‘You’re not going to run off again, are you?’
‘Why d’you care?’
Tom’s eyes widened. He was genuinely shocked by her words. ‘What?’
Lila dropped her head. ‘Sorry. ’Night.’
She left the room before Tom could say or do anything else.
He stood there alone. Heard her going upstairs, her bedroom door slam shut.
It was his turn to feel on edge now. He just hoped she wouldn’t run. Not again. He had taken a liking to her in a short space of time. And he genuinely wanted to help her. If he could.
‘Right, three cups of . . .’ Rachel stopped in the doorway. ‘Where’s she gone?’
‘Bed.’
‘Oh. Well.’ She placed the mugs down on a side table. ‘Just us, then.’ She sat on the sofa. Looked up at him. ‘Come and join me.’
Tom’s earlier arousal at the sight of her had vanished completely. He now regretted letting Rachel into the house. He wished he had listened to his earlier instincts. He wanted to go back in time, do it all again. Lila was spooked by Rachel and he didn’t know why. He hoped she would tell him in the morning. He hoped he hadn’t lost her trust completely.
‘Right,’ she said again, patting the seat. ‘Sit down. I’ve had a hard day and I need to release some tension.’ She began taking her jacket off. ‘Come on, haven’t got all night.’
Seemingly bewitched by her, Tom sat. Hating himself for what he had just done.
48
‘Here we are again.’
Noah nodded at the words. Said nothing more. The St Petroc stone circle, bleached bone in moonlight against the surrounding darkness. And in the centre like a shadow detached from that darkness sat Morrigan.
‘Sit by me.’
Morrigan was sitting on the flattened stone, the supposed sacrificial altar. Noah moved slowly forward, took his seat. Kept as much distance as he could between them. Said nothing. Waited.
‘I’m not happy, Noah. Really not happy. Nor is anyone else. And neither should you be.’
‘No, Morrigan.’
Morrigan turned, stared at him. ‘No, Morrigan? Is that all you have to say? Where’s your explanation, your plan to make things work? To save something of the disaster you’ve created? I’m waiting.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, knowing it was the only person he ever said it to or would ever say it to.
‘Well, I suppose that’s a start. And how are you going to make things better, hmm? Put things back on track? There’s a lot riding on this. A lot of people’s futures are hanging on it. On what you’re going to do next, what the next words out of your mouth will be. So?’
How did Morrigan always do this to him? It was as though Morrigan had some kind of power, some method to look right inside him, find the part of him that was full of fears and self-pity, self-disgust and self-loathing, that cordoned-off area he didn’t show to anyone, not even himself if he could help it, and rip it out for all to see? And he didn’t know how it was done. If it was a mind trick then it was a damned good one. If was some kind of witchcraft, then that really terrified him.
‘I’ve got a plan,’ he said.
‘I’m waiting.’
‘We need an outsider. It must be an outsider, yeah?’
‘That’s what was agreed.’
‘Well, I’ve got one.’
‘Look how you messed the last one up. A simple grab and what happened? People who you promised me wouldn’t talk, talked. And then one of them goes and kills the outsider. Then we’re back to square one. And everyone’s waiting on you to make it right. Why should I listen to anything you have to say?’
‘I’ve got someone in mind. And I’ve got someone in mind to get them. There won’t be any fuss and nothing’ll go wrong. I promise you.’
‘Your promises are worth nothing.’
‘But . . .’ Despite the cold he was sweating. ‘I can do this. Please. I know I messed up.’ He took a deep breath after those words. They didn’t come easy to him. ‘Let me sort it. Give me a chance to make things right.’
Morrigan stared. Those unblinking, black eyes, a crow’s eyes, seemed to bore right into him. ‘I’ve got no choice but to trust you. We’re all waiting for you.’
‘I won’t let you down.’
‘You’d better not. Otherwise your past life might catch up with you.’
Morrigan knew. The only person here, or anywhere. Morrigan knew who he had been, what he had done. Morrigan had made the past go away. But Morrigan could bring it back again. He didn’t doubt that.
‘It’s a girl,’ he said quickly. ‘The girl who ran. We’ve tracked her down. We know where she is. And we’re going to get her.’
‘We agreed an outsider.’
‘She is an outsider. After what she did, what she tried to do, she’s not one of us any more. And she won’t be missed.’
‘She’d better not be.’
‘She won’t. I promise you.’
‘We’ve already had that conversation.’ Dismissive, smiling maliciously.
Noah said nothing.
Morrigan stared at him once more, then looked straight ahead. Silence. Noah could hear the waves crashing against the cliffs, the wind susurrating through the trees behind, as though they were talking about him behind his back.
‘I wanted to hear the screams,’ said Morrigan, almost wistfully.
Again, Noah said nothing. Waited.
‘That’s the best part. The screams. When you prepare the victim for what awaits them. Soften them up. When they see their own blood, feel their own pain, their insides on the outside, parts that should be attached, unattached, even forced to eat parts of themselves for sustenance . . . when they can’t believe what’s happening to them, they’ve never experienced anything to compare with it before. When they look death in the face and feel so suddenly, amazingly alive. That’s beautiful . . .’
Noah just stared straight ahead, silently hoping – begging – to be dismissed.
Morrigan continued. ‘That’s what we all feed on, what gives us strength. Nourishment. Sustenance. The screams, the fear, the blood. Their death gives us life. The more they scream, the more they suffer, the more we take from it, the more powerful we become.’ Morrigan turned to face him. ‘And because of you, that’s what we shall miss.’
Noah was too scared to reply.
‘The anticipation is everything. The final act is for the community to share. It is the beginning of the next phase. But the anticipation . . . is all mine to savour. And you are going to deprive me of that. Of sustenance. Of power.’
Noah felt he should say something. ‘But you . . . you can still do all that.’
‘No, Noah. I can’t. The date has to be kept, does it not?’
Noah nodded.
‘Then don’t tell me what I can still do.’ Morrigan’s voice rose. ‘You have deprived me of it. My pleasure. The ritual can still go ahead as it must do. But I will never forget what you have done to me. Never.’
Noah couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.
‘Why are you still here? Haven’t you got things to do?’
‘Yuh – yes . . .’
Noah rose slowly to his feet, a puppet whose strings had been pulled.
‘Go on then. And don’t fail this time. Because it won’t be just me you have to answer to. You know that.’
49
Noah watched the dawn rise. Siting on the edge of the cliff, staring at the sea, lost in the distance. Crows swooped and cawed, reminding him he wasn’t alone. Mocking him, laughing at him. Ahead were the gulls, sharp-eyed, sharp-beaked, opportunistic scavengers, razoring the cliff sides for prey. He knew all about gulls. Remembered them from the trawlers. Wheeling and diving. Flat eyes and knife-beaks, coming towards him. Fish guts or hands, they didn’t care as long as they got fed.
The trawlers. He barely thought about them now. But Morrigan had brought all of that back. The past he had tried to keep hidden. The past Morrigan could unearth on a whim if he cause
d displeasure. The accompanying fear had kept him up all night. He couldn’t go back to the camp, couldn’t let them see that fear in him. His respect would be gone.
So he had sat on the cliff, remembering. When he used to be someone else. Someone ordinary. Dean Bosley. Failed fisherman turned local drug dealer, somewhere further down the coast. Happy with his good car and his rural ghetto-flash clothes, his easy money and his very local notoriety. Fishing was dying. Brexit had seen to that. When the opportunity to peddle drugs came along, he took it. And found most of his customers in his old sailing mates, all needing something to help keep them awake on the forty-eight-hour trips. And that had been him. Until the deaths.
The first involved both crew-members of a trawler. Steering their boat back to harbour they misjudged their distance and capsized. Drowned. Both high on amphetamines.
The second was out at sea. A miscalculation with the net-gathering equipment and one of the fishermen went overboard. Tangled up in netting, he couldn’t be saved. Amphetamines again.
The third was Ron, Dean’s old skipper. Heart attack. Whisky and amphetamines.
It didn’t take the rest of the small town long to work out that Dean was the common denominator in all the deaths. He was the supplier. The locals came for him like angry, pitchfork-wielding villagers in an old horror movie. So he ran. And ended up lying low in a traveller commune in north Cornwall. Surfing, scrounging, dealing, whatever. He did all right.
And he changed his name. Noah. A nod to his fisherman past.
Some of the travellers he found tedious. Middle-class university dropouts railing against all manner of injustices done to them by the Man, the Pigs, the System or whoever. But always popping back to Mum and Dad’s every other weekend with a pile of washing. Noah had no time for them. And their blow wasn’t as good as the stuff he could get.
But there was a hardcore band of those who thought like him, acted like him. He became the gang’s dealer, getting stuff from his old contact Conroy, who had relocated to Newquay, and selling it to the travellers. They liked him, or tolerated him at least because he kept them supplied. And slowly he slithered up the hierarchy. Not that there was one to start with; he created it. And a few months later he was top of the heap. The boss. Dean was long gone.
And he found an added bonus. Lots of rich people had second homes in the area, empty most of the time. His gang would do the places over, Conroy would fence the stuff. And everyone was happy. Until a new face arrived.
*
‘Detective Sergeant Hickox,’ said the newcomer, holding his warrant card in front of Noah’s face, impossible to miss. Medium height, medium build, wearing an anorak over a shirt and tie. Every inch a nondescript person. But his eyes told a different story. They held the gaze of whoever they looked at, scrutinised, judged. Knew things about you that you would never tell another person.
‘Noah,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’
Hickox smiled. ‘I don’t think so, Dean.’
Noah blinked. Tried not to let the surprise show. Didn’t know how successful he was at it. Regained his composure quickly, kept talking. ‘No one by that name here, mate. Noah. That’s me.’
‘Stop the bullshit, Dean. Let’s have a chat, you and me.’
Noah wanted to run. He looked around to see if anyone else had heard. No one in earshot. He turned back to Hickox. ‘Think you got the wrong bloke, mate.’
‘You’re Dean, who used to work on the boats until you got a better offer. Supplied amphetamines that killed at least five people. Then did a runner and hoped people would forget you.’ He stepped in closer. Noah smelled breath mints. ‘But I didn’t, Dean. It’s taken a few years, but here we are.’ He looked around. ‘Nice place. Not your camp, obviously. The area, I meant. Or at least I bet it was before your lot turned up.’
‘You’ve got the wrong bloke.’
‘No, I haven’t. Want to know how I found you? Big spike in burglaries in this area. Had a sniff around. What do I find? You lot. Did a bit of surveillance. And who do I see? Our old friend Dean. Killed those fishermen, then ran away. Now he’s all ready to come home.’
Noah stepped in close. ‘Listen. I’m not Dean Bosley.’
‘Never said he was called Bosley.’
Noah reddened. Fear became anger. ‘Get out. I’ll get a lawyer and fuckin’ have you.’
‘Be my guest.’
He took another step closer, held what he hoped was a menacing stare. ‘This is private property. Come back when you’ve got a warrant.’
Hickox stared at him like he wanted to kill him. Then his features cracked into a smile.
‘Fair enough, squire. See you soon, Dean.’
He turned and left.
Noah was straight on the phone to Conroy. The big man managed to convince him it was just a fishing trip, that Hickox had nothing on him. Noah wasn’t convinced. Wanted Hickox dealt with properly.
Conroy thought. ‘There is something you could do. Or rather, someone you could talk to.’
‘Who?’
‘Someone I know who does things for people. I can set up a meeting if you like. But I’ve got to warn you. It’s not what you’re expecting. Keep an open mind.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Just keep an open mind, that’s all.’
*
Conroy was right. It wasn’t what he had been expecting.
Morrigan’s house was so ordinary he almost missed it. He knocked at the door, was ushered inside. He looked around, not quite sure what he was doing there, what he was about to say.
‘Don’t be shy. Just tell me what you want.’
Noah weighed up his choices. He wasn’t good at talking to strangers, sharing intimate facts of his life with them. He didn’t want them to have something over him, some kind of leverage they could use. That was his job.
Morrigan glanced at a watch. ‘Haven’t got all night. You going to talk or not?’
Noah made a decision. It was to be the most momentous one he ever made or would ever make. ‘Someone from my past’s come back. And I want rid of him. Is there a way to do that?’
‘There’s always a way.’ Morrigan smiled, the flames from the fire reflecting in those crow-like eyes. ‘What d’you want to have happen to him?’
‘I just want him to . . . to go away. Forget about me. Never come back.’
Morrigan became thoughtful, nodded. ‘That can be done. I have a ritual for that.’
‘A what? Fuck you on about?’
Morrigan became angry. ‘What did you think this was? Why did you come to me? A ritual. To get rid of this policeman once and for all. D’you want to do it or d’you want to leave?’
Noah thought. This must be what Conroy meant about keeping an open mind. But a ritual. That meant witchcraft. Demons. Satan. Shit . . . Horror films had always scared him. He never let on, didn’t want to appear weak before his friends, but he couldn’t watch anything like that. Because it was all real. The occult terrified him.
Morrigan kept staring, waiting for an answer.
Noah felt like he had no choice. ‘Yeah,’ he said, voice weak, ‘give me the ritual.’
Morrigan did. Gave him instructions to carry out, told him what items he would need for it to be successful, when to do it. He made notes. Looked round the room once more. This wasn’t like in films or on TV. Demons always meet in scary places, not someone’s front room. He would have laughed, if he hadn’t been so terrified.
‘Now remember,’ said Morrigan, ‘I shall also be casting spells and performing rituals while you do yours. These are for the completion of your task. I’ll be aiding you. Never forget, I am with you. Always with you.’ Those crow eyes glinted.
He left the house, went back to the site. Not quite believing what he had just done.
It wasn’t until later that night when, unable to sleep, he thought of something: how did Morrigan know it was a policeman he wanted rid of? He hadn’t mentioned that.
Never forget, I am with you
. Always with you . . .
He lay staring and scared, until the morning light appeared.
*
The ritual was all he concentrated on. Getting it right. Ensuring Hickox was gone for ever. First, he had to make a doll.
Clay, the instructions said. Noah tried with earth, wetting it, mixing it, before realising that wasn’t the kind of clay it meant. So he found an art supplies shop in Truro, bought some modelling clay. He had never been good with his hands, unless it was rolling spliffs, chopping out lines or putting someone in their place, and he found the creation of the doll difficult. The instructions said to keep the person in mind the whole time and he did, hoping that the mental image of Hickox would be translated into the doll’s likeness. Looking at the lumpen, misshapen thing he ended up with, he wasn’t sure. But it was the best he could make. He left it to harden, followed the rest of the instructions.
The ritual had to take place at midnight. He had to be alone. He was expected to starve himself for twenty-four hours previously and take nothing but water and, if needed, a couple of spliffs. He needed them, he decided. He also had to have some needles, the bigger the better, and had to repeat an incantation as he plunged the needles into the body of the doll.
He learned the incantation off by heart:
‘Three times I wound thee,
Three times you burn,
Three times I curse you,
To hell, never to return . . .’
And he learned the actions that accompanied it.
He invested so much time and effort into it that he began to believe the spell would work. And then the night before it was to go ahead, he received an unexpected visitor. Morrigan.
His heart beat faster. Fear overtook him.
‘While you perform your ritual I will be performing mine. To help you.’
‘Doing what?’ Curious despite himself.
‘Preparing hag-stones for him, blasting him working in the Circle of Arte . . . many ways.’
Noah didn’t have a clue what Morrigan was talking about. ‘Why?’
Morrigan smiled. ‘Because you will become a useful ally to me. And you need to see my power demonstrated.’
The Old Religion Page 22
