Wolf Angel

by Mark Hobson

  The old man opened his eyes. They scanned the room until they came to rest on the children and he beckoned them forward weakly.

  The older boy and the young girl shuffled towards him reluctantly, until they stood on either side of the bed.

  They watched him reach up and remove the oxygen mask, and the toothless grin beneath seemed more like a grimace of pain. A wracking cough crackled and wheezed from out of his emaciated body, and his other hand gripped the bedcovers tightly in discomfort, and the boy and girl waited nervously.

  Eventually the convulsions passed and the skinny figure became still once more, but the eyes continued to look from face to face, and they seemed to shine with pride.

  He exhaled slowly, and then spoke with surprising softness in a clear but whispery voice.

  “My children, my lovely, sweet grandchildren.”

  The boy swallowed, for his throat had suddenly become dry, all of his earlier confidence gone. Confronted with the sight of this elderly man wasting away and dying before his eyes was a frightening experience. All the more so because they both knew who he was, had heard stories about him from their mother. And although they had never met him before, they had been filled with awe about today, a peculiar excitement that had built and built. They would finally get to see this powerful person, their grandfather, for themselves. The one who others spoke about in hushed and reverent tones.

  Yet here he was, a weak and pitiful-looking shadow of a man, tired and decrepit and close to the end of his life.

  The boy felt tears of shame and disappointment well up in his eyes. He felt let down, embarrassed and angry.

  But the girl. Her heart bloomed with love and tenderness. An almost overwhelming and intoxicating feeling of compassion swelled inside her heart, and she stepped forward and smiled at her grandfather.

  She lay her head gently on his chest. The rattling and wheezing coming from his worn-out lungs was frightening to her young mind, but she hugged him tightly anyway.

  She felt him stroke her hair gently, his words soothing.

  “Pass on what you learn. Pass on what you learn.”

  Then his hand squeezed her narrow shoulder tenderly, and she saw the ring on his finger, with its grinning skull leering back at her.

  CHAPTER 17

  BART AND THE NEWCASTLE BAR

  Tuesday night at just after 7pm and things were thankfully quiet at The Newcastle Bar. Standing near the cars parked alongside the canal, Pieter could see through the large doors. Inside was just one customer, sitting at a table near the wall, nursing a beer and looking well on the way to being drunk.

  That was good. The last thing he wanted was a packed out bar. Hopefully this could play out nice and calmly. If he was even right about this, which he sort of hoped he wasn’t. After all, it wasn’t that unusual a name in Holland, and there was a fifty/fifty chance that he’d got this completely wrong. But on the other hand, if he had read the situation correctly?

  So best to go in softly, play the role of a man worried about his missing friend, and that he wasn’t here to cause any more aggro. Simply ask a few questions, about Lotte and other loosely related matters, and see what kind of reaction he got.

  Pieter moved towards the entrance, his hand subconsciously gliding across to the bulge of his firearm tucked underneath the bottom of his jacket in its holster, then unfastening the buttons at the front of his coat.

  Steadying his breath, he stepped inside.

  Bart was wiping down the bar and beer pumps with a wet cloth. As Pieter stepped nonchalantly forward, he looked up at him.

  Scowling balefully, the barman folded up the cloth and placed it below the counter.

  “You again?”

  “Me again,” Pieter answered.

  There was a slight pause, and Pieter could feel his heart beating against his chest, noting too late that Bart’s hands remained hidden out of sight behind the bar. They started to come up, holding something.

  “So be it then, friend,” Bart replied.

  Bart pulled the trigger on the gun, and the bar erupted with the deafening explosive report.

  The first round tore away Pieter’s earlobe, splattering the back of his coat with blood and sinews of flesh. He barely had time to register the stinging burn before Bart fired twice more, round number two hitting the door to the toilets just behind Pieter, and the third shot punching a hole square through the forehead of the customer sipping his beer, killing him instantly.

  Pieter staggered back, his head ringing and making him feel punch drunk. He watched as Bart spun away and dashed across the back of the bar, and then reach down to the floor to yank open the trapdoor leading to the beer cellar. He rushed down the steps, pausing for half a second to slap his palm against something on the wall on his way down, before disappearing through the opening.

  Pieter quickly recovered from the shock. He took out his own firearm and dragged himself over the bar and tumbled in a heap on the far side. He scuttled forward towards the hole in the floor and peered cautiously over the edge.

  A short flight of wooden steps led down. A bare bulb dangling from its flex lit the scene. At the bottom he could see the concrete base of the cellar floor and a couple of beer barrels, but not much else. On the wall at the side was a large red button. Fuck! An alarm of some sort. Bart had triggered an alarm.

  “Put your gun down Bart!” he called out. “It’s over! I don’t want to have to kill you!”

  There was no response.

  Which meant he had no choice but to go down there after him.

  With his gun pointing forward Pieter slowly eased himself down one slow step at a time, his whole body and mind tensed for more gunfire. Fully aware that in a confined space like a small beer cellar it would be almost impossible for Bart to miss him.

  At the bottom he looked around. In addition to the beer barrels there were a couple of stacks of plastic crates leaning crazily against one wall. Other than that there was nothing. No sign of Bart, and nowhere for him to hide.

  Then Pieter turned, and saw a small square opening in the bare wall behind the wooden steps. He crouched lower and passed below the wooden struts, and approached the black hole.

  He peered inside, but it was too dark to see very far. Was Bart in there? He had to be.

  Groping around in his trouser pocket, he pulled out his mobile and turned on the torch, and aimed the bright white light into the opening.

  Stretching away into the distance was a narrow tunnel, with bare, damp walls. It twisted here and there, and sloped downwards into the ground, so that the end was lost from view.

  Where did it lead?

  How long had it been here?

  Pieter considered turning back and calling for backup. That would be the rational thing to do. But as this was passing through his mind he heard a scurrying noise reach him from ahead, and then – and this chilled him to the bone – a crazy high pitched laughing, echoing and bouncing off the tunnel walls.

  Pieter held back for a couple more seconds, and then he plunged into the tunnel after Bart.

  The inside of the tunnel was tiny, perhaps four feet square, and he had to scurry along bent over in an awkward crouch with his head and back scraping across the roof. The walls were of stone as though it had been chiselled and cut straight through the bare rock.

  The first few hundred feet sloped gently downwards. To begin with the floor and walls were just slightly damp, but the further, and deeper, he went the wetter the going became. After a couple of minutes he was splashing through puddles of mud, and icy drops of water were dripping down from above.

  He had no idea where he was going. He tried to get a sense of direction, for, although there were a few twists and turns here and there, the route was essentially a straight one. Thinking back to the layout of the bar, the location of the cellar and the position of the tunnel opening, he thought he was headed generally southwards. Which meant he would be passing underneath the canal, hence the amount of water down here. But he was really only
having a guess, and for all he knew he could be headed completely in the opposite direction.

  Just then came that eerie laughter once more, the sound rolling and reverberating around the enclosed space, making it impossible to judge how far away, or close to him, Bart was.

  After a few more minutes the tunnel levelled off and he paused to get his breath. He still had a hold of his gun in one hand and the mobile with its torch in the other. The beam of white light only penetrated two or three metres ahead, and beyond that there was pitch darkness, hiding anyone who might be lurking there.

  Again he wondered if he should summon some help, but when he glanced down at his mobile phone he saw he had no bars, therefore zero reception, so it was too late for that now, and too late to go back. So on he went, the torch light jumping and bouncing around off the tunnel walls, creating a jerky world of light and dark.

  His ear hurt like hell and he was starting to get winded and wondering just how far the tunnel went, when finally the floor cantered upwards. It gave him renewed vigour, so he pushed on up the gentle incline.

  The subterranean tunnel

  The tunnel became even narrower. The walls and floor and roof closed in, and he had to crawl on his hands and knees now. To make his progress easier he slipped his gun back into its holster.

  It became even steeper, and tighter still, until he was on his belly and pulling and dragging himself along with his hands, with the toes of his shoes seeking a purchase and pushing hard. He wondered how the hell Bart had got through with his huge bulk and height.

  Finally after an age he noticed the roof of the tunnel disappear, and the end of the tunnel came up on him nearly by surprise, and he tumbled over the rim of the exit onto the floor two feet below. Carefully he stood up and looked at his surroundings.

  Turning a full circle the torch revealed a square, brick chamber. In one wall was an old iron door, with large studs dotted over its surface. It was set just above the level of the floor and seemed to have flanges around its edges, a little like a ship’s hatchway. There was a small circular handle, which he guessed was spun left or right to lock and unlock the door. At the moment it was open slightly, but Pieter could see nothing through the narrow gap.

  Near the centre of the room were a number of wooden chairs, arranged in a circle and facing each other. In the centre of the circle was a round pit, around six feet in diameter. Pieter approached it to see how deep it was or what lay down there, and when he pointed the beam of the torch on it he wished he hadn’t. At the bottom, cemented into the base with short chains, were four iron manacles. They looked to have red rust marks on them, or at least that’s what Pieter told himself they were. The pit itself was no more than three feet deep, and in one of its curved walls was a small grate.

  He shook his head, trying not to dwell too much on the pit’s purpose, and he moved away, noticing as he did that beside one of the chairs was a long handle standing upright out of the stone floor, similar to a railroad switch.

  Just then he heard faint voices, and he turned towards the door. They seemed to be coming from there.

  Again he trod carefully as he walked across, afraid of making any sound. As he neared the door the voices rose in volume, then quietened, rose and fell, and it became clear what he was hearing.

  From the other side of the door, drifting through the narrow gap, he could hear chanting.

  A faint glow showed through the opening, casting enough light for him to see without needing the torch on his mobile. He put it away and drew out his gun again, and, gripping the iron flange around the door, he drew it open.

  On the other side were three steps leading up to a short passageway. It was lined with a red carpet, and on either side was a double row of wall sconces holding lit torches. A heavy drape covered the far end of the passageway.

  Pieter climbed the short flight of stairs and started forward. The chanting was growing louder now, more insistent, as though building up to something.

  He paused just this side of the drapes, wondering whether to burst in and use the element of surprise or perhaps he should wait and see what happened, maybe try and sneak a peek into the room beyond. However, he didn’t have time to ponder his choices for long, for just then a strong arm reached around from behind and gripped him suddenly in a powerful neck lock, squeezing hard, and at the same time the muzzle of a gun pushed against his neck just behind his throbbing ear.

  “Drop your weapon, you cunt,” a harsh voice whispered, Bart’s hot breath against his skin.

  Pieter had no idea where he’d come from, there must have been a hidden alcove that he’d walked straight by or something. He thought about resisting, kicking out, but then two more figures hove into view, one to either side. These were holding wicked-looking hand-scythes which glinted in the torch-light, and covering their faces were carved wooden masks with a pair of straight brown horns sticking up from their heads, and straggly hair like an animals mane. Through their eye slits and mouths Pieter could see the faces behind the masks, staring blankly at him.

  “Do it, or they’ll slit you open.”

  Pieter threw his gun aside, and sagged against the big man behind him, and the pressure against his neck eased, but only a little.

  Bart forced him forward, keeping the gun against his neck, and they passed through the curtain just as the chanting came to a sudden stop, the silence filling the room beyond.

  He found himself in a large, circular space. The floor was covered in more red carpet, and the plaster walls were painted cream, and affixed with more burning torches. Above, high up near the ceiling and spaced evenly around the circumference, were a number of narrow window slits, dark now that night had fallen. Over to the left and right were two large arched openings, like two semi-circle eye-slits, with shadowy chambers beyond. Inside, amid the gloom, Pieter could make out several shelves and wooden boxes, and the walls right at the back were lined with hundreds of tiny holes. Within each one, hundreds of human skulls looked back at him through their empty eye-sockets.

  Some kind of catacomb, they were in some kind of old, cobwebby catacomb filled with the bones of the dead.

  A circle of people stood waiting for him. They were all dressed in long, dark robes covered in gold symbols and markings and crescent moon shapes and stars, tied at the waist with rope. There were about a dozen of them, and each wore carved demon masks identical to the other two. All except one. Standing directly opposite Pieter across the far side of the circle of people was a robed figure wearing a goat’s skull in place of their own head, the long pointy snout and narrow nostrils and large black eye sockets appraising him silently. Huge horns grew out from the temples, to curve down to the sides. On the bony forehead, in blood, an inverted pentagram.

  Pieter felt his legs go weak, and he might have gone down had Bart not had such a firm hold of him.

  Again he urged Pieter forward, a tiny snicker coming from his lips, and the circle on this side parted to allow them through, before closing behind them again.

  Seated in the centre, arms and legs tied to a chair, head covered in a hessian sack, was the naked figure of a man.

  The goat-headed person lifted their arms and opened them wide in greeting, and the voice, although muffled by the skull, was instantly recognizable.

  “Welcome,” Lotte said. “You are just in time.”

  CHAPTER 18

  A HISTORY OF FAMILY MADNESS

  Lotte made the sign of the cross, inverted, and everybody followed suit.

  “Bring him forward,” she ordered, her voice now strong and powerful, and Bart manhandled Pieter towards the centre of the circle of hooded people, and then forced him to his knees.

  He watched mesmerized and numb and confused and terrified in equal measure as she stepped forward and placed her hands on the shoulders of the man seated on the chair. Her touch made him jump, and Pieter could hear his breath coming in quick gasps now, the sacking over his head moving as he twisted his head from side to side.

  “I see yo
u have managed to find us, thanks to Bart leading you here? My loyal servant, my loyal brother.”

  Pieter snapped his head around to catch a quick glimpse of the barman, who was smiling broadly, his eyes watery with love and devotion.

  “Your brother? But you told me… you told me he hurt you? That he…” His voice trailed off in despair.

  Lotte was shaking her head. “Oh you fool. Our ruse was so simple, and you fell for it. I’m sorry for the deceit and lies, but they were necessary to entice you and to draw you into our game. Bart would never hurt me. He loves me.”

  Bart moved away from Pieter and joined his sister. She slipped an arm around his big waist and kissed him on the lips with her goat-snout face, making Pieter sick to the stomach. The two henchmen with the scythes took up position just behind Pieter.

  Lotte turned her skull-face back towards him, and now her voice had an edge to it. “But you weren’t supposed to hurt him so badly. You were only meant to warn him, not beat him. You monster!” The irony of her words was breathtaking.

  “You fucking mad bitch,” Pieter mumbled to himself, shaking his head. “You’re fucking mad.”

  “I can understand how it might look, from your point of view. And I was reluctant to use you like that. I do genuinely like you Pieter, and I was hoping you would become a willing participant in our wonderful project. Alas, despite my best attempts to entice you and seduce you, you proved difficult to manipulate. So we had to use other methods. Therefore, we set out to play you – I hate that expression, but it seems appropriate here – we set out to draw you in by approaching things in a more oblique way, using emotional distress to weaken your defences.”