapidly soaking into the field.
“They don’t need those robes anymore, and they’ll make good bandages.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
1
Ethel had kept herself fit despite her age and, at first, had managed a quick run to get ahead of the pursuing killers. In her youth she would have outdistanced them easily, just as she had once outdistanced a German patrol just outside Paris, but she knew her limitations and she knew she could run no further.
Then there was Mr. Crosby. He carried little more weight than she did, but had obviously not kept himself as fit. He was already lagging some way behind and, before long, would be overtaken by the robed figures running hard after them. Her wartime training had been ruthless and, back in those days, she would have left her slower companion behind, using him as a distraction to allow herself to get away. But the years had mellowed her and, besides, she was tired of running.
For years she had ignored the terrible goings on in Byre, the disappearances, the way that Bayley woman strutted around the village with her lapdog Bullough. It had made her sick, but she ignored it, kept her head down. She was, although it hurt to admit it to herself, afraid. It had taken seeing that young woman hunted by Bayley’s teen enforcers to bring back the memories. She would have been captured, tortured, probably executed had it not been for the bravery and kindness of an old French woman. She had stayed hidden in that woman’s cellar for almost two days while the Gestapo searched for her. Now, at least, she felt she was repaying her debt in some small way. She was no longer afraid. She was just angry.
She stopped, tried to catch her breath, and turned back towards the struggling Mr. Crosby. He, too, was almost at a standstill, bent nearly double, gasping for air.
Ethel checked her revolver. Two bullets left.
The first shot was easy, even with the slight tremble the years had put in her muscles. The fastest of their pursuers, she thought it might be Mr. Endesby, the estate agent, had reached Mr. Crosby and foolishly come to a stop, lifting a heavy, two-handed axe above his head. Her bullet took out his right eye and most of the back of his head.
Mr. Crosby, both shocked and revived by the blood spatter in his face, turned and buried a long-handled cross-head screwdriver into the chest of the next closest figure before the raised knife in the woman’s hand could curve down on his head. The woman, as she gasped her last, looked vaguely familiar, but he was too exhausted to care.
Ethel took several slow steps towards the oncoming robed figures. They hesitated as though they’d become wary of what they had considered easy prey. She chose the next target with a cold ruthlessness her instructors would have been proud of. The rotund shape of Mrs. Nichols from the newsagents was unmistakable. Ethel had never liked the overbearing, pompous woman.
The bullet tore out Mrs. Nichols’ throat, exiting at the back of her neck, fibres of robe drifting in the night air. It almost hit one of the other figures standing further back, just nicking the edge of their hood.
Ethel was annoyed at herself. She had been aiming for the safer target of the chest. Sh
e was lucky. Age, as the young ones might have said, sucked!
The gun was now useless. She had no more bullets, not even back at the house. It was difficult to throw her treasured memento into the ditch at the side of the road, but keeping it would only hinder, not help. She had no other weapon. On the other hand, she had been top of her class in unarmed combat and excelled, so her instructor said, in killing techniques. Time to see how much her mind and her body remembered.
2
The Professor and Susan hurried up the road after Ethel and Mr. Crosby. Susan had cut up and used one of the robes of the dead teens as bandages on the Professor’s knife wounds. The other two they wore. They hoped the deceit would allow them to get close before they were recognised.
They had heard Ethel’s gunshots and were in sight of the figures that milled about the road ahead. At least three robed bodies lay, unmoving, on the ground. It would seem the old couple were at least fighting back.
The Professor gripped his axe, having pulled it, with some difficulty, from the boy’s head. Spots of blood and brain matter flew off the blade as he pumped his arms, running as fast as he could. Susan, he felt sure, was holding back slightly to stay with him. He wanted to shout at her to run ahead and help, but was safer with her nearby. He felt guilty for the thought. His pipe, in his pocket, dug into his thigh and he had the ridiculous urge to pull it out and stick it between his teeth. More comfort. Was he really so afraid that he needed all these things to keep him calm? Yes, he decided. He was.
His heart pounded and his stomach turned as he saw two robed figures closing on the small, frail, elderly form of Ethel Barlow. There was a struggle of some kind and both of the robed attackers fell to the ground, leaving Ethel still standing. For a moment he thought Tim must have returned and helped out, but there was no one there but the old lady. He knew she had a past, but obviously that past converted well into the present. He could not keep the grin off his face.
That grin faded, however, as he saw three or four more robed figures surrounding Mr. Crosby. Blades flashed in the moonlight. He thought he heard Mr. Crosby cry out.
He pushed himself to run faster.
3
Ethel’s moment of satisfaction at so effectively and easily killing the two young men, was quickly replaced by horror as she saw Mr. Crosby fall under the arcing blades of four attackers.
She hurried towards them, having seen enough death to know that it was already too late. Nevertheless, with technique rather than strength she broke the neck of the first robed figure she reached, punched a second in the kidneys and, as he twisted round in pain, hit him in the throat. With two down, she found herself facing the remaining two. Both held bloodied knives in their hands and had turned from the prone figure of Mr. Crosby. She no longer had the element of surprise on her side. They had seen what she could do and stayed back, out of reach.
The blades flashed, almost reaching Ethel while those holding them remained too far away for her to grab or hit. She considered trying to kick, but knew instinctively that her legs were not up to it, and she would do nothing but embarrass herself and probably put herself in greater danger.
For the moment it was a stand-off, neither side wanting to get too close to the other.
These were the last two of their original attackers and Ethel calmed herself as much as she could. It was difficult with Mr. Crosby lying at her feet. But she was certain he was already dead and, however ruthless and selfish it might seem, she had to ignore him and think of herself.
She was dismayed to see a further two robed figures running up the road. In her youth she could have taken four on, but not now. Well, she had lived a long and eventful life and at least she would die standing up for what she felt was right, rather than cowering behind her curtains, as she and others had done for too long. She worried about what would happen to Sammy, her terrier, without her to feed and look after him. But he would scavenge some kind of life. He was, at heart, a wild animal. Everyone was.
4
The Professor and Susan were almost up to the cautiously circling figures. He had seen the two in robes glance back and smile, taking them for reinforcements. Ethel had sighed heavily, he was certain. At least her surprise would be a good one.
His axe blade split the hood and the back of the head of the first figure he came to, and the man went down quickly and bloodily.
The man’s companion, seeing the attack from the corner of his eye, turned, but was too late and too slow to stop Susan’s knife slipping easily into his stomach. As he staggered, she pulled the blade out and dragged it across his throat. Spurting blood and wheezing heavily, he hit the ground.
Susan left him there and quickly pulled the hood of her robe back to show Ethel who she was.
The old lady smiled and gave the younger woman a hug before turning to look at the body of Mr. Crosby, his blood merging into that of his attackers on the road.
“I was too slow to save him,” she said, tears filling her eyes.
“There was nothing you could have done,” said Susan.
The Professor took a deep breath, suppressing his own grief.
“The main thing is that you’re alive,” he said. “Now, we need to get out of here, maybe back to the chapel. Perhaps Tim’s already made it there and is waiting for us.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
1
Tim felt the pain the moment he regained consciousness. It was bad, but not the worst he’d felt. Katrina’s followers, or whatever they were now, could not compare to Sadaam’s interrogators. He had escaped from there, and he could escape from here too. Although, he admitted to himself, there had been outside help in Iraq. He could not expect his Special Forces comrades to launch an attack on this prison.
Wherever this prison was.
He opened his eyes, thankful that the light was dim. Less welcoming was the foul odour that filled the air, forcing its way through the congealed blood in his nostrils.
It took a moment for him to recognise the steps, the stone walls. This was the cellar in the big house, his parent’s old house. Given Katrina’s use of the place it would have been his first guess, had he thought about it. That gave him some small hope. If any of the others had survived, they could guess it too.
Then he remembered who the others were and that the best soldier among them was an old lady. His hopes sank.
“I see you’re awake.”
The voice, a man’s, echoed hollowly about the walls of the cellar and it took a second before Tim identified it as coming from behind him. He tried to turn and found he was tied quite securely to an old wooden chair. It reminded him of the chairs they used to have in the kitchen when he was a child. It could even be one of those chairs, left behind when the place was abandoned.
“You have the advantage over me,” he said, slurring slightly through bruised and swollen lips. “You can see me but I can’t see you.”
“You wouldn’t know me anyway,” said the voice. “You were before my time.”
Tim weighed the words up carefully, the slight tone of jealousy. It wasn’t too difficult to guess the underlying meaning.
“You must be Katrina’s latest plaything,” he said, forcing a mocking tone through his injuries. “Her latest slave.”
“Until you came back.”
The man stepped around the chair and Tim saw him for the first time. Approaching middle age, slightly overweight, soft features. He did not seem to be a fighter, and there was more than jealousy on his face. There was fear, anxiety, and not all of it directed at him.
“Listen, believe me when I say I don’t want her,” said Tim, keeping his voice as level as he could. “She’s yours. You’ve nothing to worry about from me in that department. Witches just don’t do it for me.”
Mark Bullough said nothing, glancing towards the cellar steps that ran up to the hallway where Katrina still stood, those followers who had returned standing before her in a strange kind of rapture.
“I’m not even sure she is Katrina anym
ore,” said Mark, more to himself than to Tim, but the bound man heard it nevertheless.
“What do you mean?” Tim could see, now, that most of the fear and anxiety on this stranger’s face was directed to whatever was happening above them. “Just what exactly is going on up there?”
Mark, seeing no reason to lie to a man who was destined to die soon, and needing someone to talk to, even an enemy, kept his voice little above a whisper.
“Things possessed them, all of those villagers we had brought into the fold of Aello.”
“Aello,” Tim interrupted. “The harpy.”
“The source of the power Katrina’s been working towards. Making Aello flesh again. Combining their beings.”
Mark hesitated, licked his dry lips.
“But I wasn’t expecting those other... things. Demons, spirits, whatever they were. I knew there were entities here in the cellar, feeding in some way off Christina, off the sacrifices we made to her and to Aello. I didn’t know they were going to take over the followers.”
“But not you.” Tim held back the questions he had about entities in the cellar of his old house, something he had never known of, and about Christina, a name he recognised as belonging to the girl he had killed out on the street earlier. He needed to keep the focus on this man.
“What do you mean not me?”
“I mean, they didn’t possess you.”
“No.” Mark was thoughtful. “No, I was left free. Perhaps because I was the first to join her, her first devotee, a long way back when she was still searching for the right path to follow. Back then I was important to her, not just as a plaything as you called me. I had studied Sir Francis Dashwood and the Hell Fire Club, Herbert Arthur Sloane, Crowley and many others. I could help her with her search. Then Aello reached out to her.”
