The Disappearance of Anna Popov

by Gabriel Farago

  Jack could hear the chanting well before he reached the rusty door at the end of the tunnel. Faint at first, but growing louder with every step. The door was ajar, its hinges twisted to one side. Jack squeezed through and stopped. The chanting was coming from above. ‘Ka mate, ka mate! Ka ora! Ka ora ...’ Walking slowly up the stairs leading from the tiny strongroom – which was once a family vault – to the crypt above, Jack tried to make sense of the strange chorus. It sounded warlike, threatening, yet strangely familiar. The haka, he thought, that’s it! Just like at the beginning of an All Blacks football game.

  When he reached the top of the stairs and looked into the crypt, he almost tripped over something lying on the floor. He stepped back quickly, only to find himself standing in a pool of blood next to the Undertaker’s twisted body.

  The chanting became louder and more urgent.

  ‘Tenei te tangata puhuruhuru ...’

  As Jack stepped over the body, he saw the backs of six huge men standing in a semicircle in the middle of the crypt. With their arms raised and stamping their feet in rhythmic unison, they chanted at something he couldn’t quite make out. Jack moved a little to one side, and gasped.

  The Wizard teetered on tiptoe on a skull the size of a large watermelon, blood dripping down his naked chest from a gaping wound at the throat. With his hands handcuffed behind his back and his ankles tied together with rope, it seemed an impossible balancing act. What Jack couldn’t see in the gloom was the noose made of fine piano wire around the Wizard’s neck, and the hook in the ceiling to which the wire was attached. The only reason the Wizard wasn’t dead yet was because he was able to support his weight on the skull – just.

  As his eyes became accustomed to the candlelight, Jack noticed that something was trickling out of the eye sockets and the nose of the skull. Looks like sand, he thought. The skull, carved out of wood, was a copy of an ingenious device invented by the Inquisition – a hanging-stool with a sinister twist. Hollow inside, it could be filled with sand from the top. Once it was full, a small round piece of wood could be placed on top like a lid. But the lid was smaller than the opening and as the sand ran out the lid would sink into the skull. The eyes and the nose were blocked by marbles which could be removed to let the sand trickle out, giving the executioner many options. The Wizard stood on a deadly hourglass, suspended between life and death.

  Pigeon

  I saw him move first. Despite the gaping wound in his chest, the Undertaker was still alive! Eyes wide open, he was staring at the gun – tantalisingly close – lying next to him on the floor. Slowly, his fingers began to move forward. Jack stood directly in front of him, mesmerised by the dance of death. It was obvious what was about to happen: the Undertaker was going to shoot the messenger responsible for the disaster. I began to panic ... After all he had done, Jack didn’t deserve this. We had to do something! Once again, Jandamarra came up with the answer. ‘Show yourself; quickly!’ he urged, hovering just above the Undertaker. ‘Now!’ Fortunately, this time I already knew what to do. I floated down until I was almost level with the Undertaker’s face and began to materialise.

  With white stars beginning to dance in front of his eyes and his stiff fingers refusing to obey, the Undertaker was about to give up, when suddenly he could feel it: steel – cold and reassuring – reviving his fingertips. Because it was covered in blood, the gun was slippery and he had to try several times to get a grip on it. Barely able to breathe he closed his eyes, as the strange chanting assaulted his exhausted brain.

  ‘Ka mate, ka mate! Ka ora ...’

  You can do it, he thought, he’s right in front you. Despite life oozing out of the mortal wound, one last bit of strength remained. The Undertaker opened his eyes and raised the gun. Squinting, he took aim ...

  Pigeon

  That’s when I appeared. Just in time. Our faces were so close they almost merged and I saw terror in the Undertaker’s eyes. ‘Pigeon?’ I heard him say, just before the gun went off. Too late, I thought, but fortunately I was wrong. The bullet grazed Jack’s right temple and ripped apart the face of the clown in the Pagliacci portrait before coming to rest in the wall behind it. I had spoilt the Undertaker’s aim!

  Dazed, and with the gun shot still ringing in his ears, Jack spun around. The Bone Scraper standing directly in front of him did the same. Pulling a gun out of his belt the Bone Scraper fired two shots at the Undertaker lying on the floor. Jack looked down and saw the Undertaker’s head being blown away.

  ‘That was close,’ said the Bone Scraper, checking his gun. ‘Let me have a look.’

  ‘It’s nothing, just a scratch.’

  ‘You’re a lucky guy! A little to the left, and ...’ Jack pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and pressed it against his bleeding temple.

  ‘I did warn you,’ said the Bone Scraper.

  ‘You did. Thanks. You saved my life.’

  The Bone Scraper pointed to the Wizard. ‘You gave us this ...’ he said.

  ‘That’s some retribution,’ said Jack quietly.

  ‘He deserves it.’ The Bone Scraper looked anxious: to interrupt the haka was bad luck. ‘You’ve seen it. Now please leave. We have unfinished business here.’ Jack realised this was an order, not a request.

  The Bone Scraper’s radio began to crackle. One of his scouts was reporting in.

  ‘The cops just passed the roundabout,’ announced the Bone Scraper. ‘We have ten minutes.’ Without saying another word, he turned around and began to chant:

  ‘Kikiki kakaka kauana!

  Kei waniwania taku tara

  Kei tarawahia, kei to rua i te kerokero!’

  Careful not to step in the bloody mess, Jack walked around the Undertaker’s body and hurried down the stairs and into the strongroom below.

  ‘Ka mate, ka mate! Ka ora! Ka ora!’ chanted the Warriors behind him.

  With the adrenalin rush ebbing away, elation gave way to panic. Dashing through the tunnel, his head throbbing with pain, Jack had only one thing on his mind: to get away. As he reached the outside, he took a deep breath and wondered if the Wizard was still alive.

  74

  Wolf’s Lair, 9 March, 3 a.m.

  The Bone Scraper was the last to leave. The Sweeper had meticulously removed all traces of any evidence that might implicate the Warriors. This was standard club procedure. There were no fingerprints because everyone wore gloves. Satisfied that no clues had been left behind, the Bone Scraper went to the control room, pushed a CD into the player and turned on the speaker system. Then he hurried back to the crypt and stood in front of his old foe, his tattooed face almost touching the Wizard’s chin. He noticed that the wire had cut deep into the Wizard’s throat, with only the bulk of his huge neck muscles standing between the wire and decapitation.

  ‘You can’t say I’m not giving you a chance, Eugene, which is more than you did for my brother. For once in your wretched life, you’d better hope the cops get here soon. Ironic, isn’t it? But even if they do, which I doubt,’ taunted the Bone Scraper, ‘it won’t make much difference. You’ve lost too much blood,’ he added, walking towards the stairs.

  ‘You wanted a beautiful death – remember? Ars moriendi. This is your chance to show them how it’s done. I’ve kept my side of the bargain. I even turned on some music for you.’ The Bone Scraper took one last look at his former friend. ‘See you in hell.’

  Death was slowly sucking the last sparks of life out of the Wizard’s tortured brain. Drifting in and out of consciousness, his breathing reduced to a wheezing gurgle, he could feel his strength ebbing away with each drop of blood that trickled down his chest. Lucid moments gave way to psychedelic hallucinations and a crazy cocktail of emotions: frustration, anger and hatred changing places with amazement, surprise and disbelief.

  During a flash of clarity, the Wizard thought he could see it all. It was so simple: Cassandra was the cause of his downfall. She had succeeded where others had tried and failed. She had made allies out of his deadliest enemies – firs
t Pigeon, then the Bone Scraper – and had skilfully used Jack as the go-between. To have been defeated by a weak cripple of a woman was not only humiliating, it was unthinkable. But the unthinkable had come to pass. She had even found a way to reach out from beyond the grave! Her precious boy was safe and the Bone Scraper was having the last laugh.

  But hadn’t it all started with Anna?, the Wizard reminded himself. If only he had made her disappear like everyone around him had urged him to do. Things would have been very different. What could have possessed him to ignore something so obvious? That’s when superstition came to the Wizard’s aid. Perhaps it was meant to be, he told himself, feeling better. Once again, fate was being used to excuse failure. It was a convenient deception. Seeing the irony of it all, the Wizard managed a crocked smile. It only lasted for an instant because it let the wire cut deeper into his throat.

  Hovering on the edge of unconsciousness, the Wizard thought he could see the Bone Scraper’s tattooed face sneering at him, and hear his gravelly voice. ‘You brought yourself down, Eugene,’ he heard him say. ‘You are to blame, no one else. You let Cassandra in. She was the Trojan horse ...’

  Then he heard laughter echoing through the empty crypt, but it wasn’t the Bone Scraper laughing at him – he had already left – but Pagliaccio, the clown.

  As the Warriors got on their bikes under the bridge, three black unmarked four-wheel drive vehicles pulled up in front of the church a little further down the road. Within minutes the SWAT team had broken down the door. Moving systematically from room to room, the masked commandoes began to secure the compound.

  Andrew made eye contact with the team leader. ‘Can you hear that? What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Sounds like music,’ replied his friend and former colleague. ‘How weird. Where’s it coming from?’

  ‘Downstairs.’

  ‘Let’s have a look.’

  ‘Jesus, what a mess,’ said Andrew, almost falling over the Undertaker’s bloody corpse.

  ‘Shit! Look at that!’ Andrew pointed to the Wizard. ‘Someone likes him even less than we do.’

  Three commandoes were already inside, searching the crypt. ‘This one’s still alive,’ one of them said.

  Andrew walked over to the Wizard.

  ‘Hello, Eugene, remember me?’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll tell your lawyer that you won’t say anything until he gets here. Okay? Which means of course that you can’t tell us who did this. Pity. We’ll just wait for the legal eagles then.’

  ‘Cut him down!’ shouted the team leader. Andrew took him aside.

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ he said quietly. ‘He’s almost gone ... If something goes wrong, you’ll get the blame. This way – case solved, book closed – you’ll probably get promoted. The wolves have devoured each other. That’s what happened here.’

  Remembering what was at stake, the team leader nodded. ‘You’re right,’ he said.

  ‘Inside job?’ asked Andrew, changing direction.

  ‘What else? Forensics will have an interesting day.’

  ‘Trying to piece this together? Good luck! But Jesus – look at him! Someone went to a lot of trouble. Looks carefully orchestrated. Ritualistic.’

  ‘Bondage with a deadly twist?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Andrew was wondering what part Jack had played in all of this.

  Considering the timing, he must have been right in the thick of it all. And he certainly couldn’t have been alone. Andrew didn’t believe in coincidences, but with the Wizard conveniently dead, no one would ask too many questions.

  ‘You live with one foot in hell,’ he mused, ‘the devil is bound to get you.’

  ‘He had it coming ...’

  ‘For a long time,’ said Andrew, watching the last of the sand trickle out of the skull’s gaping jaw. ‘Isn’t that right, Eugene?’ he added quietly. ‘Lovely music. Nice touch.’

  But the Wizard was already beyond hearing – the wire had just cut through his neck. His massive body crashed to the floor in silent reply. Andrew looked up at the grotesque head left dangling from the ceiling.

  ‘I think the devil just got him,’ he said to his friend. ‘It’s over.’

  Pigeon

  Jandamarra and I were right there when the Wizard died. It was an eerie moment, even for sprits like us. Something dark and evil swept through the crypt and claimed his soul. Anna was safe at last – our work was done. It was time to return to Djumbud, our spirit country. As we floated north across this ancient land we loved so much, a tremendous sense of peace descended on us both and everything became clear. Restless spirits no more, we were going home.

  75

  Bleak House, 9 March, 4:30 a.m.

  Feeling nauseous and dizzy, Jack found it difficult to focus and keep the heavy bike on the road. Thankfully, there was very little traffic at four in the morning. Andrew had arranged a police car to take Rebecca to Bleak House to be with Tristan, and Jack was anxious to see the boy. He found the house almost by accident and pulled up in front of the old fountain. Looking up at what used to be Tristan’s room, he could see light.

  The events of the past few hours had become a blur, the pain hammering away inside his head a reminder of the horror he had witnessed in the crypt. His two phone calls had unleashed a sequence of events with a deadly momentum of their own. Jack felt like a messenger of doom who had delivered the missing script for a macabre play, only to find himself centre stage with a leading part. With the gunshot wound to his head still bleeding, he walked to the front door and pressed the bell.

  Must have been more than just a scratch, he thought, running his fingers gingerly down the side of his face. When he looked at his hand, it was covered in blood.

  ‘What happened to you?’ asked the nurse, opening the front door.

  ‘A little accident,’ said Jack, giving her his best smile. ‘Came off the bike.’

  ‘You’re here to see Tristan, yes?’ Jack nodded.

  ‘Let me have a look. I’ll clean it up for you – come.’ Jack followed her into the kitchen. ‘Everyone’s coming to see him. We called the specialist straight away. He’s with him now,’ the nurse rambled on. ‘He can’t believe it either. Hold still; nasty gash.’

  I’m missing something here, thought Jack. ‘The specialist? At this hour? Why?’ he asked.

  ‘To come out of a coma after all these years ... just like that. Well, we don’t see that every day, do we? There, you’re almost done.’

  Walking slowly up the stairs, Jack heard muted voices. He stopped at the landing and looked down the dimly lit corridor: Rebecca was talking to a female police officer in front of Tristan’s room. The door to the room was closed. Turning around, Rebecca saw Jack and hurried towards him. Silently, she put her arms around him and gave him a gentle hug.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she whispered, ‘I was so scared. Look at yourself. Been in a war?’

  ‘Worse. The edge of hell, and I looked inside ...’

  ‘What did you see?’

  ‘One day I may tell you.’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘Yes. What’s going on here?’

  ‘Tristan woke up.’

  ‘Cassandra was right. When?’

  ‘About an hour ago. The doctor’s with him now.’

  Jack nodded.

  ‘You don’t seem surprised.’

  ‘After what I’ve just seen, there are no surprises left. The Wizard’s dead,’ Jack said quietly. ‘That’s why the boy came out of the coma. Cassandra knew ...’

  ‘What happened to your head?’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘Sure. Are you going to tell me about it?’

  Jack shook his head.

  ‘I think you need some rest,’ said Rebecca, a worried look on her face. ‘Let’s go home.’

  ‘I have to see Tristan first. After all that’s happened ...’ said Jack just as the door to Tristan’s room opened.

  ‘You can go in now,’ said the doctor. ‘You’re relativ
es?’

  ‘Of a kind,’ said Jack. ‘How is he?’

  ‘Remarkably well. I haven’t seen anything quite like it. But then, the human mind is full of surprises,’ replied the doctor. ‘The more we learn about it, the less we seem to know. Go and talk to him a little. He’s weak, but the stimulation will do him good. I’ll be back in the morning to assess him further.’

  Quietly, Jack opened the door and walked towards the bed by the window. Rebecca watched from the door. It was Jack’s turn to meet Tristan. Without the life support apparatus and all its paraphernalia everything looked different, but the boy sitting up in bed in no way resembled the breathing corpse Jack had visited with Cassandra only a short time ago.

  The first thing he noticed were the boy’s eyes: dark, shiny pools radiating curiosity and intelligence. His black hair, neatly parted, framed a handsome face. He’s got his mother’s eyes, thought Jack.

  ‘Hello, Tristan,’ he said, coming closer. ‘I’m Jack.’

  Tristan continued to look calmly at his visitor, but didn’t say anything. Jack held his gaze. We’ll have to tell him she’s dead, he thought. That’ll be tough.

  ‘You can tell me now,’ said Tristan, his voice soft and strangely comforting.

  ‘What?’ asked Jack, taken aback.

  ‘My mother’s dead, isn’t she?’ said Tristan.

  Jack looked away, feeling suddenly cold. How does he know? he asked himself, his mind racing. What am I going to say? He deserves the truth.

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Jack, biting his lip.

  ‘You just told me.’

  ‘But I didn’t say anything ...’

  ‘You didn’t have to.’

  ‘I don’t understand ...’

  ‘But she does,’ said Tristan, pointing to Rebecca standing at the door. ‘Thank you for being honest with me. It’s a good beginning,’ he added quietly after a while and closed his eyes. ‘Please go now, I need to be alone.’

  ‘What did you make of that?’ asked Jack, walking down the corridor with Rebecca. ‘Amazing kid.’

  Remembering her conversation with Cassandra in Andrew’s kitchen in Alice Springs, Rebecca stopped. ‘He has the gift, just like his mother,’ she said.