by Des Sheridan
Looking downwards he saw a great rotating spiral, whose dark rings were already rising to form walls about him. He moved into the eye of the spiral, a dark hole, emitting billowing clouds of smoke and a harsh smell of burning rubber. Occasional flashes of light sparked ahead of him – cut electric wires dangling free, throwing out showers of sparks. He moved effortlessly, as though floating, towards two figures crouched in a corner. One turned to look at him and he saw that it was Malachy again, his eyes again scintillating in the dark. The Deacon turned towards his companion. Robert’s eyes followed the man’s gaze. In the darkness, her face and hair smudged with dirt and blood, her body crushed under a mangled mess of twisted steel debris, lay Robert’s deceased wife Sarah. And Robert saw at once that her form was a bent and lifeless shell.
Moving instinctively towards her, he paused when he felt someone approach him. Sarah’s living, breathing presence enveloped him, the smell of the fragrance that she always wore assailing his nostrils. Then he saw she her standing there, beside him, undamaged in appearance and alive, smiling in delight at seeing him. She cupped his face in her hands, and her cool touch soothed his skin like balm. Despite the passage of the years, he heard again her voice, crystal clear and unmistakable, and saw in her eyes her love for him.
‘Robert, you shouldn’t be here, you are in the wrong place. Don’t worry about me. I went with our friend who came to help me on my way. That is what he does. He comes to help people. And he will help you find the child and the woman. They need you now Robert, not me. So stop drinking and don’t give up – seek and you will find them! Promise me!’
At that moment Malachy touched his arm and turning to look, he saw the purple blue eyes land upon him. In a flash Robert felt the peace he had experienced at La Romieu surge through him again. Then Malachy spoke. Robert couldn’t quite catch the words but Malachy repeated them several times. The phrase sounded like Pergay in Feeday. Pergay in Feeday. It was the last thing remembered before he lost consciousness.
Part IV: The Breton
Chapter 38
Essé, France, 26 October 2014
Kirsten had a surprise in store for Pascal when he and Freya arrived at the hunting lodge in Essé. She had an accessory - the man called Morten - in tow. She was pleased to see Pascal bridle on discovering she had a male Norwegian companion. That was part of her intended revenge on him and she had her story pat.
‘But Pascal he is just what we need. He is the up and coming demi-monde theatre director in Berlin. Wait ‘til you see the video streams from his Black Metal phase. This guy really knows how to put on a show.’
She watched Pascal’s face carefully as he looked across at Morten who was sitting across the large salon on a sofa, watching the plasma TV. The Norwegian was a reach above six feet tall, of slim build, with long, unkempt, unwashed brown hair although he claimed it was scrupulously clean thanks to the work of natural oils. His dark black trousers and sweatshirt hung loosely on his frame as though he had malnutrition but she found that attractive. It complemented his unusually long cock. Sex with him was like being made love to by a stick insect and that turned her on. She and Pascal had an open relationship because, with the unusual appetites which they both indulged, it would be impossible not to. But Kirsten knew that Pascal could still on occasions feel proprietorial about her and she was watching his face for signs that this was one such moment. She was thrilled to see his eyes narrow with what she judged to be jealousy. However if her interpretation was right he quickly recovered.
‘Show me the pictures then, Kirsten,’ he said, with affected weary resignation.
Kirsten was mollified. He was yielding and showing her some respect. She wanted to get her revenge but was not greedy. What she was really desperate for was social acceptance, longing in particular for the cachet of the Waverin-Looz name. Periodically she would try to cajole Pascal into saying he would marry her, but so far without success and she had to be careful. She knew that once Pascal sensed a weakness, a need or aspiration, he would likely seize upon it, toy with it sadistically and exploit it. She was no fool and knew that her need for short-term revenge had to be balanced against her long-term interests.
She booted up her laptop. The pictures and video clips were very good - the usual awful soundtrack and gothic horror of Norwegian Black Metal bands, but with a streak of something truly original and hideous in the choreography. But she needed to persuade Pascal and Freya of this.
‘We need to put on a show for your people, Pascal, they are coming a long way,’ Kirsten said, before adding carefully, ‘while respecting the solemnity of the occasion, of course.’
Pascal’s eyes were upon her. She could feel him looking at her, into her, desiring her and loathing Morten. Absence had made his lust burgeon, she noted with satisfaction. Pascal said,
‘Perhaps you are right, Kirsten, tell me more. What have you got in mind?’
‘He would be perfect for Cernunnos. Look at this shot. Freya, don’t you think so?’
She pointed to the laptop screen, drawing Freya into the discussion. Freya rose to the bait.
‘He looks so sexy dressed up like that, makes me want him inside me now,’ Freya laughed.
Kirsten felt revolted by Freya’s cackle and her predatory glance at Morten but the woman wasn’t quite finished.
‘Only when you are ready to share, of course, Kirsten,’
Kirsten forced a smile. Their eyes locked like cats.
‘No problem at all, Freya, be my guest.’
Kirsten felt hatred towards the Chinese bitch coursing through her veins. Poor Morten, she thought, will soon have to look at that face while fucking. Freya had a body to rival Kirsten’s but her face was old and simian, etched deeply all over with furrows and creases that extended down her neck, revealing her age. No one knew for sure how old she was exactly but she was certainly well into her seventies. Her face reminded Kirsten of the faces of shrivelled, petrified mummies from high in the Andes that she had seen in a TV documentary. But Kirsten knew not to underestimate Freya. She would have to bide her time and wreak her revenge cold on the old witch.
Pascal, his interest stimulated, was busy flicking through the images on screen.
‘Well, well...I see what you mean, Kirsten. Yes, he’s good, very good. Let’s do it. But it needs integrating with the rest of the ritual. Let’s run through that now.’
The three of them went through the running order, with Freya, who was in charge of mise-en-scène, adjusting detail here and adding flourishes there. When they reach the denouement, Pascal intervened.
‘Look, Freya, here at this point, I want our guest in that role.’
Kirsten looked at him in astonishment, interrupting, ‘What do you mean? Which guest?’
‘The Irish woman, Ruane’
‘But she is not a member of the circle and I assumed that I, as your consort...’
‘Kirsten, it’s a change of plan. She is perfect for the role of the Mórríoghain. Then we have the triple Goddess! The child is the maiden, Ruane is – or soon will be - the mother and Freya is the crone.’ He laughed at his cruel quip and even Freya, the butt of his comment, joined in.
Kirsten laughed too, but didn’t quite manage to carry it off. Pascal must have seen the pain he had just inflicted flicker across her eyes for he moved swiftly to soften the blow.
‘Kirsten, in real life you are my consort. But for this purpose, this one occasion, this little bit of theatre, the Irish bitch is the better choice. We know that she has the gift of Seeing and therefore her genes carry that power.’
Kirsten nodded her head and, with a great effort, managed to allow her face to retain its natural smiling posture, although inwardly she was wracked. Somehow she must have carried it off for Pascal seemed satisfied and the discussion moved on.
But leaving the room, fifteen tortured minutes later, bitter salt tears pricked at the corners of Kirsten’s eyes. The bastard was relegating her and would humiliate her in public
in front of the entire group! He was going to mate with that Irish whore in public and breed from her. It was an intolerable insult! This time he went too far. She would teach him about where power really lay, with womankind. That was what the Mórríoghain stood for, as Astrid had explained.
Chapter 39
Buedon, France, 27 October 2014
Nico entered the kitchen but only Robert was there. Janet was evidently already up and about, busy with chores. She seemed to rise at dawn, as far, as Nico could make out, but there was no sign of her at the moment.
‘You look like shit,’ Nico observed critically to Robert. ‘Another empty bottle I see. That really helps us all, doesn’t it?’ he added confrontationally.
‘Funny you should say that - do you think there could be a link?’ Robert deadpanned.
Nico ignored the quip. ‘Did you get any sleep?’
‘A little, but it’s not lack of sleep that is the problem.’
‘Tell me what is then.’
‘I might, but I don’t need more hectoring from you,’ Robert replied defensively.
‘Please yourself, Roberto. You know me. I speak my mind,’
Robert told Nico anyway. He recounted his strange nightmare, taking it slowly as though that helped him to recall the details. It took quite a while during which Nico had to admit that curiosity was getting the better of his determined frostiness.
‘It’s a classic stress response,’ was his first comment. ‘All your anxieties are coming out through the sub-conscious. Your body is telling you that you need rest and medication, Robert – starting today.’
Robert groaned and snapped back,
‘Gosh it’s that simple, is it, Nico? Everything reduced to factoids. Rationalised, sorted out, boxed-off. I thought you bloody Italians were meant to have emotional intelligence. Ever heard of that Verdi chap? What went wrong with you?’
Nico laughed.
‘I am an emotional Italian, you know that perfectly well. Just think of the Puttanesca sauce I make! Pure passione! But like you, I am well trained as a soldier to think things through.’
‘And you are wrong this time, Nico. Sit down and I will explain why.’
Nico was pleased they were speaking again. ‘OK, but hold on – I need strong coffee for this!’
Nico made a cafetière of fresh Kenyan and brought it over to the table with two coffee cups. He sat down opposite Robert as his friend resumed talking.
‘Now – listen without prejudice please! Tara had two dreams and her descriptions show strong similarities with the dream I had last night. Hers were extraordinarily powerful and frightening. So was mine. In addition, they were visually and acoustically vivid and featured strong smells– so did mine. Lastly, they had very strong images of places and people. This fits my dream too.’
‘OK, but nightmares often are just like that. I understood Tara’s dreams to be communications from some historical person, a bishop?’
Robert nodded.
‘But he wasn’t in your dream? So what was the point of it?’
‘I don’t know, but we need to research the images – the wavy cross, the spooky tomb. I don’t know why the bishop wasn’t in the dream. Instead Malachy was, transformed into some X-Men sort of character. By the way I want to try and contact him. After all, he has the Rosnaree Triskell. We gave it to him for safekeeping. Ask yourself where he is now and where the Triskell is. My bet is both of them are in France already. Malachy will be bringing it to Tara.’
Nico said, ‘OK, that is an interesting deduction. And the weird figure? Where does he fit in? He sounds like he dropped in from central casting for Hellraiser.’
Robert spluttered over his coffee, laughing.
Nico continued, ‘Well, I think it is – how you say? – a load of testicoli! But what harm? Let’s research these clues. At least we will get the dream out of your system. I will ask Alain and his colleagues. Some of this may mean something to them. You know, some sort of local significance. But Brittany is crawling with megalithic tombs and monuments. It will be like looking for needle in bloody hayrack.’
Again Robert laughed at Nico’s doomed effort to command the nuances of the English language and Nico had to smile. He was starting to forgive his boozy friend. Robert clearly wanted action and was responding positively to his predicament – managing the stress, retaking control where he could. This much was good.
Nico kept other observations private. He rated the chances of Tara and Aoife surviving as very slim. And he was wondering how to look after Robert when that eventuality transpired. The fact that Sarah had featured so prominently in the dream was not reassuring to him. It suggested that Robert’s brain was starting to unravel, ghosts from the past resurfacing.
For his part Nico hoped to have news later in the day. He knew that they could use any intelligence garnered about their enemy, to take the battle to them, rather than just waiting for a further attack. So he had launched a blitz of information-gathering focussed on their adversaries. He hadn’t expected to get much information back quickly but he had already received an e-mail from Mac in Ireland. The kidnappers had contacted Niamh and asked for Tara’s mobile number. In desperation she had given it. He shared the news with Robert. This was not what Robert wanted to hear but it confirmed their conjecture: Tara had gone to meet Pascal.
‘It is time, Robert, as I said before, to contact the authorities – the police. We can’t go on alone. We need to tap into their resources.’
‘No!’ shouted Robert. ‘The Special Branch in Ireland helped Pascal find Shay. Teresa told me. It is too dangerous.’
‘You are wrong, Roberto. We have no choice. You must do it. Talk to Teresa at least.’
Chapter 40
Sligo, Ireland, 27 October 2014
‘Ah! Mr Grainger, speak of the devil! I have been half expecting you to call. You do realise that half the gendarmerie of France is looking for you? I hear they are checking out every hotel.’
‘Don’t worry, Detective Inspector. I’m not planning to check into any.’
The ex-soldier’s equable tone rolled down the mobile connection to her ears.
‘I see. Well that might be for the best’, Teresa Flanagan chuckled. ‘And may I ask are you calling from France?’
‘Yes, from Brittany.’
‘Still in Brittany, well, well, isn’t that risky?’
‘Maybe, but the trail hasn’t led elsewhere yet. What about you?’
‘Major traffic this week on the case. Lit up like a Roman Candle after months of nothing. Grassroots intelligence about the child, Aoife, and something about a smiling woman. And then a call from MI6, about Arundel. Would that make any sense to you?’
‘Perfect sense unfortunately, although we haven’t got as far, geographically speaking at least, as Arundel. Must be the opposition, unfortunately.’
‘Not unfortunate for everyone. This time there was a survivor. Good descriptions from him but no names. But let’s be serious, Mr Grainger, when are you and Miss Ruane going to accept some responsibility for these deaths and stop running around the place like a re-run of the Da Vinci Code? How can Miss Ruane keep going when her niece’s life is at stake? No money can justify this, and no kudos – surely to God you have enough artefacts already at Rosnaree? You know they are saying it could be worth £10m a year to the local economy?’
‘You realise that was four questions?’
He was a cool customer, she thought, given his circumstances.
‘I’m Irish, it’s a linguistic mannerism. Answer in any order that suits.’
‘This is not about money or artefacts for their own sake.’
His response was direct and somehow she believed it.
‘I am relieved to hear that – seriously. What is it about then?’
‘I can’t tell you that right now’.
Teresa chewed this over. ‘Some might take that to imply that the artefact has functionality?’
‘Correct. Got it
in one.’
‘And that might be? This is sounding very farfetched’.
‘I can’t tell you that. You wouldn’t believe it anyway.’
‘Most helpful of you.’
Her sarcasm was heavy, but she was not about to be fended off. She moved down her list of questions.
‘As you are chasing around Europe for this thing, does that mean it is in parts that are dispersed?’
‘Bright girl. Go to the top of the class.’
She wasn’t totally sure that she liked the barbed wit. But then again this man was in big trouble and under appalling pressure. She moved her Queen.
‘So what is it you want me to do?’
The reply when it came was characteristically direct and uncompromising.
‘Be ready to help me.’
‘Look, you should go to the French police...’
Robert’s voice interrupted her angrily, dropping his sang froid.
‘That is a completely fucking ridiculous suggestion, Teresa, and you know it. Look – it is simple – do you want in or not? If you want in there are rules. First no plods and second everything is sub rosa. Nothing official ever. Do you understand?
‘I hear what you are saying. Not asking for much are you Mr Grainger?’
‘The stakes are high. And call me Robert.’
‘Meaning what exactly?’
‘Meaning that’s my name,’ he quipped.
‘Ah! Such wit! I was referring to the stakes.’
There was a pause. He didn’t trust her, she reckoned, and was deciding how much to give away.
‘I meant the child. I have a lead. But there is more than that. Tara has gone missing – with the artefact.’
Teresa drew her breath in sharply and couldn’t help blurting, ‘Oh my God! Is she mad?’
‘No, Detective, she is desperate.’
This was it, Teresa realised. She hadn’t been sure where this was case was going but now she knew she had reached her Rubicon. For years she had played safe in her job. She had to – it was a man’s world and she knew most of her colleagues didn’t want her there. She didn’t fit into their chummy male, sexist world. So she only survived by being a lot better than them and not rocking the boat. She even went to the lengths of affecting dowdy clothes to look less threatening. But today felt different. She wanted to help these people – it was a personal choice.