The garden looked forlorn. The humpbacked tree next to the swimming pool had lost its fiery petals. The house waited, dark and still.
He approached the French doors with their stained-glass panels. Placing his pencil torch between his teeth, he freed his hands and reached into his jacket pocket to extract the pouch holding his picks.
The new lock was a tougher proposition than the old one, but not impossible. Picking locks was his forte. However, doing so in pouring rain was no picnic. Working on the lock, he tried to ignore the rain on his neck. But even so he couldn’t stop himself from shivering.
He glanced up uneasily at the silvery windows of the house rising into the night sky above him. But everything was quiet. Nothing stirred.
At last. He felt the lock give. He shoved the torch back into his pocket and pushed the door open.
The bloody thing creaked like the gate to an abandoned crypt.
He froze, then quickly moved into the house, clicking the door shut behind him.
The sudden quiet was unnerving. For a long moment he waited, expecting at any moment to see a flood of light cascading down the staircase. That creak had been loud enough to wake the dead.
The house remained dark.
Slowly he released his breath. For a few moments he continued to stand still, allowing his eyes to get used to the inside gloom. And there, on the far side of the room, were the two computers, their screensavers on: two solar witches with their waxing and waning suns floating in the surrounding blackness.
For a moment an image of the sleeping women two storeys above him entered his mind. They would be breathing deeply, caught in the embrace of dreams. Hugging their pillows, the bedclothes twisted round their bodies. Bare arms, bare shoulders, long bare legs. Hair spread across the pillows like seaweed. And one of them might be dreaming of him. Maybe he should creep up the stairs, stand outside the doors, listen to their soft breathing…
Stop it, he told himself savagely. God, he was pathetic.
He switched the pencil light on again and flicked it up and down the room a few times. Cautiously, he took a few steps forward.
He stopped. His shoes were making squelching sounds. Shoving the torch into his pocket, he stooped to untie his shoelaces, not the easiest thing to do in their soaked state, and worried the shoes off his feet. His feet were now clad in socks only and he made no noise.
Softly he padded past the bookshelves, the mounted bird skeletons, the abacus with its ivory beads. He was intimately familiar with this room and its objects but tonight in the near darkness, with the rain driving against the pale window panes, the place felt alien. This was a room he associated with flowers and beautiful music. But it was as though he was looking at a distorted black-and-white print of a full-colour memory. A half-remembered image surfacing in a bad dream. Any music playing in this room was sure to be off key.
Masks. The dark shapes lining the wall. He could feel their eyes on him.
He had reached the long table with the two computers. He touched the space bar on the keyboard of the desktop. The screen filled with icons. He clicked on the single folder: The Promethean Key. The screen blinked and the prompt appeared, asking for the password.
Without hesitation he keyed in the words: HeRmes TriSmeGistus01.
For an agonising moment the cursor kept blinking. But then the screen cleared. Open sesame.
On the screen in front of him was a menu. The Promethean Key consisted of four sub-files: East: Mind; West: Body; North: Spirit; and South: Portal—Chi. Each of the names was followed by a tiny square. Gabriel placed his hand on the mouse and ticked each box in succession.
He had brought a writable CD with him. Slipping it into the computer’s disc drive, he gave the command to copy the four components of the file onto the disc. The light on the disc drive blinked and he could hear a soft whirring sound. The download started.
He swivelled the chair round so that he was now facing the laptop. He tapped the enter key and the desktop appeared.
Diary.
Ever since they had kicked him out of the house, the diary’s pages had been closed to him. They had killed off his Trojan. But at this moment he had direct access to the machine and it was still connected to the Internet. He would be able to reactivate his fallen warrior.
He started working the keyboard. He hadn’t told Isidore that his plan for tonight also included taking one final look at the diary. Isidore might have accused him of breaking and entering into Monk House merely to get to the diary—not to find out what was hidden inside The Promethean Key.
His fingers raced across the keys.
Entry Date: 7 October
Betrayal is the saddest word there is…
For a moment he closed his eyes. He was in.
Betrayal is the saddest word there is… To trust someone and then to have him fail you. Treachery.
He took advantage of us. Could we have been more naive? We gave a professional hacker the run of the house and we never considered ourselves at risk? Such is arrogance. And vanity. The thought never occurred to us—why? Because we thought we were playing him. Instead, he was playing us. Smiling at us with friendly eyes and all the while keeping his heart cold and his mind suspicious. A spy.
I should be furious. He’s read my diary. But instead of rage, I feel longing. I miss him. On the one hand I feel violated. On the other—every woman wants to share herself with the man she loves; to have him truly know her.
M. is angry and disappointed and that makes me afraid. Anger and disappointment is a potent brew and M. is on the boil. I am afraid for G. I am afraid of what M. might do to him.
What am I really saying?
G. thinks R. was murdered. Is he right?
I am finally admitting it. I am allowing myself to think the unthinkable. That R. did not leave of his own free will, but came to harm. And that M. might be responsible.
Is M. a killer?
I am concerned that G. might be in danger too. I am afraid that he will be hurt without my knowing about it. What if M. tries to harm him and I’m not there to protect him?
His mobile suddenly started to vibrate against his hip. Gabriel grabbed at it and brought it to his ear. He cupped his hand round his mouth and lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘What?’
‘Get out of there.’ Isidore’s voice was taut. ‘She’s awake.’
Gabriel glanced towards the staircase which, though in shadow, was clearly visible from where he sat.
‘I don’t see any light.’
‘She turned it on for just a moment and then killed it again. Bloody hell! Don’t argue. Get out now!’
He shoved the phone back into his pocket and turned to the desktop. The download was not complete. East, West and North had been copied but the copy process for South—the portal—had not yet started.
He looked back at the shadowed staircase in an agony of indecision. It wouldn’t take long for her to get from the top floor to the bottom. But who was to say she was coming this way? Maybe she simply wanted a drink of water and had gone back to bed again.
The staircase remained dark. The disc drive whirred softly.
And then, suddenly, she was there. Like a ghost.
She was standing on the first landing, her hand resting lightly on the balustrade. Her face was in deep shadow but she was wearing a long, floaty nightdress in a pale colour, which intensified the impression that he was looking at an apparition—something not made of flesh and blood.
He reacted instinctively. He clicked on the ‘cancel’ icon and almost simultaneously pushed his finger hard on the eject button of the disc drive. The tray slid gently outwards. Even as he grabbed the disc, she was coming down the stairs.
He turned round and ran in the direction of the French doors. In his haste he bumped against a footstool and grunted in pain as the sharp edge of the stool cut into his shin. As he continued towards the doors, his eyes searched the shadows for his shoes. Where were his shoes? He couldn’t see them anywhere.
&
nbsp; Too bad. Too late now. He had reached the door. Placing his hand on the handle, he wrenched it open and ran into the rain.
His mad rush carried him through the garden and he didn’t stop until he reached the door that would give him access to the alley. Out of breath, adrenaline coursing through his body, he turned round to look back at the house.
At first he couldn’t spot her. But then, peering through the slanting rain, eyes straining, he made out the shape of her figure where she stood at the window looking out. He couldn’t see her eyes or her face, but the force of her presence played over him like a tracking beam.
For a long, long moment they stared at each other through the darkness and the rain. He turned his back on her and slipped out into the alley.
• • •
Isidore poured water from the kettle into the makeshift plastic footbath. ‘Place your feet in here.’
Gabriel dipped a cautious finger into the steaming water and yelped. ‘Add some cold water first.’
‘Lionheart.’ But Isidore obeyed and emptied a jug of tap water into the container. ‘Better?’
Gabriel grunted. His feet felt like blocks of ice and they had turned a rather weird shade of aquamarine. The sole of one was cut and bloodied where he had stepped on the jagged edge of an empty can during his dash out into the alley. His shin, where it had connected with the footstool, was starting to bruise quite spectacularly. He felt as though he had been through the wars.
Isidore had conjured up a bottle of Dettol and now proceeded to pour a long stream of the amber liquid into the water, turning it milky. ‘To stop infection,’ he explained. ‘That can was probably filthy.’
Gabriel gasped slightly as he lowered his freezing feet into the water. It was still hellishly hot.
Isidore stirred the water with a wooden spoon. ‘That’s the second pair of shoes you’ve left at their house.’
‘True.’
‘And this time I don’t think they’ll send them back.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘What matters is that our killer now has a very good idea of who the midnight intruder was, and who hacked into their machine.’
Gabriel thought back to that moment when they had stared at each other sightlessly through the dark and the rain. Eyes blinded but minds connecting.
‘She would have known it was me even without the shoes.’
‘And you weren’t able to identify her.’
‘No. She was in shadow all the time and the nightdress she was wearing was voluminous, so I couldn’t tell from her figure. But…’ Gabriel smiled. ‘I did establish one thing tonight.’ He stopped and smiled again. ‘While I was waiting for The Key to download, I accessed the diary.’
‘No shit. And?’
‘Well, one thing’s clear as day. The writer is not the killer. And she doesn’t know what happened to Robbie Whittington. But she’s starting to get suspicious. And she’s scared of her sister—or, rather, she’s scared about what her sister is capable of. She wrote it in as many words.’
Isidore leaned over and punched Gabriel on the shoulder. ‘Way to go, brother. I don’t mind telling you I had my doubts. I know you love that diary, but I think it plenty creepy. I did not find it such a stretch to think its owner might be capable of murder.’
‘Well, she’s not. And what’s more, she has feelings for me.’
‘I’m happy for you. Now if only you knew who it was who had these feelings.’
Gabriel sighed. ‘That would help.’
‘Well, I have some news too. You remember my cousin Derek? The pharmacist? You met him at that science con in Northampton a year back.’
‘Vaguely.’
‘Well, I gave him the bottle of leftover berry wine you took with you the day the girls kicked you out and asked him to analyse it.’
‘Did you now?’ Gabriel was surprised.
‘It’s potent shit, man. Apparently there’s belladonna in there and hemlock and ashwagandha and a shit-load of other stuff. Derek was fascinated. He said if the person who had put the potion together hadn’t been such a skilled chemist, you’d be dead.’
‘Really. How comforting.’
‘Apparently a mixture like that is capable of altering the rhythm of the heart. It will almost certainly induce dizziness, hallucinations and the impression that you’re falling or flying. And it is sure to lower your inhibitions. Also, it has a cumulative effect. So the longer you use it, the more susceptible you become to its effects. You’ve been drinking this stuff for a while now, haven’t you?’
Gabriel thought back. ‘About eight weeks.’
‘No wonder you weren’t able to resist the scan. They were marinating you like a piece of tough steak.’
‘That sounds about right.’
‘Derek also said to watch out for the stuff as it could give you a hard-on that just won’t quit. The Makonde of Tanzania use something similar as a kind of home-grown Viagra.’
‘Uh-huh.’
Isidore gave him a sardonic look. ‘All right. Let’s see what this baby can tell us.’ He picked up the CD with the downloaded files.
Gabriel removed his feet from the water. As he started to towel them dry, he sneezed. Reaching into his pocket, his fingers hunted for his handkerchief but instead found something round and hard.
It was the amulet given to him by the owner of the magic shop. He had forgotten all about it. As he turned the tiny object over in his palm, he was again surprised by its weight. Iron, if he remembered correctly. A defence against witchery, the man had said. Well, he supposed it had done its job tonight.
As Isidore worked the keyboard, he spoke over his shoulder. ‘This disc is not complete, you know. When you made your dash for freedom, the download of the fourth component—the portal—was aborted. So we only have the first three components to work with.’
‘Maybe that will be enough.’
‘Wow.’ Isidore’s voice was a whisper. ‘Check this out.’
Gabriel clumsily shoved the amulet back into his pocket and got to his feet. He stared over Isidore’s shoulder.
The computer screen was covered with graphics—enigmatic icons, idiosyncratic symbols. As Isidore scrolled down the pages, it looked like some kind of mysterious tapestry.
And there were sketches. Architectural sketches. Meticulous drawings of passageways, drawbridges, flights of stairs, ceiling details, galleries. And doors. Many doors. Panelled doors. Doors with porches in the shape of shells. Tall formal doors framed with architraves and pilasters. Small, unassuming doors. The rooms to which they led were labelled, the labels in code and unintelligible. Even so, as Gabriel looked at the plans, he felt himself grow cold.
‘I’ve been inside this place.’
‘What?’ Isidore twisted round in his chair.
‘This is the blueprint for the house of a million doors.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘Or at least a partial print. Obviously this is only a tiny, tiny section. But there’s no doubt about it: I’ve walked through those rooms. See that door there? It gives access to a room stacked from floor to ceiling with broken violins. And that long oblong room is a conservatory filled with carnivorous plants. I remember it exactly.’
‘So what the hell is this place, then?’
‘I don’t know.’ As he looked at the plans, Gabriel was surprised to feel the hairs on his arms rise. ‘But believe me, walk through it… and you can go insane.’
THE PORTAL
‘Seeking the mysterious portal, you must… render yourself invisible, that you may slip through unnoticed.’
—Nei Pien of Ko Hung (ancient treatise on alchemy, medicine and religion, 320 AD). As quoted in The Invisible Fist, Ashida Kim
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The nightmare descended on him the day after the burglary.
After leaving Isidore, Gabriel returned home and worked for four hours straight, trying to figure out the information on the disc. If he looked closely enough, surely he would f
ind a clue.
But it was hopeless. It was like trying to read a foreign language. He fell asleep at his desk just as the sun came up, his computer still open at one of the pages of The Promethean Key.
When he woke up, his watch told him it was 9 A.M. His head felt woolly. He glanced at the computer screen and shuddered. Oh, no. He simply couldn’t face working on that treacherous, enigmatic text right now. Maybe he should head for the gym. His foot was still sore from the can he had stepped on the night before, but not so much that he wouldn’t be able to train. A workout might get his synapses flashing again. Allow him to come back to the document fresh.
He was running at a relaxed, steady pace on the treadmill when it happened. One moment he was watching a good-looking blonde with imposing pecs as she assaulted the rowing machine with terrifying ferocity. The next moment he had collapsed, the treadmill rushing along under his body at eight miles an hour, dragging him sideways. He was unable to right himself. The only thing he was aware of was that his head had turned into a fireball of pain. And then, nothing.
‘I think he’s having an epileptic fit.’ A female voice, sounding apprehensive.
‘Give him air.’ Another voice. A man, trying to sound authoritative.
Gabriel opened his eyes. He was flat on his back. Around him a circle of faces looked down at him. Just like in the movies, he thought. When the hero goes down. His next question should probably be: ‘Where am I?’
But he knew where he was. His head hurt fiercely but he was not disoriented. He knew exactly what had happened to him. And who was responsible.
He placed his hands palms down on the floor and pushed himself up.
‘Easy there.’ The man who had spoken before—one of the trainers at the gym—placed his arm round Gabriel’s shoulders and helped him get to his feet. ‘Are you all right, mate? Should we get you a doctor?’
‘I’m fine.’
The trainer gave him a dubious look. ‘Maybe you should sit down. I’ll get you some water.’
Writ in Water Page 26
