‘I can’t find anything,’ Kirkham said. ‘We could always put this position under surveillance in case it reappears.’
‘Or in case this young man gets drunk again and hallucinates another experience,’ Manning added tartly. She turned on her heels and marched back in the direction of the main thoroughfare, with the four assistants slipping and sliding to keep up.
While Kirkham packed up his equipment, Reid said quietly to Hal, ‘Ignore her. Probably her period. Look, I think this is vitally important information and I think you should take it to the highest level.’
‘Me?’
‘The PM needs to know about this and it should come from the horse’s mouth, not be buried in the middle of some report that he only has ten seconds to read. Or from some lackey he probably doesn’t trust anyway. This could be a turning point.’
Hal was taken aback. The chain of command had always kept him well away from any minister not directly involved in his particular sphere, and certainly never allowed him near the PM. But Reid appeared sincere; whatever had happened in Scotland clearly had everyone rattled.
‘How do I go about getting an appointment?’ Hal said.
‘Leave that to me. I’ll find a slot in his diary. Difficult at the moment with the war on, of course, but the sooner we can get you in there, the better.’ As Kirkham finished packing up, Reid leaned in to Hal and said, even more quietly, ‘Just keep this to yourself. Everyone’s plotting at the moment and I don’t know who I can trust.’ He searched Hal’s face. ‘I think I can trust you. Is that right?’
‘Of course,’ Hal replied.
Reid nodded curtly, then strode away before Kirkham noticed his interaction with Hal. Hal was concerned by the spy’s parting words. Why didn’t Reid know who to trust? Surely everyone was pulling together with the crisis looming. As Hal trudged back towards Magdalen, he had an uneasy sensation of movement behind the scenes, and threads being drawn closer together.
Hal found Samantha on his office doorstep, her face unnaturally pale. ‘Can I come in?’ she asked with urgency.
‘Sorry about the mess,’ Hal began, motioning to the desk where piles of files had been stacked two feet high. He had never been so behind with his work before.
‘Have you heard the news?’ she said breathlessly. ‘Ninety per cent of our force was wiped out in Scotland.’
‘Hunter?’
Samantha chewed her lip. ‘He’s listed amongst the missing.’
Hal felt sick, but he put on a brave face. ‘You know what Hunter’s like. Hit him in the face with a hammer and he’ll keep coming back for more. Anyone who can survive the free-drink weekend at Mrs Damask’s isn’t going to fold up at the first opportunity.’
When Hal saw that nothing he could say would ease Samantha’s worries, he said, ‘Do you want a coffee? I’ve got some stashed away for special occasions.’
‘That’s like gold dust,’ Samantha said. ‘And isn’t it on the protected substances list? You’re supposed to hand in any supplies.’
‘So some minister can have it for their personal stash?’ Hal caught himself. ‘Listen to me, I sound like Hunter.’
From the back of his top drawer, Hal pulled out a tiny jar wrapped in masking tape so that the contents couldn’t be seen. He shook out a few precious brown grains into a couple of mugs, topped them up with water from the kettle suspended over the fire and handed one steaming mug to Samantha.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I’m glad you’re here, Hal. You’ve been a real friend to me. It’s hard to find anyone in this place I can really talk to.’
Friend. The compliment stung as much as if she’d slapped him.
‘You know, I never thought you really cared for him,’ Hal said.
‘Neither did I. Until I realised I did, about five minutes before he flew off. He’s a loudmouth, a bighead, a slut who’s probably crawling with God knows how many sexual diseases and a drunk. There’s absolutely no reason why I should like him.’
Hal laughed quietly. ‘I know exactly what you mean. We have nothing in common at all. Whenever I go out drinking with him, I’m unconscious halfway through the night, without fail. He always gets me home, though.’
‘But there’s something about him. I just can’t put my finger on it.’
‘He’s a good man, once you get past the front. He’s got morals, ethics… hard to believe when you consider what he does. I think he hates himself a bit, which is sad. He’s complicated. There are two Hunters — one you see and one you only catch glimpses of.’
‘Do you know what made me think he might be all right?’ Samantha warmed her hands on the coffee mug. ‘That you’re his friend, and I think you’d only be friends with someone who was… worthy.’
‘That’s a funny word.’ Hal stared deep into her eyes, which were green like a cat’s, immeasurably deep.
‘He’s lucky he’s got you in his corner.’
‘You’ll make a good couple,’ Hal said and meant it.
Samantha luxuriated in the taste of her coffee. Then she said, ‘Do you know what one of the PAs said to me the other day? With all the strange stuff in the world today, all the magic and the gods and the wonders, we’re now living in a world where wishes could come true. So tell me, Hal, if you could wish for anything, what would it be?’
He thought for a moment and then replied, ‘Nothing. I’ve got everything I need.’
‘You know, I think I believe you. You’re so calm, so centred.’
‘And you’d wish for Hunter to be back here, right now.’
‘I think I probably would. I want a chance to see if it could work, you know?’ She took a deep breath, and to Hal it sounded immeasurably sad. ‘Though I might also wish for some music. I miss the radio… new songs… old songs.’
‘All right,’ Hal said, ‘the best old song: “Wichita Lineman”. Glen Campbell. No argument. Do you know it?’
Samantha wrinkled her nose. ‘Sounds like something my mum would like.’
‘There’s a line in it that goes: “And I need you more than want you, and I want you for all time.” I don’t think there’s a better way of describing love, anywhere.’
She giggled. ‘You’re such an old romantic.’
‘Yes,’ he said with a smile. ‘I am.’
In his cell, Mallory brooded and planned and waited for his moment. He still couldn’t bring himself to think of Sophie’s name or what had happened to her. Every thought he had was channelled towards his escape. He’d tested his manacles and they were as effective as they should be in a high-security wing. The guards always came around in twos with his food, one training an SA80 on him. But Mallory knew he had two things to his advantage: since Sophie’s death he really didn’t care if he lived or died; and he knew his abilities — and in particular the abilities of the Pendragon Spirit — better than his captors did.
The training he had undergone at Salisbury Cathedral to become a Knight Templar had also pushed him to the upper limits of physical and mental fitness. Focusing the mind, preparing for extreme hardship, were now embedded in his system. He had hated his time in the brutal regime, but it had taught him to be a survivor. All told, he was ready.
And so, when the guards came with his lunch, Mallory gathered himself. ‘Bring it over here,’ he said, nodding to the tray with the plate of what appeared to be vegetable stew on it.
‘Get lost.’ The guard with the gun waved the barrel at him.
Mallory knew the guards hated him. They didn’t know why they did, but the fact that he was imprisoned along with all the other dangerous freaks in the high-security wing damned him by association. ‘I’ve had enough of all this — the way you treat me. I deserve better.’
‘Boo hoo,’ the one with the tray mocked.
Mallory took a step forward.
‘Oi!’ The one with the gun grew tense, thrusting the weapon more menacingly. ‘Back.’
‘No,’ Mallory said. ‘I’ve reached my limit. I’m not going to rot in this hole. I’d rather di
e.’ Mallory continued to walk towards them.
The guards backed away, a sliver of panic driving the contempt out of their eyes. The one with the tray put it down and thumbed his radio. ‘Section fourteen to base. Incident at B-twenty-nine. Prisoner unruly. Send back-up.’
‘It won’t do any good,’ Mallory said. ‘I can kill with my bare hands. I’ve been trained.’
‘Back off!’ the one with the gun shouted. ‘I will fire.’
‘Better do it,’ Mallory said, ‘because you’re going to be dead in five seconds.’ Mallory rushed the guard without another warning.
Acting on instinct, the guard fired a short burst. The rounds tore through Mallory, flinging him back against the wall hard. Slipping down to the floor in shock, he watched his blood puddling around him. There was pain, and then numbness as the dark crept up on him.
The last thing he heard was one of the guards saying, ‘You fucking idiot! You’ve killed him!’
*
After Samantha had cheered up a little she returned to her office, leaving Hal steeling himself to venture out into the cold. He fought his way through drifts that built up as quickly as the street workers cleared the snow away, and eventually reached the Bodleian Library. Its vast resource of books amassed over four centuries was one of the main reasons that Oxford had been chosen for the new seat of Government. After the destruction of central London and the waste laid to much of the country’s infrastructure, the fragility of humanity, its knowledge and traditions was belatedly acknowledged. The Bodleian contained everything of value that the human race had ever achieved, condensed into racks and shelves, the Holy Grail of civilisation. It was going to be protected at all costs.
Hal went to the Old Library and entered the Lower Reading Room. He expected several hours of shivering at a table while the librarian brought the necessary tomes to him, but it was as warm as a hothouse inside.
‘Best place to be,’ the chief librarian said from his seat behind the main enquiry desk. ‘We’ve got protected status, so we can have as much fuel as we want for the heating system.’ He appeared oblivious to everything else that was going on beyond his cloistered world. He had a mound of snowy white hair and thick glasses that made his eyes appear unfeasibly large. Despite the heat, he wore a heavy jumper with brash, multicoloured hoops.
Hal took a seat in the general reference and enquiry area where he could occasionally steal glimpses at the snow drifting down outside. It also allowed easy access to the lower reserve to pick up the books dropped off by the librarian. He was in for the long haul. He had a vague idea of what he was looking for, but it would take him a while to pinpoint it exactly. Hal was now sure that the strange blue hologram-image that emerged from the Wish Stone reflected a painting. That much had emerged from the depths of Hal’s memory, but which painting and what it might mean eluded him completely.
He spent the next two hours wading randomly through art books before admitting to himself that he wasn’t getting anywhere. His methodical mind was exasperated by his methods, but his basic information was too limited to begin any structured search. The computer system was up and running, one of the first non- Government systems to have been restored after the Fall, but even a scan of the OLIS online catalogue didn’t give him any guidance.
As he sat and stared out of the window for inspiration, his fingers found a strange object in his pocket. He pulled it out and was surprised to see the Bloodeye that Bearskin had given him in The Hunter’s Moon the previous evening. As Bearskin had told him, Hal hadn’t remembered he had it, or he would undoubtedly have shown it to Reid.
He thought for a moment and then held the jewel in the palm of his hand and whispered, ‘Far and away and here.’ Hal didn’t know what he’d been expecting — some flash of light or burst of coloured smoke, perhaps — but there was nothing. Irritated that he had allowed himself to be made a fool of, he slipped the stone back into his pocket.
Yet a few seconds later there was an overpowering smell of wet fur. Hal looked around to see if a dog had found its way into the library and was greeted by a low, rasping laugh that sounded very much like an old man’s, unsettling with a hint of malignancy. Goose pimples rose up on Hal’s arms.
Hal looked around again, and then almost fell backwards off his chair in shock when his gaze returned to his desk, which had been empty a split second earlier. A tiny, misshapen man now sat there, rolling his eyes at Hal. Naked, his wrinkled, leathery skin was grey-green, his ears pointed, his teeth an unnerving row of needles, and his fingers ended in broken but lethal-looking talons.
‘Cat got your tongue?’ the little man said nastily.
‘You’re here because… I called you?’ Hal said hesitantly.
‘We all answer the Bloodeye. A friend in need is always to be answered. Though I’ve never seen a friend like you.’ He bared his teeth at Hal.
‘What’s your name?’
‘I have many names. Some I’ll answer to, and some I won’t, and one is secret, never to be told. But you can call me Maucus.’
‘Will you answer to that one?’
‘We’ll see, won’t we?’
Hal was unnerved by the little man’s attitude and wondered if he might be better off, and safer, if he sent Maucus away.
The little man appeared to read Hal’s mind, for he said, ‘You have nothing to fear when the Bloodeye has called. But do not come across me at other times, for then I may not be so generous.’
Feeling a little more confident, Hal asked, ‘What are you?’
‘My kind live in the book stores and libraries. We drink the smell of paper and eat the joy of people who find a piece of information or a story they desire. Sometimes we’ll hide books, usually at the point when the one wanting them is reaching the end of a long, laborious search. Just for fun. We’re always there, but your kind never sees us, hiding on top of the stacks or behind the shelves. You think we’re rats or mice, or birds on the roof.’
‘I want-’
‘No!’ Maucus jumped forward so threateningly that Hal rocked back on his chair. ‘Don’t tell me! Words that aren’t written down could be lies. They disappear. People forget what they said.’
‘How can I tell you, then?’
‘Give me your hand.’
Hal hesitated, then extended his right hand, palm upwards. Maucus gripped it with a strength belied by his size; Hal tried to wrench it back, but couldn’t. Maucus bared one of his talons and slashed a thin red line across Hal’s hand.
As Hal cried out in pain, the little man smiled sadistically, then bent forward and lapped Hal’s blood. Hal was sickened by the sight, but it only lasted a second before Maucus bounded off into the shadowy depths of the library.
A few minutes later, he returned with a book, which he dropped on the desk. It fell open at a picture of the same scene projected by the Wish Stone.
It was a romantic painting of three men dressed in what looked like togas crouched around a stone tomb. A woman in luscious orange and blue robes looked on. The men were pointing at an inscription on the tomb: Et in Arcadia Ego. The scene was set in some idyllic rural setting, on a hillside, with trees against gold-tinted clouds passing across a brilliant blue sky. The light suggested twilight, or perhaps dawn.
Hal read the inscription underneath: Les Bergers d’Arcadie — The Shepherds of Arcadia by Nicolas Poussin, Musee du Louvre, Paris.
Hal knew his Latin — the inscription translated literally as ‘And in Arcadia I’ or ‘I am in Arcadia, too’ — but Hal had no idea what it meant. More puzzling was why a seventeenth-century painting should be revealed by a magic stone that must have been hundreds if not thousands of years older, if it truly had been buried under Cadbury Hill.
Clearly the picture must be very significant indeed for a unique and powerful object like the Wish Stone to have preserved its image, but its meaning escaped him. As Hal examined the painting more closely, he noticed that something wasn’t quite right. ‘The picture is back to front,’ he mused. ‘Or the imag
e is. The stone shows the woman on the left. The painting has her on the right. And everything else is reversed, as well. The image doesn’t show the whole of the painting, either — it’s cropped very closely around the characters.’
‘Ah, but there’s the mystery,’ Maucus said. ‘Do I have to do everything for you?’
‘Yes, please,’ Hal said tartly, emboldened.
Maucus glowered coldly and Hal wondered if he had gone too far. But then the little man disappeared into the library once more, returning a few minutes later with a book about Shugborough Hall, a stately home in Staffordshire on the estate of the Royal photographer, Lord Lichfield. Once again, the book fell open at the correct page, only this time it revealed a photo of the reversed Wish Stone image of the shepherds. But this was no painting. The photograph showed a carved stone relief known as The Shepherd’s Monument that stood in the Hall’s nine-hundred-acre grounds.
Hal read that the monument and a mysterious inscription carved beneath it — O.U.O.S.V.A.V.V., and underneath a ‘D’ and an ‘M’ — had been a mystery for more than 250 years. Charles Darwin had been observed mulling over its meaning, and Josiah Wedgwood had spent many hours trying to crack the code. Some believed that it held the secret of the whereabouts of the Holy Grail, others that it was a memorial to a lost love of Thomas Anson, who had created the estate in the eighteenth century.
‘There is a mystery here,’ Maucus said, once again as if he could read Hal’s mind. ‘But is it buried deep or does it lie on the surface where only one with the right vision may see it?’
Hal felt a surge of excitement at the puzzle that had been presented to him. Here was a conundrum in which he could immerse himself; more, he was sure it was something where he could finally make a valuable contribution. The hint of long-buried secrets made him feverish. Hidden knowledge, dark wisdom — the mystery hinted at both. ‘I need more information,’ he said.
‘Enough!’ Maucus spat. ‘If it’s slaves you need, then look amongst your own kind. Do not insult me by demanding too much. Rather, give thanks for the aid I have offered.’
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