by Ian Cook
“Let us just say it was not pleasant,” Neferatu said. Then he started walking towards the main door. “Now, I must get my car.” He turned and left without another word, and without looking back.
The men looked at the swinging door. “So, what do you make of that?” said the landlord to nobody in particular.
“It would have been interesting to know how they dealt with the gingers,” said the short, dark-haired man.
At the local garage Neferatu bought a can of petrol and politely turned down the proffered lift back to the car. Taking the can, he walked casually out of the village, apparently indifferent to the rain. Well clear of the last house, he threw the can over a hedge and turned back.
At the edge of the village, he broke into a run towards the pub and burst in through the entrance. The men crowded around the bar were now again talking furiously and gesticulating.
“Call the police! Call the police!” shouted Neferatu. “A murder has been committed!”
There was instant silence. Everybody stared at him.
“What do mean? Where?” said the landlord.
“There’s a body – a woman’s body. In the old kirk.”
“Is she dead? Are you sure?” asked a man in jeans.
“She’s dead, absolutely. She has been strangled,” said Neferatu grimly.
“There’s not even a bloody copper to call,” said the landlord. “They’ve both gone to Kirkwall. Some bloody meeting about those ginger brats disappearing.”
The men looked at each other. Then the landlord came from behind the bar. “You’d better come with us,” he said to Neferatu.
The men stormed out of the pub. Some ran off to get cars, while others started to run out of the village towards the kirk.
Neferatu got into the front seat of the landlord’s car parked outside the pub, and three men jammed into the back.
The car lurched to a halt by the gate outside the kirk. The landlord ran to the gate and then stopped, waiting for Neferatu.
Neferatu pushed past him. “Over here,” he said. The others followed, not saying a word.
The woman was lying on her back among the nettles where Neferatu had left her, her dead eyes staring at the sky. Her bag was lying alongside her, the various contents strewn around in the nettles. The landlord picked up a pen, a make-up case, a brush, a small mirror and finally an empty purse. Then he went through the bag. “I can’t find any identification. No money, no cards. They must have been in her purse.”
“She’s not from around here,” said somebody.
“Whatever murderous bastard did this must still be on the island,” the landlord said.
Neferatu took a quick step backwards from the body. “I think I may have seen who did it,” he said quietly. All eyes turned in his direction. “I saw a man running away. That’s why I came to look. I don’t think he saw me.”
“Which direction did he go in?” asked the landlord.
“Towards the village. He was walking very fast.”
“What did he look like?”
“Blue overalls. Big. In middle age. He had ginger hair. Very ginger hair.”
The men looked at other.
“Sounds like Jock Lewis,” said the young man in jeans.
“Could be.”
“Or Walter Cowan.”
“What about Dave Mathieson? He’s a nasty piece of work. Capable of anything.”
“Bloody police,” exclaimed the landlord. “Why aren’t they damn well here – where they should be?”
“If there’s no police, it looks as if we’ll have to sort it out ourselves,” said a man with a beard. “Before he gets away.” There were murmurs of agreement.
“Let’s find Jock Lewis first,” said the man in jeans. “I’d bet anything it was Jock Lewis.”
“Listen! Listen to me!” said Neferatu loudly.
The men stopped talking and angry eyes looked at him.
“You cannot know who did it. It could have been anyone with red hair. Maybe he does not come from Sandy Ness.
“What are you saying?”
“There is only one way to be sure. You must deal with them all. Find everybody with red hair. There is no alternative. Every single person on the island who has red hair.”
There was an uneasy silence.
“You must see this,” said Neferatu. “Their little children have gone. This is your chance. Get rid of them all. Finish off the rest. No exceptions to be made.”
“What do you mean, finish off the rest?” asked the landlord.
“If you want my help, you must bring them here tonight. We can deal with them, like we dealt with them in my country.”
“And just how did you deal with them?”
“How they deserved to be dealt with.”
Neferatu stood by the body. “Perhaps the next time it will be somebody you know. Your wife. Your daughter. I am telling you – do it now. I shall help you – I can arrange everything.”
At first there was silence. Then the man in jeans said, “Let’s get Jock Lewis first. Rob, Hamish – come with me.”
“I’m going to Hardwick to get my brother,” said the man with a beard. “He hates the bastards as much as I do. Especially when he hears about this…”
“Bring them all here at nine o’clock tonight. This place,” said Neferatu. “Make sure you get them all and bring them here.”
“And you? What are you going to do?” asked the landlord.
“Leave it to me. You will see tonight what I can do.”
Neferatu stood and watched them all as they hurried away.
When the last car had disappeared from sight, he went back to the kirk and climbed the stairway to the Devil’s Clawmarks. He placed his long fingers over the grooves in the stone.
Seconds later, an eagle spiralled upwards above the ruins in the twilight and headed due south. There was no longer any sign of Neferatu.
CHAPTER 63
Very early that morning at the university, Larry had been working alone in the room allocated to him as a visiting professor. There was a knock at the door and he swung round, surprised at being interrupted. It was Jim who walked in.
He thrust a copy of the Metropolitan in front of Larry. “Have you seen this?” he said.
Larry glanced at the headline on the front page:
‘POLE SWITCH STARTS’
The story was by-lined Syreeta Dasgupta.
“Yes, I’ve seen it already. I had assumed that it was you behind it like last time, Jim.”
Jim didn’t deny it. “All I did was give Syreeta Greg’s phone number. I didn’t talk to her myself. But this pole switch is getting a bit serious – and I get the feeling that the government’s just not prepared.”
Jim took the paper back and handed Larry the Beacon, the Edinburgh daily. He laid the paper on Larry’s desk so that he could read the headline:
‘POWER CRISIS: SOLAR RADIATION CAUSES EMERGENCY’
Larry read the story. “If this is right, there could be electricity breakdowns all over Christmas. Let’s hope there’s enough power to cope.”
“I knew they should have announced emergency plans earlier,” Jim said. “People are going to panic now, and they’ll blame the government.”
Larry nodded in agreement, but he looked as if he had other things on his mind. “Do you know where Rebecca is? I tried her mobile but she was on voicemail. I left a message asking her to phone back, and I was just about to ring you about her.”
“She’s probably in Orkney, following up the redheads story,” Jim said. “My guess is she probably shot off as soon as she heard about the red-haired kids disappearing. According to the hotel, she checked out very early this morning and went to the airport.”
“Well, I’m wondering if even you are convinced now?” said Larry.
“Convinced about what?”
“Convinced that there’s something very peculiar going on, and that Rebecca’s bang in the middle of it. Something we may not even understand.”
“Look, Larry. It’s my belief that there’s a perfectly rational explanation for all of this. But, okay – let’s test your approach and see where it gets us. For a start – what have we got to go on?”
Larry sighed. “People with red hair. So many of them are being attacked. Murders, kidnappings, disappearances – and it’s happening all over the world. Other redheads say they have suddenly been having visions. And then there’s Neferatu – he seems to be cropping up all over the place.”
“Oh, no, not Neferatu again,” said Jim. “What on earth could he possibly have to do with all of this?”
“For one thing, you know there was an attempt on Rebecca’s life on Easter Island – by a man supposed to have the head of a bird. Poor Señor Nata’s family was witness to that – and Neferatu just happened to be there, too. Then you and Rebecca were both attacked by an eagle on Orkney. And Rebecca says she saw a large bird of prey at the Newton Stones a moment before, guess who, old Neferatu just happens to turn up again. And what does he do? In fact, he pretty well nearly kills her.”
“What are you getting at?” asked Jim.
“I’m beginning to think Neferatu might be the key to all this. And what’s more, there always seems to be some sort of connection with large birds of prey.”
Jim burst out laughing. “Ah, well, yes, I’ll give you that. Neferatu’s nose is distinctly hawk-like. But, to be serious, Larry, you’re not really suggesting, are you, that Neferatu somehow grows wings and flits around the world?”
“I’m not pretending I know all the answers,” said Larry, “but there are a lot of strange coincidences going on. I really do believe Neferatu wants Rebecca dead. But why? What could he possibly have against Rebecca? She had never even met him before she came to Easter Island. I really do think we have to keep an open mind about Neferatu, Jim.”
“Okay, okay,” Jim said. “But, personally, I prefer the more rational explanations. Birds of prey are not that uncommon, you know.”
“All right then,” Larry continued. “What about Rebecca and these apparent visions?”
“So, it looks like a redhead thing. We saw the effect on Rebecca’s cerebellum ourselves. Basically, she’s one of those people who can, if the conditions are right, go into some sort of trance. There are quite a number of people like that. Sometimes there can be some sort of trigger – a certain symbol, or an icon. Or repetitive sounds, such as drums beating, water dripping – classic conditions for bringing on a trance-like state. But it seems all these occurrences are exacerbated in redheads by the effects of the changes in the magnetic field.”
“What, the changes in the magnetic field are just affecting people with red hair?” said Larry.
“It’s quite possible. Science has shown that quite often people with red hair are hypersensitive to certain things, such as pain caused by heat and cold. They can respond unusually to anaesthetics as well. It’s almost as if they have a different physical and mental make-up to non-redheads.”
“But they’re not just any old visions, are they?” said Larry. “There’s a pattern, isn’t there? In the experiment, all the key characters seemed to have red hair, starting with her mother, then her grandfather, and then the Highlander, Ptolemy Soter, Cleopatra, Selene… Even the prehistoric shaman was red-haired. On Easter Island, the living corpse she described had a red beard, and the figure in a loincloth which appeared at the same time had some kind of red headdress.”
“Well, it could be that her own red hair has become part of her psyche. She could be ultra-sensitive about it, which could affect her mental state.”
“There’s something else I must tell you,” Larry continued. “I’ve been listening to the exchange in Latin between those women, Selene and Cleopatra. I couldn’t make it all out, but it sounded as if Selene was talking about Cleopatra being sent to safety in Scotland.” He took in breath. “Now, don’t slam into me, Jim, but as you know, at least two of the people she saw in the scanner were definitely her ancestors. Her mother and her grandfather. Now, I have a feeling she could be communicating with her red-haired ancestors through these visions.”
Jim looked at him as if he were mad. “Are you really, seriously suggesting that some rotting corpse of an Easter Islander, or some mad Macedonian general, are both Rebecca’s long-lost ancestors? And that Rebecca is descended from Cleopatra? That Cleopatra’s granddaughter was sent to Scotland, just so she could carry on her dynasty over here? You’ll be telling me next that Rebecca is some sort of flame-haired queen!” he laughed. “Well, I suppose, now you come to think of it, that does kind of sum up something about Rebecca!”
Larry shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
Jim shook his head. “You’re a rational man, Larry. I can’t believe that you believe in all this. You know, what really gets me about all this past-lives stuff is that people always seem to be descended from someone well known or glamorous. Never some peasant in China – or a eunuch in a Turkish harem.”
“Okay, okay, I know what you mean,” said Larry. “Of course, Ptolemy Soter must have a huge number of descendants by now. But Rebecca was speaking ancient Greek, however you look at it – and it’s a fact that she doesn’t know a single word of Greek.”
“Yes, difficult one, that,” conceded Jim. “Perhaps she’s heard the language on the radio or in some Greek theatre production, and it somehow stayed in her memory.”
“Oh, come on,” said Larry. “That’s a desperate argument.”
“What I will say,” said Jim, “is that, just possibly, we could be talking about a case of dissociative identity disorder – what people used to call multiple personality disorder. That could be one explanation.”
“Yes, but in that case, isn’t it a bit of a coincidence that all the multiple aspects of her personality happen to have red hair?” said Larry.
“Seems fair enough to me. They could all be different aspects of her personality, of which the experience of red hair is an integral part.”
“But in that case, her mother, her grandfather, some unknown Highlander and the others, right back to the shaman, would all be different aspects of Rebecca’s personality. Surely her mother was real enough? And her grandfather? And anyway, surely they would all have to be women, wouldn’t they?”
“But if they are all supposed to be Rebecca’s ancestors, Rebecca might be descended from some prehistoric shaman? Are you saying she’s inherited shamanic powers? Is that what you’re getting at?” said Jim.
“Shamans are actually well known for their ability to communicate with their ancestors. Their spirit helpers are often their own ancestors,” replied Larry.
Jim’s face set hard. “No. No, I don’t buy all that. Rebecca simply saw the shaman in a vision. Just like all the other characters. He was simply a figment of Rebecca’s imagination.”
Larry decided to play his trump card. “But there you are. There’s the difference. Both the living corpse and Ptolemy – they were real. Rebecca insists they were real people. She said they were physically there – that they physically fought to save her life. She said Ptolemy physically fought with Ikar at the Newton Stones. I don’t really know how to explain this, but I believe that, when she was in great danger, she somehow managed to raise the dead, by which I mean raise them bodily, here into our own dimension.”
Ignoring Jim’s gesture of disbelief, he continued, “Now assuming that is what happened, that people who were dead were brought back to life, just imagine! What if other red-haired people are starting to show these same powers? The ability to resurrect the dead? Señor Nata’s family, for instance? Other people, that’s to say non-redheads, are not going to like it very much. Could this be a motive behind all these murders and disappearances around the world?”
“I’m still not with you,” said Jim.
“Don’t you see? Visions are one thing – raising the dead is another. It’s an enormous power – and it raises enormous problems. Just think – for example, whenever redheads are threatened, they could raise an army o
f warrior ancestors to protect themselves. It could be that somebody or something is desperate to stop redheads’ powers getting out of control. Maybe, to that end, whomever or whatever it is, is taking advantage of the prejudice against redheads.
Putting it frankly, Jim, even you seem to have been a bit irrational when it comes to redheads. You sometimes come across as distinctly having something against them.”
“Oh, come on now. Don’t drag me into this,” protested Jim.
“Look, I know you are not going to accept any old theory without some logical proof,” said Larry, “but, at times, you are a bit lacking in imagination. And there are occasions when a little imagination is exactly what you need.
Now, if you want proof that something very odd is going on, just have a look at this.”
He reached to the back of his desk and pushed that morning’s edition of the Hibernian in front of Jim. On the front page was a picture of someone’s front door in Orkney, heavily daubed with a large red ‘sun-sign’.
Larry stabbed at the picture with his finger. “See the upturned bar? That’s exactly the same sign that’s on the Sun-Stone at Newton.” He waited, keen to see Jim’s reaction.
Jim looked at it without speaking. Then he said, “Okay. I suppose I can see what you’re getting at. Everything is getting so strange. I’m beginning to think anything is possible, now. I suppose there is some truth in what you were saying just now. There have been times recently when I’ve felt quite an aversion to redheads. But only very recently.” He looked mystified. “I really can’t explain why. It’s quite ‘irrational’, as you put it.”
Larry looked at him, waiting for him to say more.
But Jim seemed embarrassed. “You must have noticed what’s been happening between Rebecca and me. I think I’ve quite fallen for her, Larry. And I know she likes me. But recently it’s just as if we really hate each other. Then I don’t know what I feel. It’s as if something has come between us. Holding us apart like magnets repelling each other. And she’s the same. She’s always flaring up, having tantrums. Sometimes she can be like a parody of a redhead.”