by Devon De'Ath
“Lundy?” Bill asked.
“It’s a tiny island. Only a handful of people live there, but the place has had a turbulent history. Piracy, shipwrecks and so on. I’m no expert, but it’s a popular spot with tourists. A beacon to those interested in earth energy. Something about a honking lump of granite sticking out of the sea, focusing spiritual power.”
Bill ran down the list of addresses. “Professor Faust didn’t include it as a Templar site.”
Raven fired off an Internet search. ”I don’t think it was one. Let’s see.” She scanned down a page of information. “English island in The Bristol Channel. Blah, blah, blah. Three miles long and a little over half a mile wide. Population: twenty-eight. Sounds like my sort of place. Steep, rocky, with the highest point being Beacon Hill at four hundred and sixty-nine feet. Fog, flora, fauna, etc. Here we go: History. Lundy is derived from an Old Norse word meaning ‘Puffin Island.’ Yada, yada, yada. Ah. It was granted to the Knights Templar in 1160 by Henry II. It’s unclear whether they took possession of the island, but they maintained a maritime force nearby. I’d say that’s enough for your cultists to deem the place significant.”
Vicky pointed at the computer screen map. “If it’s that far off the coast with only twenty-eight residents, could they be planning some horrendous mass ritual? It’s such an isolated spot, miles from help and not well connected.”
Raven drummed her fingers on the pine table. “Either that or it’s the last sigil site before your pilgrim drops off the radar. The ritual may occur elsewhere, though I prefer your suggestion.”
Bill cleared his throat. “But if it’s wrong, either we nab him on Lundy and pound a confession out of the git, or we’re back to square one with no leads.”
Raved folded her arms and rocked against the table surface. “I’d put money on it being the ritual site. It’s perfect, if they can conduct it without an audience. The end of the spiritual path, too.”
Vicky sighed. “What are we going to do, Bill? A return to Hirsig House was too mad to contemplate. How can we ponder interrupting a bigger ritual with nowhere to run?”
Bill thought it over. “At Hirsig House we were on their turf. This time, we won’t be. All we can do is check out Temple Bruer, then move on to Bristol. If he hits Redcliffe, we’ll know for certain Lundy is the last port of call.”
Vicky looked at Raven.
Raven closed down the computer. “Bill’s right. It’s your best shot. But first I imagine you’d enjoy a bath and a nice, hot, home-cooked meal.”
Vicky stretched stiffening joints. “You read my mind.”
Raven picked up the computer. “Eye of newt and wing of bat soup okay for you, Bill?”
Bill sneered. “Funny.”
“Give me your dirty laundry, both of you. I’ll get it washed in case you need to make a rapid departure. Whatever happens, you’re welcome to hide back here and regroup, if it comes to that.”
Vicky kissed her on the cheek. “What would I do without you?”
“I’ll fix up the sofa bed in the lounge for tonight. Are you joining me upstairs?”
Bill grinned like a horny teenager. “Are you two…?”
Raven snorted. “Men. They see two girls who are close friends and don’t mind sharing a bed, then assume we’re lesbians.” She shook her head at Bill. “You’re all the same.”
Vicky flushed. “It’s all right. I’ve got used to sleeping next to Bill. I trust him. He makes me feel safe. The sofa bed will do fine for us both.”
The cottage lay in stillness. Embers from a fading fire to ward off a late chill, offered Bill limited illumination as he climbed out of the sofa bed. Vicky lay on her side, facing away. Faint streetlights peeping through the tie-dyed curtains, highlighted the gentle rise and fall of her chest in a steady rhythm. Bill crept into the kitchen, an urge to urinate drawing him upstairs to the bathroom. He scrunched his eyes as the rickety, winding stairs creaked beneath his bare feet. On the top landing, only a choice of two doors existed. He already knew which was the bathroom from an earlier visit before dinner. When he flushed the loo and re-emerged, light spilt through a crack in Raven’s bedroom door jamb. Her voice called in a soft tone. “Bill?”
Bill stopped on the landing. “Yeah?”
“It’s okay, you can come in.”
Bill pushed the door further open. Raven sat cross-legged on the floor next to a flickering candle. A plain blue nightwear t-shirt adorned her petite upper body. Bill guessed at underwear as the only lower covering. He halted in the doorway. “I needed a leak. What are you doing?”
“I was meditating. Hoping to gain further insight into your situation, before the two of you hit the road again.”
“And?”
Raven lowered her head. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing coming through.”
“No matter. You’ve already done so much. If the police catch you harbouring us…”
“I don’t care about the police. I care about Vicky. She’s my best friend.” She hesitated. “Can I ask you an honest question?”
“You want to know if I fancy her?”
“You’d be blind if you didn’t. In case you hadn’t noticed, she’s built like a Swedish swimsuit model.” She took a slow breath. “No, that’s not quite what I’m after. I want to know if you have any thoughts about what comes next for you and her? If you get through this in one piece.”
Bill entered the room and pushed the door to, hoping not to wake Vicky below. “She’s a special woman. I’m not a relationship person. Vicky and I have had that discussion to clear the air between us. It’s one reason she’s comfortable around me. I won’t give her any reason to second-guess that trust.”
Raven’s ebony eyes sparkled. “Now I know why you were sent to protect her.”
Bill raised an eyebrow. “Sent?”
“Yes. Sent. Oh, I realise you think you were doing a work job that went sideways. It’s all a horrible co-incidence, right?”
Bill sat down on one corner of Raven’s bed. “Who would send me, and why? I’m a screw up. A former homeless guy turned gumshoe, who dwells on the fringes of society.”
Raven pushed back off the floor to sit beside him on the mattress. “I believe the universe sent you. Your experience and street smarts have saved you both.” She stared at the wall. “Listen. I’ve known Vicky a long time. Back at uni, I gave her the nickname ‘Lambo’ as a tease. Can you guess why?”
“Because her surname is Lambert, and she’s a tough hombre who doesn’t take any shit from men?”
“She’s tough because of what happened to her as a child. It’s unfinished business. Vicky won’t allow anyone in, beyond a point. She’s also scared to let a man love her. But I know she longs for connection and a family of her own, deep down.”
Bill rubbed his eyes. “I’m not the one to give her that. Trust me, I’d ruin a special friendship forged in adversity, after one week of cohabitation in my normal life. That whole ‘wifey’ and two-point-four kids thing isn’t my bag.” He paused. “But, I’d like to see her embrace it with somebody else. She deserves that. No-one more, if you ask me.”
Raven looked back at him, subtle moisture misting her stare. “I hope we both witness that, one day.” She placed one cold, delicate hand on Bill’s right leg. “It’s difficult being one of society’s misfits, isn’t it? Our unorthodox lifestyles exclude us from regular intimacy. Yet underneath it all, we’re still human creatures with human needs.”
Bill swallowed hard. He only wore a pair of boxers himself. Any attempt to disguise a burgeoning erection at her touch and suggestive words, felt close to impossible.
Vicky woke with a start, images of red-eyes beneath a monk’s hood stealing away much needed peace. They faded away to become dim, glowing embers in the cooling fire. She turned over, expecting the firm warmth of Bill’s body to reassure her. The other half of the bed lay empty. Above her head, those tiny cottage ceiling beams creaked. A rocking rhythm of mattress springs built in pace and intensity. From upstairs,
a deep, male grunt followed the soft moans of a woman succumbing to the long overdue release of orgasm. The jostling bed stilled.
Vicky lay back, a curious warmth in her breast at the thought of her friends enjoying a moment of stolen intimacy. It faded into an aching hole, without warning. From the kitchen, Raven’s cat flap rattled. Morpheus scampered into the living room. He made a beeline for where Bill had left the covers untucked on his side. Vicky pulled the animal close to her face and snuggled down. Morpheus let out an immediate chorus of contented purrs.
A first glint of dawn replaced the streetlights. Bill crept back into the living room. As he slid into bed, Morpheus darted across his chest and tore out through the kitchen flap into the back garden. Bill jumped, rousing Vicky from a renewed, peaceful slumber. She turned over and rubbed her face.
Bill pointed at the ceiling. “I needed the loo.”
An unusual, wicked light in Vicky’s eyes caught him off guard. “How’s Raven?”
“Raven?” Bill looked left and right as if to say: ‘Raven who?’ “Asleep, I guess. She was meditating when I went up earlier. I was wrong about her. She’s an outstanding lady, not a fringe loony.”
Vicky rolled back to face her side. “It sounded like you were both meditating like there’s no tomorrow, from down here. Three times, unless I dropped off and missed one.”
Bill’s cheeks turned crimson. “Vicky, I…”
Vicky giggled. “Busted. I love hearing you squirm.”
Bill leaned over her shoulder to look into her deep blue eyes. “Are we okay?”
Vicky winked. “Don’t be silly. I hope Raven’s walking on air or walking funny when she gets up.”
Bill grinned. “You’re such a tease.” His face toughened into a look of concern. “How did you sleep?”
“Tough at first. Morpheus came in for a cuddle. You’re not the only one who got a little pussy last night.”
Bill pretended to smother her face with his pillow.
Vicky pushed him away with another giggle. Its effect loosened muscles already stiffening with her return to consciousness. Each awakening reminded her of their present, impossible predicament. “After breakfast we’ll look at that tracker website again.”
Bill pulled the covers up across his chest. “If it shows a visit to Temple Bruer, we’d better head over there during visiting hours to double check. No doubt some poor bugger will be busy with a scrubbing brush. Assuming the police aren’t around. Has Raven got a car?”
“Yeah, it’s a small Peugeot.”
“That metallic blue one parked next to the farm gate? I saw it when we arrived.”
“That’s it. I’m sure she’ll drive us. Then I suppose we’ll be back on the run to Bristol and beyond.”
Bill closed his eyes. “Sorry I woke you, Vicky. See if you can grab some more shuteye.”
“You too. Your night was more exhausting than mine.”
Bill pursed his lips but remained silent.
12
Special Needs
Betsy Slade donned her pale blue care uniform, then secured some belongings in a locker. A single bulb without shade cast dim light across the small, windowless changing room. It wasn’t a lack of wattage that made its efforts pathetic. The Berkshire manor had seen its heyday long ago. Someone carved Mordant Grange Residential Care Home for Special Needs Children from a regal but dilapidated Victorian shell. High ceilings and unreliable wiring from a conversion done on the cheap by a frugal charity, meant fixtures, fittings and facilities all competed for limited funds. Staff changing room illumination came way down the pecking order of pressing requirements.
One of two doors into the room opened. A lanky, mid-thirties man with fine, receding hair and pallid complexion pulled a pair of wire-framed glasses from his nose. He held up the lenses to inspect for clarity. “Hey, Betsy. So you’re one of the lucky beggars to pull a Friday night shift this week?”
Betsy pushed at the base of her short, blonde bob. At twenty-four and five foot two inches tall, she seemed to look up to everybody in both experience and stature. Carl Fletcher was so tall, it gave the dinky woman whiplash. “That’s me, Carl. Aren’t I the lucky one?”
Carl replaced his glasses. “Well, it’s all quiet so far. The kids went right off to sleep without major hassles. Arnold Jessop wanted to keep watching the late news. He became agitated when I switched it off. You know how he gets.”
Betsy attached a fob watch to one breast pocket. “Arnold can’t help it. He’s on the spectrum.”
Carl opened his locker door with a clatter. A musty nasal assault of overdue dirty laundry escaped its grey metal prison. “How much news can he understand at that age, and with his other problems?”
“It’s not about how much he understands. If Arnold has built watching the late news into his routine, disrupting it will cause him anxiety.”
“Management asked us to wean him off it. It’s knocking everything else out of kilter when the other kids see him watching TV, while they’re ushered off to bed.”
Betsy smoothed down her outfit. “Is Leonard here yet?”
“Yeah. He came on duty early, about ten minutes before you arrived. You two seem tight. Are you…?” Carl inserted the finger of one hand into an O-shape made by the thumb and forefinger of the other. He slid it in and out three times.
Betsy’s face darkened. “None of your business. Who else is holding the fort with Leonard and I tonight?”
“Hilary and Kevin. Those two are at it like rabbits. I bet it won’t be much after midnight before they excuse themselves for a ‘break’ down in the boiler room.”
Betsy reached the door Carl had come in by. She didn’t look back. “Have a pleasant weekend.”
Carl hung up his uniform, then closed the locker. “You too. Later.”
Betsy pushed open a door to the female staff toilet. It sprang shut behind her on a creaking closer, begging for grease. Time for a leak before my shift. She ducked into a cubicle. A certain dryness of mouth caused her to lick cracked lips. The buzz of a fluorescent ceiling light accompanied her quickening pulse. Betsy hitched up her dress, then pulled down her knickers. Lacy underwear slipped across thighs adorned with text in an archaic script. The tattoo read: ‘Templi omnium hominum pacis abbas.’ She sat down to release a stream of urine.
Leonard Poole pushed back a chair onto its rear legs, with his feet resting on the Mordant Grange reception desk. He reached beneath his top to locate a compact, silver hip flask. The sweet, intoxicating flavour of dark Jamaican rum tantalised his taste buds but did little to slake a curious thirst. He knew the sensation well. It often accompanied a new ritual, or task laid out for him by the order. Once the testing parts were over, Leonard expected an overwhelming sense of euphoria and power to follow. He smoothed the back of his straw-coloured buzz cut with one idle hand. A soft clipping of low heels on the polished floor caused him to face towards the corner of an adjoining corridor. Betsy Slade walked into view. A flash of recognition and reassurance exchanged between them.
Leonard pulled his feet off the desk and got up. “Hey, Betsy. Are you ready for tonight?”
Betsy glanced from side to side. “Are Hilary and Kevin about?”
“Nah. They’re doing the rounds upstairs, to make sure no-one’s out of bed.” He leaned against a wall coated in flaking green paint. A faint aroma of disinfectant lingered in the hallway. “You and I will both rise in rank, if we pull this off without incident.”
“Do you have a plan? Faye said the vans will arrive out back for collection at 1:00 a.m., with novices on hand to assist, if we can’t manage.”
Leonard snorted. “No way. Come on, Betsy. We can do this. I say we let Hilary and Kevin take lunch around midnight. We both know where they’ll go.” He pointed one sharp finger straight at the floor, towards the basement. “Two chef’s knives from the kitchen should do the trick. Once we've disposed of the problem pair and our people are inside, you and I will round up the kids. Those not helping us can take care of busine
ss below.”
“When this hits the media, we must shield those children from watching any news.” A diabolical, inhuman light glimmered behind Betsy’s pupils. “May the Father of the temple of peace of all men, guide our hands.”
Hilary Patterson and Kevin Bird made little effort to conceal how into each other they were. Their night shift trysts afforded ample compensation for disturbed sleep patterns. Bar the occasional juvenile screaming nightmare or random case of bed wetting, the dingy old Victorian pile remained still during the small hours. It was fair to surmise the pair both loved the children in their charge. They didn’t carry on with each other in broad daylight, nor embarrass the kids. But night shift offered a chance for those two twenty-somethings on minimum wage in the care profession, a chance to ‘be’ with one another. With rent or a mortgage nothing more than a fantasy at their salary band - and both having strict parents who refused any fooling around at home - Mordant Grange provided for their otherwise neglected and repressed sexual needs.
Hilary, a bubbly redhead with a shoulder-length Kingston frizz, bit a nail as she sat at the reception desk chair. Kevin, a stocky, gentle giant with bad acne still pursuing him beyond those awkward teenage years, paced the floor. Hands of an over-sized, sturdy round wall clock announced five minutes to midnight. The charity sourced that elegant but enormous timepiece from a disused train station undergoing refurbishment. Like so much at Mordant Grange, an ethos of ‘Make Do and Mend’ informed the purchase.
Hilary’s eyes strayed to a telltale erection outlined by the tight fabric of Kevin’s crotch. Anticipation of their imminent break in the bowels of the building played upon their minds. Hilary shifted in her seat with a creak. Such anticipation was getting her wet. She lived for night shifts these days.
Two pairs of feet echoed on the long, sweeping staircase. Once upon a time, dazzling debutantes descended it while making society debuts to great acclaim. Now it was dark and shabby like everything else in the once grand house. Leonard and Betsy walked at a relaxed pace, in no obvious hurry to relieve the desk occupants.
