He drew in a deep breath. ‘All right. One other thing while we’re down here, though – where do they keep those pickled organs?’
It was a good place to observe while unobserved.
Cally had brought him to a shadowy balcony overlooking the long ballroom and although the floor below where the costumed guests were gathered was brightly lit by crystal wall lights, the upper regions were in gloom, as though hovering darkness over a gaiety of colour was a designed effect. Further along from the pillar behind which Creed knelt, his camera pointing through the fancy balustrade, was a minstrels’ gallery; even there the musicians were cast in shadow, the only illumination being soft lights over their music sheets. A harpsichordist led the quartet through a lively High Baroque piece, music that was in keeping with the general choice of early eighteenth-century dress worn by the assembled company. Handel, Creed guessed, although for all he knew of the difference between classical and Baroque, it could have been Mozart or Bach. Whoever, the composer would have rolled over along with Beethoven had he known the sinister kind of establishment in which his jolly tunes were being aired.
He watched the dancers cavort or gavotte, whatever it was they did to this sort of thing, and cursed silently because they were all wearing masks – and some pretty bizarre ones at that. The shots he had taken so far were interesting enough, but worthless without the identities. He could only hope there would be a mass unmasking later on.
The musical piece came to an end and the dance (it seemed like nothing more than a sedate barn dance to Creed) concluded with it. Chatter and subdued laughter filled the gap until the orchestra began a minuet. As the dancers paired up again and the pale colours – golds, blues, pinks – of hooped gowns and flared coats genteelly swirled and dipped, Creed indifferently reeled off a few more frames, this time concentrating on the more preposterous masks among the crowd.
Although in a minority, a number of guests were in costumes other than the period most in evidence, some of the men even in normal black tie and dinner jackets, their partners wearing fashions you’d find in today’s Tatler; yet no one was without a mask, be it half-face, full-face, or covering the head completely. And these, even the simplest, had one common theme: they were all grotesque. Like Cally’s jackal head, many were caricatures of animals, several of the more exotic kind such as griffins, serpents, dragons and rukhs. One person wore the giant head of a rat.
And then there were the demons among them.
These came in all shapes and sizes and all manner of images. With the Nikon’s zoom lens, Creed was able to pull in close and he had to admit that the make-up and disguise of some of the guests was quite incredible, if somewhat over the top.
Creed thought they must be hired masqueraders, there to lend fantastical atmosphere to the revelry, for they were treated with almost mock reverence as they wandered through the crowd. Oddly, their clothes – robes, tunics, or loincloths in some cases – seemed lacklustre and shabby, like well-worn jumble from a village sale, and the creatures themselves (difficult to think of them as people, so professional were their disguises) appeared weary, as if the evening was a little too much for them. They shuffled rather than walked, their bodies stooped and uncertain. In truth, they looked dreary rather than exotic.
One was almost naked, a fat-bellied thing with the beak and crest of a rooster; a faded crown adorned his head and a tail in the form of a snake dragged behind him. He wore dulled metal amulets, carried a whip, and appeared to be walking on serpents rather than legs (how did he do that?). Another resembled a peacock, tail feathers spread in dingy splendour, his face elongated like a donkey’s. Yet another sported limp, tattered wings and a long gown whose ragged edges dragged along the floor; he would have looked like a downtrodden angel had not his countenance been so disgustingly ugly and had he not carried a mock viper that wriggled and squirmed as if real (clever stuff, this). Creed wondered if this was the idiot’s crass idea of a Fallen Angel. His attention was drawn to someone wearing a crown over long horns. Huge thick-haired ears protruded from this one’s skull, and the goatish face was enhanced by a straggly beard. Fingers and toes tapered impossibly and on his wrist was perched an unhooded goshawk. A white-haired woman – he assumed it was a woman – hobbled past the dancers, her face so haggard and severe it seemed she bore the world’s ills upon her crooked shoulders. She was strange enough in herself, but what was even stranger was that one half of her body was painted blue. An individual who Creed couldn’t figure out at all was a man who had a single eye in the centre of his face, a hand that emerged from his chest, and an extra leg that came out of his backside (how did he do that?). His skin was covered in metallic feathers.
Creed shook his head in scorn. Maybe they thought they looked like demons, but to him they were merely a bunch of badly designed freaks. There were others down there – some even more bizarre – but by now Creed was bored by them. If you’ve seen one devil, you’ve seen ’em all, he told himself as he sank into a more comfortable position on the balcony floor. He rested his back against the pillar, taking care he couldn’t be seen by the musicians further along.
Was this what Cally wanted him to witness? Christ, there were better weirdos at the annual Alternative Miss World, when the more extravagant drags went on parade.
He wondered if she had found Sammy yet. The journey from the basement had been easy enough, although once they’d had to duck out of sight when they heard voices around the corner ahead. By this time they were on the ground floor and the room they’d hidden in was an office filled with filing cabinets. He’d recognised the high piping voice of the fat receptionist as footsteps passed by the closed door. Creed had taken the opportunity to change the film in his camera, and then had wanted to snoop into some of those files; but Cally wouldn’t allow it, telling him it was too dangerous to loiter.
Avoiding the main reception area, they had moved towards the rear of the house, into the quieter regions. Cally found a narrow staircase (she seemed to know the place like the back of her hand, and Creed was uneasy about that; still, her mother had been locked up there a long time, so maybe it was almost a second home to Cally) which led them to a side entrance to the balcony overlooking the grand ballroom. Behind the minstrels’ gallery was another, much wider, staircase which he assumed descended to the ballroom itself. She had left him there to observe proceedings, warning him to stay hidden and to keep very, very quiet; she promised to return as quickly as possible. That had been over an hour ago, perhaps a bit longer.
At first the spectacle downstairs had dazzled and even excited him, although he soon sensed that the atmosphere wasn’t quite as convivial as it appeared. The mood of the revellers(?) seemed strained, anxious somehow, rather than cheerful. There was a tension in the air, a brittle kind of expectancy that was almost tangible.
He decided he wasn’t going to wait around much longer. Another ten minutes and he’d go in search of Sammy himself. He’d find him even if it meant checking every room in the goddamn place and kicking down doors to do so! Enough was enough.
He checked how much film was left in the camera, which wasn’t easy in that dim light. Plenty more for the main event, he assured himself. If there was to be a main event. He glanced down at the ballroom again.
Well, there was one he hadn’t noticed before. God, this guy was an ugly brute. Big and pretty clumsy too (unless he was very drunk). The other guests were quickly stepping out of his path as he clomped through them. Those who failed to notice his approach in time were rudely nudged aside. Every so often the tall man would come to a halt and stand there looking around, his whole upper torso moving with his head as though he were wearing a neck and back brace of some kind beneath his baggy jacket. Creed tried to think who he reminded him of.
His fancy dress was pretty crummy compared to most of the other guests’ and the mask he wore, with its ridiculously high forehead and scar-stitched face, was neither extreme enough nor subtle enough to win any prizes. Oh yeah, that’s who he looked lik
e: a cheapo edition of the old Frankenstein monster. This was a weird way of honouring the late Lily Neverless; but then maybe it was exactly what the old girl had wanted. The movie world loved eccentrics, didn’t it?
Whoops! Frankie had bumped into one of the dancers, and the other guy didn’t seem too pleased. This one was a snazzier dresser in his velvet frock coat, embroidered waistcoat and knee breeches. A powdered wig would have been more in keeping with the costume though, rather than the mangy-haired mask that made him look like an oversized Yorkshire terrier. A ferocious one at that, for he snarled at the big man and swiped at the air between them with an equally hairy paw – sorry, hand. Creed zoomed in and took a snap.
His hope that something worthy might develop from this incident was dashed when the big man turned and lumbered away, treading on a lady guest’s delicate foot as he went. She howled, but her partner, who was wearing a threatening Scaramouche mask, bowed an apology at the broad back and timidly led her hobbling away. Terrier Man – or Wolf Man, as he undoubtedly thought of himself – resumed the dance, and very graceful he was too.
Creed lost patience and began to tuck the Nikon back into his coat. He was too agitated to sit there any longer; too agitated and too bloody scared for Sammy and himself! Time to move out, find the boy and run. And if he couldn’t find his son, then the police would have to. That was their job, that’s what they were paid for.
The music stopped abruptly as he was pushing himself to his feet, and a peculiar hush fell over the assembly. There was no more chatter, although whispers passed through the crowd like a rustling breeze; there was no more laughter, and no one dared even to cough. Creed peered through the ornamental balustrade, puzzled by the intensified atmosphere. He saw one man grab his partner to hold her upright as she swooned. Everyone was perfectly still. They were all looking in the same direction.
At the far end of the room was a short but broad semicircular staircase leading up to a curtained set of arched doors. A lone, gaunt figure was standing before the doors.
The man Cally claimed was Nicholas Mallik wore the same eighteenth-century attire chosen by so many of the guests that night, except that his costume had none of the soft shades of those others. His was black. Jet black with thin gold braid edging the tunic and swirling through the waistcoat. Even the muslin scarf around his neck and tied in a bow over a white wig at the back was black; as were the stockings rising from buckled shoes.
Had it not been for his deeply lined face and thin frame he might have looked wickedly elegant. As it was, he merely looked wicked.
But why no mask? Creed wondered. True, with a kisser like that a funny mask wasn’t entirely necessary to keep faith with the company of grotesques down there, but why should he be the only one to flout the party spirit?
An extraordinary thing happened then. Someone in the crowd whispered a name, and so still was the room that the sound carried to every part. Somebody else repeated the name, louder this time, although still in a whisper. Now another person spoke it, and yet another joined in. Soon it was chorused around the ballroom, but quietly as though there was something awesome in its very sound.
‘Belial.’
Everyone present sank to their knees and bowed their heads.
Creed blinked. Even the women were grovelling on the floor. He shook his head in surprise. Who was this guy? Did these people kneel in reverence or in fear? And why were they calling him Belial? Well, at least they weren’t calling him Mallik, so that scotched the idea that the mass murderer had risen from the dead! Creed smiled grimly. He had almost – almost – come to the point of believing it himself. Despite his own ridicule, he had started to have doubts! Schmuck.
But this was great. As he’d suspected all along, this was some freaky kind of quasi-religious set-up. Or its opposite, more likely. Judging by many of those disguises, plus what was going on in the Retreat’s cellars, definitely the latter. Creed retrieved the Nikon from his pocket, hoping desperately that a grand unmasking was about to take place and he could snap some well-known faces. Oh the fame, the glory. The lovely filthy lucre! He’d be able to name his own price.
He zoomed in for a close-up of the man they were calling Belial (had a strangely familiar ring to it, that name) and shuddered. Christ, he was an evil-looking mother. This was only the second time Creed had got a really good look at those deep-set eyes and he realised they were as black as sin itself. (Hadn’t they been a pale grey the first time he’d seen them?) Their dark gaze drifted over the masqueraders as if demanding complete supplication and woe betide anyone who wasn’t offering it.
Creed jerked back as those thunderous eyes seemed to meet his own.
He held his breath and bit into his lip as he crouched as low as he could possibly get. Surely he couldn’t have been seen – it was too gloomy up there, the thick balustrade he hid behind too concealing. Yet for a split-second – not even that; an infinitesimal fraction of time – Creed had experienced that same jolt, that same stab-into-the-mind sensation as when they had first locked eyes in the cemetery.
This time it had been sharp, like an instant electric shock; it left him momentarily stunned.
Nothing else happened however, at least, not as far as he was concerned. There was no shout of alarm from below, no denouncing finger pointing his way.
Cautiously, Creed aimed the camera again and took a quick shot. Through the viewfinder he noticed the low light reading and realised that the ballroom had become perceptibly dimmer; he quickly adjusted the setting and took another couple of shots.
Belial (Belial?) had begun to speak and, although his voice was low, his words were perfectly audible even to Creed up on the balcony.
‘There are doubters among you,’ the man said, seeming to challenge everyone in the room, including Creed himself. ‘There are those who, despite all they have witnessed, all they have been given, are still unsure of the old powers. There are those among you who have been corrupted by the age in which you live, your minds jaded by the mundanity of materialistic realism and values, your faith dwindled by the atheism of your own intellect, your senses pathetically satiated by bogus and vulgar imageries of celluloid fantasy and the false word.’
Prat, Creed thought.
‘Should your hearts and minds be so shallow that you perceive the mysteries and ancient ideologies as mere divertissements, indulgent abstractions eventually to be scorned, there is no place here for you. I will also remind you of this: if you do not believe in the God, you cannot believe in the anti-God.
‘Each of you has been touched by the powers and gained from their influences, yet even so there are those who are not satisfied, and others who fear that the forces of the outcast Angels, the Archangels and the Virtues, are waning, that anarchic scepticism towards all things nether-worldly has dissipated their spiritual potency.’
Creed quietly clucked his tongue. If he’d got it right, this guy was bemoaning the fact that nobody believed in the boogeyman any more, that it was all entertainment as far as the great unwashed public was concerned. Maybe he had a point.
‘Tonight your faith will be renewed and your beliefs strengthened for the new millennium, when once more disorder shall reign and the dark hierarchies shall roam the earth. You, the disciples of the diablerie, shall follow in our paths and be awash with our glory.’
Someone applauded, hesitantly at first, and Creed wondered if it was out of embarrassment. But no – others joined in and soon the whole room was in appreciative uproar. The speaker held up his hand to stay the noise and Creed aimed the camera again. The raised hand, in Hitleresque salute, would please the caption writers.
The speaker continued, his voice low and as dark as the clothes he wore. ‘Tonight the Power will also be witnessed by an outsider . . .’
Uneasy murmurs spread around the ballroom.
‘. . . an outsider who epitomizes the cancerous cynicism of this secular and creedless age. Someone who has joined us willingly and who will provide impartial testimony to our omnipo
tence.’
Creed looked up from the viewfinder for a moment and stared. His eye went back to the camera.
Ravage-face appeared in the lens again, an ugly smile on his thin, line-ridged lips. His gaze roved over the audience before him as Creed fiddled with the focus. Judas, this face was pure unadulterated evil. Fantastic. Creed clicked the shutter.
And as he did so, and as if on cue, the man he was photographing looked directly into the lens.
Pain as well as shock caused Creed to close his eyes. It was as though the delicate walls of his brain had been scraped crudely with an artist’s pallette knife. His whole body cringed into itself and his sudden cry brought spittle to his lips.
He blinked, forced himself to look down into the ballroom once again.
All the masked faces were turned in his direction and the man in black, the one they called Belial, was pointing up at him.
Creed rose awkwardly, the Nikon falling to his chest to hang there, forgotten, no longer important. He wanted out, right now, out of this hell-hole. The dread in him outweighed anything else, even the thought of rescuing Sammy. Out, out, out . . .
He whirled around. And stopped dead.
The jackal mask was grinning at him.
Cally was holding Sammy’s hand.
Creed’s jaw sagged. He tried to say his son’s name.
But Cally was removing the jackal mask.
And it wasn’t Cally at all.
It was the dark-haired woman, the one called Laura.
And she was smiling too, just like the maniac below.
And Creed realised for the first time that her teeth were slightly crooked, crooked like Cally’s.
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The tight, sequinned gown was like the one Cally had been wearing too, although the cleavage was under considerably more pressure from Laura’s brimming breasts. Her bitter/ musky odour came at him in a wave and he knew he’d sniffed something like it earlier that evening, although it had been more subtle, an underlying fragrance, a bouquet rather than a heavy scent. He’d noticed it when Cally had returned to the boxroom where he’d been hiding while she searched for Henry Pink.
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