Ritual jc-3

by Mo Hayder

  Something in the trees moved. He caught it out of the corner of his eye, but when he turned there was nothing, just a few frayed shadows dancing across last year's leaves on the ground. He stared hard at the tree-trunks, trying to decide if it had been an animal or a branch moving, or just something scampering around on the inside of his brain. There was something creepy about this part of the world anyway. The land he was sitting on had once been under water. Until the seventeenth century Glastonbury Tor had been an island. But then had come the drainage of the Somerset Levels, and Glastonbury had spread as a town with its reputation as a centre for witchcraft. It was funny, he thought, it didn't matter which country or culture you came from, somewhere superstition and witchcraft had a hold. Tay had said the ibogaine was used by an African tribe. Used ritually, she had said. Ritually…

  He pulled the TIDARA pamphlet out of his pocket. Clenching the cigarette in his teeth, he fished inside his breast pocket for a pen. With the pamphlet folded on his knee he drew a hard, deep outline round the picture of the plant root. Tabernanthe iboga root. Ibogaine. He'd never heard of it until today. But somehow it was connected to what had happened to Mossy. And maybe that connection was witchcraft.

  He put away the pen and tucked the pamphlet into his pocket. He was bending to crush the cigarette against the bench — not in the bark underfoot because he could picture the reaction from Tay Peters — when something above the front door arrested his eye. A small circle of glass above the front door. He smiled. An ironic, relieved smile.

  Thank God, he thought, shredding the cigarette with his nails and sprinkling it in the bark mulch. Thank God for the humble CCTV camera.

  41

  18 May

  When Flea woke, the sun was high above Solsbury Hill, quivering hot and orange at the crest of a towering cloudbank. The air was humid and oppressive, making her head thud. She'd had only five hours' sleep. Last night when she'd gone upstairs to speak to Thom she'd found he was gone. Vanished. His beat-up car had gone too — he must have sneaked out of the cottage, taken the handbrake off and rolled it down the hill. The little sod, being quiet so Prody wouldn't hear. She'd spent an hour calling his phone, and by the time she'd given up, accepted he wasn't going to answer, her head was aching so hard that she hadn't wanted to go to Kaiser's, just to swallow paracetamol and sleep. But when she woke the headache was still there, and so was everything else: the unsettling sense that the ibogaine really had let her communicate with the dead, just as Kaiser had said. She had to see him — ask if he really believed it was possible.

  There was a message on her mobile: the team didn't want to bother her on her day off, but she should know they were going to be working near the Wiltshire border today where a celebrity had gone missing without trace. Misty Kitson, the very pretty estranged wife of a premier-league footballer had wandered away from a private rehab centre some time after three the previous afternoon. The POLSA officer had set search parameters, superimposing Blue8 software over the local Ordnance Survey map, and the first thing he'd noticed, two miles away from the rehab centre, was a large man-made lake. That was enough for the Underwater Search Unit to be called in. It might turn into one of the sexiest, highest profile cases the unit would ever deal with, but Flea wasn't interested in missing celebrities. Let the team handle it. She had a question for Kaiser. She deleted the message, showered and dressed quickly, got into the car and by nine thirty was heading in the direction of the Mendips.

  But fate wasn't going to let her get away with it that easily. She was halfway down the M5 when the phone on her dashboard rang. She recognized the unit mobile number and for a moment thought about not answering. Then, muttering, 'Fuck fuck fuck,' she hit the answer button. It was one of the unit PCs.

  'What d'you want? I'm on annual. I've told you.'

  He cleared his throat. 'I know, Sarge, but I really think you ought to come down. It's important.'

  'No way. Just 'cause she's a celebrity doesn't make her more important than anyone else. You can deal with it.'

  'It's not about her, Sarge.'

  'Not her? Then who?'

  There was a pause. 'It's Dundas, Sarge.'

  'Dundas?' Dundas was supervising the dive today — he'd never let her down before.

  'Sorry, Sarge,' said the PC. 'He's not talking to us. Think you'd better come over, that's all.'

  And so, swearing under her breath all the way, she reversed her route, coming back up the M5, then the M4 until she was at the search site. Avon and Somerset had picked the case up because the rehab centre, Farleigh Wood Hall, stood deep in the countryside a little to the west of the leafy Wiltshire border. As she arrived, driving slowly past the gate, she could see that the old Palladian building was already heaving with reporters. The rehab centre had brought in a private security firm to deal with them — men in Secret Service headsets and sunglasses wandered the grounds, glaring through the wrought-iron gates at the press.

  She continued down the road for almost two miles, parking next to a hedge. She jammed her feet into her trainers, the laces undone, and set off across the field towards the little kissing gate at the head of the path, flashing her warrant card to the PC at the site entrance.

  Down in the valley the lake was surrounded by staff equipment and cars, the unit's Mercedes van in the middle. No one was in the water but she could tell, from the centrally placed orange buoy, that Dundas had chosen a circular sector search pattern, exactly the pattern she'd have chosen herself with a lake like this: it was round and small enough for a single diver, and although it had weeds it was motionless enough to allow some visibility. But, and this knowledge came to her naturally, the lake didn't contain Misty Kitson's body. No doubt about it. Wherever Misty Kitson was found — sleeping on someone's sofa in a Chelsea pad, or being papped leaving Heathrow for the Caribbean — it certainly wouldn't be in the lake.

  She went through the kissing gate and continued down the path between a rapeseed field and a meadow, searching the figures for Dundas. One of her team was talking to a guy in a suit — she recognized him as a chief inspector from E District. A DCI, not because finding Misty Kitson would be more difficult than finding another misper, but because the press would be all over them and they needed the highest rank possible. As she got close the PC caught sight of her. He broke off, but instead of starting towards her, pointed silently up the hill. She looked to where the field rose in a series of undulating bumps, ending in a small line of trees at the top.

  Just visible against the trees the small figure was instantly recognizable from his red hat. He was walking away from the lake, and there was something oddly sad about the way in which he was moving. She hesitated, then started up the hill.

  'Rich?' she called, as she got closer. 'Rich?'

  She saw him hesitate, then turn to her. She slowed, shocked by the expression on his face. 'Shit,' she muttered, hurrying up the hill, her trainers slapping. 'Rich? What is it?'

  He shook his head as he took a deep breath.

  'What?'

  He looked more ill than she'd ever seen him, and just as she reached out to touch him he sat down on the grass with a thud, as if he was faint.

  'Rich.' She crouched next to him, her arms round his shoulders. 'My God, what's happened?'

  'It's Jonah,' he said at last. 'I just got a phone call from Faith.'

  'Oh, Christ.' Flea patted his back. If there was one thorn in Dundas's side it was his useless sodding son. Always in trouble, always bringing problems to his doorstep. Everyone was fed up with him, including Dundas, who had got to the point of refusing to get involved or bail him out. He'd learned to let Jonah's problems wash over him. But something was different here. 'What's he done this time?'

  'That's just it. It's not "this time". It's not like the others.' Dundas raised his eyes to her and from their red rims she could see he was scared. 'He's gone.'

  'Gone? Gone where?'

  'Faith gave a party for some friends last night. Jonah was supposed to turn up, but he never
did.'

  Flea tipped forward on to her knees and rubbed her legs, feeling awkward. She didn't want to say it, when Dundas was looking so awful, but drug addicts, especially those who were on the game to pay for their habit, well, they weren't the most reliable people. She looked down the hill at the sunlight reflecting off the top of her car. She had to get to Kaiser's.

  'I know what you're thinking,' he said. 'You're thinking that people like him don't turn up to things all the time. And you're right — he's a waster and a piece of shit and not fit for Faith to wipe her feet on and, yes, he's done some terrible things, but when it comes to family he always, always, keeps his promises.'

  Flea stopped rubbing her legs. She always believed Dundas. He had more integrity than anyone else she knew. If he said his son could be relied on, it was true. 'OK,' she said. 'Tell me what happened.'

  'He owed Faith money. Nothing new there, she's soft as shit with him, he always owes her money, but he said he was going to pay her back this morning. He said he had a job that was different, that would pay back everything he owed.'

  'What sort of job?'

  'I don't think it was just another trick.' Dundas swallowed. He was an old copper. He knew the language of prostitution but it had taken him years to get used to using it for his son. 'If it was just another trick he was turning it must have been a spectacular one. He owes Faith nearly eight hundred quid, and you don't make that sort of money in Knowle West. And he'd've called if he was going to be late. He had his phone with him. She's been ringing him all morning but it's switched off. He'd've called if…' He let the word carry across the grass. 'If he could.'

  They sat without speaking, looking out at the sky, at the long field leading away from them and the lake nestling in the grass like a silver coin. About five feet to their right there was a blackened area where someone had made a fire, recent because the smell lingered. No bottles or rubbish, so kids maybe, or someone on the run. There was a tramp in this area, an ex-con the public had monikered the Walking Man, and it made her think about all the people in the world who would have no one to notice if they vanished tomorrow. Lost souls. She turned to Dundas and hugged him. 'Don't worry. It'll be OK.'

  'No,' he said. 'I don't think so. I don't think it will be OK.'

  She stood up and gazed at him, at his big old face, at the way the skin on his neck was red and mottled, permanently sunburned from years of diving. She knew there was no replacing Dad, no such thing as a replacement father, but now she felt so tender towards Dundas she had to fight an overwhelming impulse to hug him again. 'Rich?' she said. 'We're going to do our best.'

  'Yes,' he muttered thickly. 'Yes. Thank you.' There was a long pause, while he seemed to squirm a bit, as if something was coiling through his stomach. 'Thank you.'

  42

  11 May

  Everything Mossy finds out about Skinny's brother is creepy. He never sees the little bastard but he knows he's there — he's seen his fucked-up shadow on the wall. He's smelled him, and heard him. But there's worse: from everything Skinny's said about the way he acts, the things he does, Mossy's come to the conclusion that the brother's deformity doesn't stop at his baboon body: it's got into his brain too.

  It's Mossy's opinion that Skinny has the exact right attitude about the fucked-up business they're in: there's money in human parts. It's taken Mossy a long time to accept it, but now he understands it's the way Skinny has to survive. But his brother has totally the wrong attitude. The brother — and sometimes just thinking about it makes Mossy feel cold in the head — actually believes in the muti. He's never asked if the brother has actually swallowed human blood — or if he's eaten pieces of the skin the two of them trafficked — but he's made guesses.

  Because the brother believes the muti can do more than just cure him. He thinks it can do more than just straighten his spine and unlatch his baboon hands. He thinks it can influence others around him. In the times he's out of the flat, doing whatever weird thing he does out there, the brother has fallen in love. Never slept with her, only seen her at a distance, but it's love. She's a street girl, one of the City Road girls, called Keelie. Mossy knows too well that, of all the bad people in the world you can fall in love with, a street person is the worst — but the brother's got it into his head, Skinny says, that the muti is going to work here, too. It'll stop the girlfriend shagging other men for money.

  Skinny doesn't talk much about it. He tries to pretend it's not happening, but then something forces him to go past all that. One day something starts him sweating.

  It must be the third or fourth day, Mossy's almost sure he's been here three days, and it starts with shouting. He sits up on the sofa and peers into the darkness. The noise seems to be coming from somewhere beyond the gate, maybe from somewhere nearer the cage, and from the echoes he gets a sense of what this place is like, of the labyrinth of rooms. There's the noise of something being thrown against the wall, more shouts, then silence. He waits what seems for ever. Then, just as he's lying back on the sofa, suddenly people are in the corridor jostling, adrenalin and violence in the air, Uncle, maybe someone else. The gate is opened and Skinny is pushed inside. When Uncle has gone and the corridor is dark Mossy leans over and hisses, 'What? What is it?'

  There's a moment of silence, then Skinny skulks over, sits on the threadbare sofa, wraps his arms round his shoulders and gives him this look that says everything's gone wrong.

  'What?'

  Skinny shakes his head and his eyes turn away, staring at the barred cage. It's back to the nightmare, then.

  'Your brother,' Mossy says. 'It's your brother?'

  Skinny nods miserably and wipes his nose with the back of his hand.

  'What then? What the fuck's he done now?'

  He swallows hard as if there's a lump in his throat.

  'What?'

  Skinny puts his hand to his mouth, taps it a couple of times with his thumb. At first Mossy thinks he's doing it to stop himself crying, but then he sees it's a gesture. Skinny does it again and he understands.

  'Drinking?'

  He nods.

  'He's drunk? Uncle caught him?'

  Skinny screws up his face and rubs his fingers hard into his arms. The look on his face is making Mossy's skin crawl.

  'What's he been drinking?'

  And still Skinny can't answer. Mossy knows for sure now that something the brother has done has really chucked the shit at the fan. He can tell from Skinny's face and from the noises out there that Uncle has caught the freak doing something, drinking something he shouldn't. He's getting the words and the ideas straight in his head, and he's about to say it all, when the whole thing dawns on him. It's like having a snake go fast through his belly.

  'Shit,' he says faintly. 'You're fucking joking. You're fucking joking.'

  He gets up slowly, in a daze, because he can't sit here waiting for Jonah a minute longer. This is all too screwed up. He goes to the gate and rattles it.

  'Hey,' he shouts into the little corridor, with the bare light fitting. 'Let me out.' There is silence out there now. The banging and shouting have stopped. He shakes the gate a little harder and the noise echoes through the building. 'Hey!' he yells. 'Come and let me out! I've had enough of you bunch of fucking freaks.'

  'Don't,' Skinny says, from the sofa. 'Don't. You go make him angry.'

  But Mossy doesn't care. He's trying to shake the gate out of its moorings. 'Let me out.' His voice is rising, louder and louder. 'Let me out, you shithead. Let me out.'

  He's trembling because if there's one thing he knows it's that he's not staying in a place with an animal, because that's what Skinny's brother must be, to do what he's done. Drink his blood. There's no need to spell it out. The weird fucker has been into the fridge and drunk the blood, and now there is nothing Mossy won't risk to get out of this place into the sunlight.

  'Come and let me the fuck out!' he screams, throwing himself at the gate. 'Let me out!'

  He's been yelling and rattling the gate for ever
when from the darkness at the end of the corridor there's a sound.

  At first Mossy doesn't notice it, but then he sees a crack of light and his voice dies. There's the sound of nails being pulled from wood. He freezes when a head appears as if from the wall, and suddenly in the corridor Uncle's coming towards him. He's dressed in a blue shirt and pale trousers and this is the closest Mossy has ever got to him. He's wearing black gloves, but the thing that really scares Mossy is that he can see why his head always looks so big. He's wearing a rubber S amp;M mask zipped over his face.

  Mossy lets go of the gate and backs away across the room. Skinny has curled up in the corner.

  'What?' Mossy yells at him. 'What're you looking like that for? What the fuck's he going to-'

  But the lock rattles, the gate opens and, before Mossy can do anything, Uncle is in the room. It all happens so quickly that afterwards Mossy won't remember much. He won't remember whether Skinny helped or what happened, because all he knows is that one minute he's running towards the bathroom and the next he's been thrown back on to the sofa, all the air coming out of his lungs, and someone's on top of him. It's like being picked up by a bull because Uncle is fast and sinewy, and so pissed off you'd think he could rip the walls apart with his bare hands.

  Mossy tries to struggle, but he's winded. He lies on the sofa, gulping air, trying to see, trying to scream. Someone straddles him — he can't see who because there's something across his eyes but he guesses it must be Uncle from the strength. His weight drops on to Mossy's chest and squeezes the air out. He can feel it — feel the sides of his lungs pressing together, and he knows he's gone from alive to nearly dead in a few short seconds.