Fear Of Broken Glass: The Elements: Prologue

by Mark, David

  Ash felt nothing but contempt for the man before him.

  ‘They set me up.’ He tapped the side of the gun in his hand against his chest, looking down, distraught, at Vikland as she tried feebly to withdraw from the rising heat, supported by Daniel as she crawled across the ground, on the edge of consciousness.

  Ash nodded to Bok. ‘Let’s help her.’

  Conrad shook his head, raising his gun towards Vikland, face gaunt and grim. ‘No,’ he croaked. ‘It’s too late.’

  He approached the threshold of his own life, body burning, waiting to see. See through death. Or leave, never to know. The world dissolved around him. What was left was suffering and pain.

  Chivers closed his eyes to the furnace, feeling his face blistering. He opened them again, the skin of his eyelids burned in the moment they had closed. In that briefest of moments he saw a gun. It was laying on the floor, next to a body without a kneecap. Chivers gathered himself and pushed again. He could smell the remains of his hair smoldering, his head as hot as a cauldron after all the water had been boiled away. He could smell his clothes, he could smell his skin. He could hear his skin.

  He was burning all over, slowly, so mercilessly slow.

  He suffered a fit of coughing, placing his mouth against his shirt. He turned his head upwards, seeing a strange light filling the fiery nave. Somewhere, it was open to the sky, a mist of fine droplets illuminated, vaporizing almost before they touched the floor, so the light rain formed a fine sheen that fell slowly like a pure, vertical rain of illuminated golden light. It issued a soft hush in the heat of the fire, settling over the floor, only to fade in the heat, turning to steam, so the floorboards shimmered in golden vapor.

  He looked towards the two dead bodies, alight and burning. He left me here to die. Baron left me here to die, he thought, as he pushed again, weaker now, clawing the last distance to the painting. It lay only three arm’s lengths away, all but invisible in the density of smoke. Barzan. He tried not to breath, coughing again, pushing forwards across the floor, pressing himself hard to the floor, seeing ahead of him the canvas and oil paints had started to run, blackening trails of green, yellow ochre, burnt umber and azure blue. Here and there, right before his face almost it bubbled, bubbles bursting into curling wisps of smoke. He pushed again, hand outstretched, hearing a name in his mind.

  Shamayim

  He looked in horror as the surface cracked, falling apart. Odin, revealed as the Divine, looking upwards to heaven, transformed. It lasted but a moment, Allfather resplendent with the wings of angels, or eagles.

  Shamayim. Shehaqim

  Asgarth’s secret revealed: ‘Barzan Boubarzan,’ he whispered. It had never been written, but there were those who had told. The masterpiece denied, collected from the dirt of a street. There, on the ground, the painter lying twisted and torn.

  ‘Barzan Boubarzan Narzazouzan.’ And here, that which he had brought to life, changing, transforming, a burning canvas disintegrating into flame.

  ‘Shamayi h'shamayim,’ came the reply, though he could not tell from where the words came.

  The canvas burst into flames as Chivers reached out with outstretched fingers trembling, his skin steaming, burning, pain exploding within every fiber, his body screaming for release. For a moment he thought he saw the Archangel revealed in the final moment of destruction, fire flowing in beauty. All of it brought to life through the process of its destruction. Then the canvas giving up the last of its struggles, tearing itself apart. The Hangman’s face altering, elongating, a creature of great beauty emerging, eyes wide, bright, looking out over a great lake like an angel of resurrection. A sun he hadn’t seen before shone brightly upon it, before fading, darkening beyond recognition, to be consumed by the darkness of fire.

  A deep, dry sound, of wood tortured, beams straining in tension, under pressure. Flames billowed high above him, flowing, like waves. A tortured, ripping, tearing sound. The pulling apart of wood from socket, a section of the roof tearing itself free, falling, trailing flame and smoke towards him.

  ‘Barzan Boubarzan Narzazouzan Barzabouzath,’ he uttered, then looked up and shrieked, a sound that was more animal than human, crushed by the debris, his body burning. Somewhere within, he was still staring at the place where the painting had once lived, his fingers still outstretched, clawing at nothing. All it had been filling his mind as the memory of it filled his soul before it too, faded to black.

  Conrad wondered what the hell he could do, his gun pointed at Vikland when he heard it. Vikland was almost unconscious, Daniel looking with fear towards the church, at the source of the sound no one could even guess at. Then the sound of someone screaming, burning to death; a shriek of agony like nothing they had ever heard before. It was appalling.

  Everyone turned silent.

  Exhausted beyond caring, cold and wet Conrad looked up at the sky, fire hissing in the rain. ‘The devil himself speaks to us,’ he whispered.

  Daniel let go of Vikland and ran forwards, taking Conrad unawares. He had been too slow. They fell to the ground in a brief struggle, Ash rushing forward to help Daniel succeed in in wrestling the cold, black service automatic out of Conrad’s grip. Conrad fell backwards, landing on a corner of the entrance porch heavily in a muffled thud. He looked up and his eyes met Ash in the briefest of moments before he crashed into his side. Conrad struggled to get up, landing back on the ground, Ash’s boot connecting with the back of his head, stunning him. He tried again, then Ash stepped forward, pulled back his arm and drove a punch straight between his eyes, so hard he almost felt like was about to pass out. He raised his hands defensively, struggling to get up, but each time he did another punch served to drive him back again until finally, he knew he had been removed from the field of which he had been its captain.

  There was nothing left, he was finished.

  His last act as commander was to turn and look out into the fire, realizing then the shrieking had to be either Lindgren or Chivers. He turned to look into the inferno and raised a hand against the heat, walls alight, sheets of flame rising up out of the hole of the roof and felt nothing, seeing the tapestries consumed by flame, even the serpent columns, those proud, finely carved beams of the roof and the rafters.

  It was over.

  Chest heaving, he did the only thing left to do, to crawl away from the heat, return to the rain and the mud, Ash and Daniel helping Vikland away.

  He was exhausted.

  He gave up the fight and rolled over onto his back, feeling the water and mud soothing him, staring up, blinking at the droplets falling from heaven. His thoughts turned to what lead him to this place, as Ulrika ran to help Vikland. Lindgren had been his contact on the inside. Now he knew why... Almquist. Lindgren had been more interested in finding out about Almquist than he ever had been in providing him with even a little intel. He watched as if he was already gone, as Ulrika placed an arm under Vikland, helped by Daniel who placed one of Vikland’s arms around his neck, relieving her of some of her own dead weight, half walking, half dragging her out into the carpark and the cleansing rain.

  He was supposed to have found Anna...

  It had all been a lie. How long had he been waiting, biding his time for a day like this? While he had been hunting and killing Provisionals in the miserable wet of Northern Ireland, the likes of Bok had served customers from the other side of a counter.

  Inside, Lindgren was dead. Another section of roofing crashed to the ground, extinguishing them, closing his ears, letting his mind wander, turning a lazy head to take in Bok, expecting him to be there. Conrad frowned, suddenly sitting up. Bok was running for the church entrance...

  And then he was running past him looking like something from the Raj, a cloth on his head as he rushed past and disappeared within.

  He didn’t care anymore.

  He almost laughed, opening his mouth to catch some droplets, hearing another window burst, shattering somewhere above them raining glass on the ground. He noticed Vikland stumble, seeing h
ow the rain rinsed her ugly wound, before her legs finally collapsed beneath her. He thought of those who had been sent to kill them because of a stupid painting. He thought of his failure. He thought of Vikland, now kneeling in the mud as she turned to her side and vomited. And finally, he thought that the only person who could tell him anything at all, was the same man who had destroyed what had been placed in his charge. Bok.

  All he could do was watch it all happen, as Vikland beckoned to Ash, who got down onto his knees as she whispered something in his ear.

  Alvar Bok turned away from the pathetic figure of Conrad Baron and walked to the soaked blanket on the ground, and raising it, wrapped it around his head. Then taking the pair of leather gloves from his pocket he ran forwards, passing the figure of Baron laid out on the ground on his back. He entered the inferno, keeping low; breathing through the fabric of the blanket and felt the immediate blast of heat. Within seconds, he could smell his hair heating up. Running forwards, choking on the acrid smoke, he saw the figure from hell. The man before him alight, arising from the ruin of burning wood, screeching like a tortured animal.

  Bok looked through the mantle of smoke back to where he could see the anxious faces of Ash and Conrad Baron, both filthy from mud, both transfixed, both looking into the church, faces frozen. He turned back to the figure with hair on fire, the material of his pants melting in ribbons as he pushed a burning timber to the side, then stumbling, falling with arms outstretched to the floor. Chivers struggled once again to his feet and managed another three, four paces before collapsing again, motionless, screams no more.

  The church falling apart around him he ran fast, making a straight line for what he was looking for, forced to duck past the worst of the flames, crashed timbers, more falling from somewhere behind him, feet crunching on broken glass. The sounds intensified, the roof sagging, creaking and groaning as Alvar Bok, covered in the blanket reached out with his gloved hands for what he sought, placing his heating gun back into his trousers, then leaning down, reaching forwards to where a knife was strapped to his ankle before it too, grew too hot. He had barely finished when something moved, deep down in the shadows of the church, places where the worst of the fire had yet to reach.

  Who had been the shooter? Ulrika thought. That was the hardest part, living with not knowing if you had been the target of someone wanting you dead, and the thought of it was killing her, the world turning to chaos.

  It was quiet, not another car on the road. The rain had stopped, sunlight shining intermittently on Bok’s rusting Cortina, the polish worn off from countless years baking in past summer suns.

  Someone had been waiting for either her or Thomas...

  Ulrika recalled how Bok had emerged from the church, hair singed without word or reason dragging the other policeman. Lindgren, his name was she recalled. He had been shot, a wound to his shoulder that passed clean through. He had been able to walk, having worked his way to the back door, the smoke to thick to see it. Bok had saved his life.

  The giant man had been unharmed apart from superficial burns to his face and arms. From her position in the back seat she looked at their driver, taking in his soiled hunting jacket, singed and reeking of smoke. She noticed how he stared into the road ahead, his face red. The beginnings of blisters. She had been surprised by his actions. They all had been. He hadn’t explained them. Eventually even Ash had given up asking, knowing it futile trying to ask anything of a man who could act like a mountain.

  They passed a group of three houses set back in the woods, fire rising from smoke stacks.

  ‘So how long before we can go?’ Ulrika asked, voice impatient.

  ‘They will search amongst the ruins and draw their conclusions. By then, you will have left.’

  She needed to get back to Stockholm. She had work to do.

  Lindgren had stayed with Vikland, the ambulance arriving within minutes of their departure, followed by an escort of fire service and police. But by then they were just another car on the road, Bok had said.

  ‘You can leave now.’ Bok said, glancing down, again.

  What was he up to?

  He looked up at her, dark eyes meeting hers in the mirror. ‘Though the police will consider it suspicious.’ He glanced down to his lap again.

  She couldn’t stay.

  ‘What will happen to the church?’ Ulrika said.

  ‘They will rebuild it, as before.’

  It was a stupid question. Bok had talked with Baron, none of them allowed into the nature of the conversation. All of them unwilling servants, forced into returning to Gotfridsgaarden. Bok looked up into the mirror, making eye contact. They were hard eyes. She looked away, remembering the day she had met Ash and Justin on the road, cursing her rotten luck they had been housemates with Thomas Denisen. She clenched her hand into a fist and recalled how she had planned to leave. Except, her plans had been cut short by the untimely arrival of a detective called Almquist.

  The shadows of trees passing across his forehead, Bok looked down at a small dark red stain coming from the material of his pocket. The stain had spread, a small patch of blood spilling into the corner of his seat. When he looked up again it was Ulrika’s eyes in the mirror he saw. He shifted up a gear, eyes coasting over his instrument panel, seeking the sign to Tived and made the sharp right into the East Lake Road, engine rising. There before him, the place where Almquist’s car had hit a tree, small pieces of glass across the edge of the road, deep tire tracks in the mud. He slowed and indicated, making a slow turn left into the familiar dirt road to Gotfridsgaarden, his eyes returning to Ulrika. She looked nervous.

  ‘No police?’ Daniel said, looking around at the red and white police tape still visible along the edge of the road by the homestead.

  Bok ignored him, the car coming to a halt, pulling the handbrake, leaving the car running. He turned around to look into the back seat. Ulrika was watching him. Bok’s face darkened at some forbidden memory. He turned off the engine. ‘Go on into the house. I’ll be just a minute.’

  His three passengers obliged, Ash sending Bok a frown as he closed the door. Bok waited, watching them walk. When he was sure they were far enough away, he leaned to his side, looking down at the stain spreading across the bottom of his pocket. He placed his hand inside his pocket, his blistered, burned fingers hurting. He ignored the pain. When he removed them they were coated in thick, dark sticky blood, almost black, holding the thumb and three long fingers of the man whose remains had been cremated inside the inferno. He reached across to the glove compartment and finding an open packet of tissues took one out, leaving a trace of filth on the clean plastic.

  ‘You’re not coming?’ Ash shouted out, looking around uncertainly.

  Bok picked the fingers up again below Ash’s line of sight. ‘I will just be a minute.’ He wrapped the tissue around and around, taking his time, Ash unable to see what he was doing. He leaned over and taking another tissue, wrapping that over the top of the first, the first layer already showing a spreading stain of blood.

  Ash started walking back towards the car. He stopped and turned, waiting. ‘Are you coming? What are you doing?’ He repeated.

  Bok finished wrapping them, keeping his fingers tight around them and leaned over to place them between a first aid kit and the car instruction manual booklet. He spoke without looking up. ‘Just cleaning my fingers.’

  Ash stood alone inside the kitchen in front of the window, watching Bok who seemed to be waiting for something. He thought of Justin’s head. He thought of what the Pastor had said the day he had visited him with Justin. The day they had found Ulrika. Hörgrlund was a pagan place.

  Ulrika opened the door from the back, entering. Seeing him, she walked across the floor and placed her arms around him. ‘Now we’re alone,’ she whispered.

  Ash turned around and smiled. She had nearly told him in Bok’s hut, he’d sensed. Something had prevented her: survival instinct. They were interrupted by the sound of a car entering the homestead, the familiar
shape of Conrad’s Citroën parking next to Bok’s old Cortina.

  ‘What’s Conrad doing here?’ Ash said, looking at Daniel as he entered the kitchen.

  One by one they walked back down the familiar corridor, past the rows of old photographs, exiting the house. Conrad stopped the engine and sat back, as if waiting for something.

  Ulrika looked across. ‘Ash?’

  Ash shrugged without saying anything, looking across as Conrad climbed out of the car, then across to Ulrika, fear showing on her once immaculate face. She looked around at Bok. She looked back at Ash again, lowering her voice, ‘What’s going on?’

  Ash scowled as he stepped out into the yard, Ulrika following reluctantly, suddenly caught by indecision.

  Conrad walked slowly yet with purpose in those strides, eyes unforgiving, seeming even more haggard than usual. He had changed clothes, Ash noted, looking more like a forest Ranger now.

  ‘I need to speak with Bok.’

  Bok scowled, then nodded for them to return inside the house.

  Ulrika turned towards the monolith, looking uncomfortable. ‘I need some air.’

  Ash followed, stopping short when he noticed Daniel had returned to the entrance wall, standing with his back to the wall in front of the door, eyes taking in all the photographs. Ash paused to look for a moment with him without saying anything. He pulled his coat off the hook and out it on. ‘We’re going for a walk. Pack our stuff. When we get back we’re getting out of here.’

  ‘Fine,’ Daniel said absentmindedly, eyes moving along the photographs at the top by the ceiling. He looked across, slowly, dark rings under red eyes wearing an odd, absent look.