Black Hearts Rising (Wardens of the Black Heart Book 2)

by Rob Campbell

  He was about to reach for his key when he noticed that his door was slightly ajar. He’d definitely locked it before he’d left, but as he took a couple of steps nearer, he realised that whether or not the door had been locked was not an issue; the frame around the lock had been splintered, the door forced open.

  He’d been burgled, and it was a fair bet that the culprit was the youth he’d seen making a hasty exit not a minute earlier. He sighed heavily, realising that pursuit would be futile, and resigned himself to the fact that although he had no plans, he’d now spend the next couple of hours waiting for a locksmith, and then a further half-hour trading banalities with the same locksmith whilst his front door was fixed.

  Gooch pushed the door open with his free hand and watched it swing slowly inward. Even though the culprit was almost certainly gone, he entered cautiously, peering into his living space, taking in the shadows in each corner. When he was satisfied that there was no maniac hiding behind the door waiting to launch a surprise attack, he proceeded to check the bathroom and then the bedroom, looking for any obvious sign of theft. So far, he hadn’t spotted anything amiss, which was perhaps more troubling than the alternative. As ever, he had taken his briefcase on the walk, so his most treasured possession was safe, but he opened his bedroom drawers and wardrobe in turn, his unease growing at the complete lack of anything out of place.

  A noise back in the living area startled him – it sounded like the front door being closed. He stepped out of the bedroom, surprised to see a face smiling at him.

  A familiar face, but not one that he’d expected to see here.

  “Found any inspiration on your morning walk, Gooch?” Victoria Halfpenny asked, her smile dissolving into a more neutral expression.

  “Is that your handiwork?” he asked, pointing at the splintered door frame.

  She ignored him and moved over to the kitchen table, where she pulled out a chair and sat down with a satisfied sigh.

  “Make yourself at home,” he mumbled.

  Victoria cast an eye around the kitchen area, followed by the lounge and finally out the window, nodding in appreciation. “Nice place.”

  “It was until you made a mess of the door.”

  “You didn’t answer after three knocks, so I decided to let myself in. After all, I didn’t want to miss you.”

  “What do you want? I’m a busy man.”

  “That’s not what I hear. In fact, a little birdy tells me that business has been slow of late. Struggling to meet your quotas, apparently. Even that slow-witted boy, Monkey Arkwright, managed to get to The Frenchman before you.”

  She followed up her laughter with a theatrical tut. “Dear oh dear, Gooch. You are in a sorry state.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear. In fact, as we speak, I’m closing in on a major asset,” Gooch lied.

  “Really? And what would that be?”

  “None of your business.” Of course, he was bluffing. How dare she burst into his home and start intimating that he was a slacker.

  “Come on, Gooch. A bit of friendly banter. We’re on the same team after all.”

  Gooch snorted noncommittally. Same team? That was what all these Johnny-come-latelies liked to think. What had she done to prove herself worthy?

  “You’ve always been a quiet one, haven’t you?” she smirked when he didn’t answer. “I’m afraid the council won’t be too impressed with your last year’s work. This place must be costing a fortune in expenses, and what have you got to show for it?” she taunted.

  “Like I said, none of your business,” he seethed.

  “Have you got more than one record?” she asked. “None of your business!” she repeated in a rough approximation of his deep voice. “When they gave you your gold ring, they did point out that there was a commitment to the cause, didn’t they?”

  He’d never liked her, but now she was getting right under his skin. Time to teach this upstart a lesson and put the frighteners on.

  “Consider this fair warning,” he said, adopting his most menacing tone. “Your old friend Ramón was sniffing around here, and it didn’t end well for him. I’d be careful how I tread if I were you.”

  “Is that a threat?” Victoria asked, raising her eyebrows, displaying no more emotion than if he’d just told her that there was a half-price sale on down at the local carpet store. She obviously didn’t scare easily. Too bad.

  “I figured you’d be more upset. What, with the two of you knowing each other from your university days. I thought that the two of you were close.”

  “That’s pretty much what he said before I slit his throat,” Victoria said calmly, holding her hand out and inspecting her nails.

  “That was you?” he gasped, genuinely taken aback.

  “There’s only room for so many Wardens in this town, Gooch. Besides, Ramón had served his purpose, and he was just a loose end that needed tidying up.”

  “A loose end?” Gooch struggled to contain his contempt. He hadn’t liked the Spaniard, but this was too much.

  “Like I said: he’d served his purpose. His prophecies didn’t count for much in the end, but I was able to extract a little bit of useful intel.”

  “I thought you believed in his prophecies,” Gooch pressed, his eyes narrowing.

  “I made him believe that I believed, Gooch. There’s a subtle distinction. Do you really think that his warning about some seismic event occurring in Culverton Beck was based on anything other than a bid to make a name for himself with the council?”

  In truth, Gooch suspected all along that Ramón had overplayed his hand. Based on his own experience, he found the journalist’s prediction of an event with far-reaching consequences, that was supposedly about to happen in the area, more far-fetched than anything.

  “You don’t believe that The Truth is in Culverton Beck?” he asked.

  Victoria shrugged.

  She had some front sitting there, having broken into his apartment, and as if that wasn’t enough, she’d calmly confessed to murdering a man she'd known for over ten years. She’d always been ambitious; ever since Turnbull had recruited her and Ramón straight out of university, you could tell that she’d had her eyes on being the first woman to sit on the council. She represented the new breed of Wardens who didn’t appear to be content playing by the old rules. It seemed that whilst he’d been worrying about what negative feedback the Bookkeeper might serve up to the council, or how best to get his hands on The Frenchman, he should have been paying closer attention to Victoria Halfpenny.

  “Turns out that Ramón was not so hot in the prophecy game after all. He didn’t see his own demise coming,” Victoria replied finally.

  “You’re a heartless bitch,” Gooch spat, his pent-up emotion threatening to boil over. “Have you just come here to gloat, or is there something I can help you with?”

  She stared at him for a few moments as if weighing him up, twisting the end of her hair around with her left hand. Finally, she reached into the inside pocket of her jacket and removed something. Whatever she held, it was blocked from view by the angle of her hand. She watched his eyes as she placed it on the table in front of her, slowly removing her hand like a stage magician performing a trick.

  Gooch looked at the toy soldier standing on his table.

  The Frenchman!

  “It seems that your claims about closing in on a major asset have been exaggerated, Gooch.”

  “Where did you get that?” he whispered in disbelief.

  “Where do you think?”

  “It’s not possible – Hawkstone has that vault locked down tighter than a camel’s backside in a sandstorm!”

  “There’s more than one way to get through a locked door. A little sweet-talking and waiting for the right moment in the case of Lester’s vault. For your door,” she said, gesturing to the broken lock, “I just used a blunt chisel.”

  He stared at the diminutive figure of Napoleon for a good thirty seconds, and like the tumblers of a combination lock dropping i
nto place, Gooch had his plan.

  “We can work as a team,” he said with as much confidence as he could muster. “We’ll put The Frenchman in my briefcase, and together we’ll unleash the power of the dark heart in a way that’s not been seen before.”

  “A tempting offer, and I’ll admit that I’ve been thinking along similar lines, but I’m afraid that I’ll have to refuse.”

  “It’s not worth anything on its own, surely you know that?”

  “That’s true,” she admitted. “But I’ve had a better offer that will solve that problem once and for all.”

  “From Turnbull?” Gooch asked nervously.

  “I’m afraid that information is strictly confidential.”

  Gooch hoped that the element of surprise would work in his favour. He lunged across the table, making a grab for The Frenchman. But he’d obviously telegraphed his move, because she swept it up before he could reach, and she sidestepped his second attempt just as easily.

  “Not as quick as you used to be, eh?” she said, standing up and facing him.

  “Hand it over!” he demanded as the two of them circled like wildcats eyeing each other warily.

  “You can’t be so desperate to hang onto the heart of a man murdered all those years ago, can you? It’s brought you nothing but misery.”

  What would she know about such things? She hadn’t travelled the world carrying it, bringing hundreds of objects into close proximity with the black heart and then taking them out again, unleashing their dark energy on those unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  The sudden movement and his failed attempts to wrest The Frenchman from her hand had left him out of breath. She was quick to take advantage and pushed him in the chest, causing him to collapse onto the sofa behind. Before he could react, she was pinning him back, and he felt something sharp under his chin.

  “You should know that I lied,” she said, her face barely inches from his.

  “Lied?”

  “About the chisel. It’s not blunt.” As if to emphasise the point, she lifted it slightly so that the edge dug into the skin around his throat, causing a few drops of blood to fall onto her hand.

  “What happens now – are you going to slit my throat too?”

  “There's no need,” Victoria replied ominously. “I'll just take the case, and the rest will take care of itself.”

  He’d become so used to holding it that it wasn’t until she prised it out of his gloved hand, that he realised what was happening.

  “You won't last long among the vultures,” he stammered.

  She watched him with eyes like a hawk, slowly stepping back towards the door, the chisel held up in a threatening pose.

  “The Wardens thank you for your service, Charles Gooch. Enjoy your retirement.”

  It happened faster than he or Victoria could have imagined.

  Still trying to regulate his breathing after the scuffle, he was suddenly aware of bile rising from his stomach. He leaned sideways, emptying a mouthful of drool onto the sofa. He wiped his gloved hand across his mouth, finding time to feel ashamed despite the overwhelming sickness that was brewing inside him.

  His vision blurred, the image of Victoria and his apartment fading in and out as if driven by an invisible pulse before fragmenting and then coalescing like a view into some hideous kaleidoscope.

  When his vision finally steadied, he could see that she had stopped moving and was staring at him, a look of horror on her face.

  “Jesus,” she uttered, all trace of her former confidence snatched away in a heartbeat.

  Gooch found himself thinking back to his early life. His lost love, the trip to America, meeting Adele, his children Milly and Max, his business, his reacquaintance with Turnbull, Big Sal, Chernobyl. His head spun with images from over one hundred years on the planet.

  He was vaguely aware of Victoria turning to leave his apartment as his vision began to sway again. Through the tunnel of shimmering light, he thought that he spied the Bookkeeper at the door, holding his hand out to Victoria.

  Even in my last moments, the oily-haired weasel haunts me.

  He sat waiting for the end to come, for surely this was the end. He could feel his lifeforce spilling away like he was a broken hourglass with the sand pouring out.

  Repent.

  He didn’t know whether he was imagining the voice or whether somebody was trying to tell him something from the other side. He’d seen enough to believe that such a thing was possible.

  Make amends. Let them know.

  Maybe it was his own subconscious mind.

  The Sun. Let them know. Don’t leave them to guess.

  The faces of his son and daughter appeared before his eyes. He reached up weakly as if he could brush their cheeks with his hand.

  “I’m sorry,” he rasped, aware that his voice was faltering. “I’m sorry for all the wasted years. Milly, Max, please forgive me!” He felt a crushing sense of remorse for things that might have been. He hadn’t been there when they’d needed him most, yet here he was – still around long after each and every member of his beloved family had died.

  Send a message. Let them know.

  With his strength fading rapidly, he reached across to the coffee table where he kept his notebook and pen. He couldn’t see straight as he scraped the pen across the page, wondering whether it was too late. There was no way of knowing whether he’d produced anything coherent; he had trouble focusing on the page, let alone the spidery black marks made by the cheap plastic pen.

  If it had come down to this, people like Victoria Halfpenny and the Bookkeeper running the show, then he was better off out of it. He felt no loyalty towards the Wardens – in the final analysis, they’d abandoned him like he’d abandoned his family. Karma, some might say, but he didn’t see it that way. As the pen slipped from his fingers, his last thought was to wonder who’d find him and whether they’d be able to make sense of his last testament.

  Many years too late, the sweet darkness of oblivion welcomed him with open arms.

  Chapter 33

  I didn’t sleep well. Tossing and turning for most of the night, I alternated between chastising myself for not spotting what Victoria had been up to and setting myself questions that were impossible to answer. Was it my fault that Lester had been robbed? Would he be angry with us for the way events had unfolded? Most significantly, what the hell were we going to do with the painting now?

  I probably managed around three hours sleep, gritty eyes and a dull headache being the only rewards that arrived with the morning. Within seconds of waking up, I slipped out from under the covers and knelt by my bed. Reaching underneath, I pulled the painting halfway out from its hiding place, feeling a sense of calm as my fingers touched the aged wooden frame. What did I think could have happened to it during the night? After all, I’d been awake most of the time. It would have been a skilled thief that was able to remove it without me knowing, but feeling it sitting there, untouched, instilled in me a sense of calm.

  Why I felt the need to check that it was still there was another question I couldn’t answer, only that instinct drew me to confirm its presence. Only then did I glance at the clock. Six-thirty. Not wishing to subject myself to more torture in the quest for a few additional hours sleep, I threw on some warm clothes and headed downstairs to the kitchen, where I made myself a breakfast of porridge and hot chocolate.

  A text from Monkey indicated that he’d had a similarly rough night, and with no cafes open yet, and the Recorder office shut until Monday, we arranged to meet up in Henderson Park. It wasn’t much later than seven-thirty when I arrived at the bench beneath the stone shelter that overlooked the ornamental fountain.

  “Couldn’t sleep either?” I asked Monkey as I slumped down next to him.

  “Too much on my mind,” he answered with startling candour. For once, his face betrayed no emotion. He pushed the fur collar of his jacket up around his face, breathing heavily into it to generate some warmth.

&
nbsp; I stared at the fountain, where a colourfully painted stone frog dispensed a jet of water into the shallow pool. Other than the odd passing car and some ducks over by the pond, the soft trickling sound of the fountain was the only thing that broke the silence.

  “What the hell are we going to do about Lester?” I asked finally.

  “I’m not sure that there’s much we can do.”

  I nodded slowly in agreement. “I don’t think taking the painting to him is a great idea under the circumstances.”

  “He’s a stupid old…” Monkey didn’t finish the sentence, but his meaning was all too clear.

  “I hear he speaks highly of you too!”

  Monkey’s shoulders heaved as he grunted out a single laugh.

  The truth was that Lester did think highly of us, Monkey in particular. He’d thanked my friend more than once for returning his coin and for all the efforts that he’d put into the cause afterwards, retrieving The Frenchman being his crowning glory. But when we’d left him last night, Lester had a defeated look, like all the fight had gone out of him. As if this wasn’t bad enough, the Reverend, his spiritual advisor and partner in the war against Charles Gooch and the Wardens of the Black Heart, had gone full-on nutjob, rambling incoherently and castigating Gooch for the events leading up to Victoria Halfpenny’s escape with the figurine of Napoleon.

  “I’ve made a decision about my uncle,” Monkey said suddenly.

  “Your uncle?” I was initially puzzled, but then I remembered that he’d said his Uncle Archie had refused to take no for an answer and was desperate to see his estranged nephew, sending a letter through one of the boys at the orphanage when the outcome of going through official channels hadn’t been to his liking. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to meet him today. He left his number in the letter, and I sent him a message this morning.”

  “You never got ‘round to telling me what he said in his letter.” Monkey had been about to tell me at Lester’s party last night, but Frank’s arrival at an inopportune moment had caused him to clam up.