No, he thought, it almost looks as if something had pushed the thing up from bellow, like Quigley said. But what could have done that?
Clay heard a stir, a small amount of earth shifting. Something glistened in the darkness beneath him, and he stood up and took a step back. He was suddenly aware of being alone, and of the absence of birdsong.
Again, there was movement in the dark, then two bright objects appeared. They were golden-green orbs about six inches apart. Clay bent down to look more closely.
Clay felt an odd crawling sensation, as if something was slithering into his mind. It was repellent and seductive at the same time. He shuddered as a mind that was as cold and inhuman as it was powerful wrapped itself around him, caressed his very soul. A tiny part of him remained unaffected and began to panic. But his body remained frozen, crouching over the dark pit where the huge eyes gleamed.
'I am dying.'
The voice was gentle but insistent. When the words sounded in his head, they drove all other thoughts away.
'For so many seasons I have lain in the dark, a captive. How I longed to return to the world of warmth and light, and revel once more in the delights of all fleshly things.'
Clay felt the being's pain and frustration, its yearning for freedom. It was a huge, monstrous emotion. A single tear rolled down his cheek.
'I need a vessel to carry what remains of my power, to let my essence flourish in the world once more.'
“I will be your vessel,” said Clay, possessed by a desire to be of use.
'No, you will not suffice. Be a loyal messenger instead, and send me another. The young female. She has great energy and will be a worthy avatar.'
Clay felt a pang of rejection at being found unworthy by such a great entity. But he understood his task. Never taking his eyes off the hole, he climbed out of the trench, and was just standing upright again when he felt a sharp stinging sensation in his left calf.
What just happened?
Confusion reigned for a moment in Clay's mind as he rolled up the leg of his jeans. Two small, angry red marks showed on his flesh. But there was no pain anymore, just a vague numbness in his calf.
There are no snakes in Ireland. Everybody knows that.
Trying to ignore the weird sensation in his leg, Clay set off towards the trailers clutching the plaque. His memory of what had just happened was vague, swathed in clouds of confusion. He recalled arguing with the priest. Then he had found the plaque, Quigley had gone away, and after that, Clay had climbed out of the trench.
Why do I get the feeling that there's something else? Something important?
Clay shrugged off the weird sensation. The plaque was the most important thing for him, an artifact that could make his name in archaeological circles. As he left the circle of the Nine Sisters, his heart rate slowed to something near normal, and he found the courage to laugh at himself.
Getting spooked by Quigley's stories. Probably just an insect of some kind. Best get it looked at by the doctor in the village, though.
He was so excited by his find that by the time he got back to their camp he had quite forgotten the insect bites, or whatever they were. The numbness in his leg was oddly comfortable, as if the limb were swaddled in warm cotton wool. And Dermot and Olivia were so excited by the find that he finally set aside his initial reservations about it.
“Ouroboros,” said Olivia, cleaning soil away from the plaque's engraved side with a camel-hair brush. “See? The serpent with its tail in its mouth.”
“No one has ever seen anything like that in Ireland,” said Dermot, eyes wide. “Do you think it was imported, maybe by Phoenician traders?”
“Oh, don't talk bollocks!” snorted Olivia. “It's clearly more Celtic in style than anything else, look at the flowing lines.”
“Let's not speculate too wildly, you two,” cautioned Clay. “The important thing is to get some pictures of the site for provenance. You can do that now Olivia. And we need to inform the lab back in Dublin, tell them to prepare for a major job.”
Olivia and Dermot continued to half-discuss, half-bicker over the plaque. But as he sat opposite the youngsters, Clay found himself increasingly unable to follow what they were saying. The numbness had spread from his leg to his whole lower body.
“I don't feel too well,” he managed to say. His words were slurred, his mouth uncooperative.
“Oh, Jonathan,” exclaimed Olivia. “You do look very pale and tired! All this stress has taken it out of you!”
“You'd better lie down,” said Dermot, helping Clay over to the bottom bunk. “A good rest will see you right.
“I'll go down the village and call the lab,” Dermot said to Olivia.
“Good idea,” she said. “I'll go up to the Sisters and take a few pictures of the actual location.”
No! Don't go up there, thought Clay, but the numbness had developed into an immense tiredness. He heard the two students leave the trailer just before he lapsed into unconsciousness. The sleep that followed was almost dreamless except for a sensation of being constricted. He felt himself wrapped in something like coils of rope but thicker. And alive.
“Jonathan? Can you hear me, Jonathan?”
Clay slowly surfaced into consciousness to see Olivia's smiling face looking down at him.
“Feeling better?” she asked.
“I found the Great One,” she said. “Just as you did. The difference is that you were a little too old to be transformed. Or exalted, maybe that's the better term.”
“Olivia?” he whispered, not understanding.
He tried to sit up, but she put a small hand on his chest and pushed him back onto the bunk.
“Rest,” she said. “And listen up. The Great One is dead, now. She used the last of her strength to imbue us with her spirit. We found her just in time. It must have been fated from the start, don't you think?”
Memories of the being in the trench came flooding back.
The thing clouded my mind, somehow. Hypnotized me into doing its will unconsciously. Doing her will, rather.
“You were bitten, too?” Clay managed to say.
Olivia nodded.
“And the Great One's power, or what remained of it, passed on to me! Isn't that amazing?”
Clay shook his head, confused, still only half-believing what had happened. He noticed from the light streaming into the trailer that the sun had shifted. It was mid-afternoon.
“How long have I been out?” he asked. “Where's Dermot?”
Olivia smiled, shook her head.
“When he came back from the village, I offered him the chance to join us. He refused. Instead he threatened to reveal our secret.”
She stood up and stepped away from the bed. Looking past Olivia, he saw Dermot's body on the floor. His face was contorted in death-agony and two angry red marks showed on his neck.
“When you feel a little better you can help me bury him in the circle. None of the locals will dare dig there. We can report him missing later. A little mystery, and our secret.”
Again, Clay tried to rise. He was angry and afraid. Once more Olivia shoved him back, seemingly without effort. Then she leaned close, her face a few inches from his. Her tongue flickered along her lips.
“Don't fight it, Jonathan,” she said. And now her words echoed in his mind in an insidious, seductive way that was all too familiar. “Just obey me without question. It's so much easier for both of us if you accept your fate.”
“Your eyes,” he managed to say. “They were brown?”
“And now they're green,” she said. “Just one of several wonderful transformations! And there's so much still to come.”
Chapter 4: Bite Marks
After their interview with Detective Sergeant Healy, Brad and Marcus returned to the latter's apartment in Camden. There they found more messages purportedly from Kathy Hopkirk. She claimed that she had thwarted the hacking attempt by Ouroboros and would like to meet up.
“I'm getting a little paranoid,” admitted
Brad. “I mean, you can never be sure of anyone's identity online, right?”
“True enough, so I think this time we should arrange to meet her together, and in a very crowded public place,” said Marcus.
Wednesday morning they entered the huge complex of buildings that was the British Museum. Brad, who had only ever made brief working visits to London before, was surprised to find the original Victorian structure inside a futuristic dome. The original circular building with its famous reading room was in the center of a vast quadrangle with long galleries on all four sides.
“The enormous sci-fi roof protects the museum from our miserable London weather, not to mention the pollution,” explained Marcus, as they threaded their way through the crowd. “Nice and public. Eye witnesses from the four corners of the earth.”
“So where is this cafe we're meeting her at?” asked Brad.
Marcus gestured at a distant corner of the enclosure.
“It's between North America and the Enlightenment,” he replied. “I'm sure there's a joke there somewhere.”
The Court Cafe was thronged with people talking in half a dozen languages, and at first, they saw no one who might be Kathy Hopkirk. Then Marcus drew Brad's attention to a slim young woman standing near the entrance, looking around furtively.
“Could be her,” Brad agreed, and took out the Ouroboros leaflet. He held it so that the cover was clearly visible as they walked over to the young woman. She gave them both a searching stare before she spoke.
“You Kelly's dad?” she asked Brad. “You look a bit like her. Around the eyes.”
Introductions were made, then they debated where to go.
“I'd like to keep walking, where there's crowds,” said Kathy. “Nowhere too quiet.”
They settled for the North American gallery, and were soon ambling through a display of Aztec artifacts. The centerpiece was a beautifully-crafted double-headed serpent, made from turquoise. Seeing Brad looking at it, Kathy gave a thin smile.
“It's hard to get away from them, isn't it? Once you start seeing them, they're everywhere.”
“You have nightmares, too?” asked Brad.
She nodded.
“End of the world stuff, the Earth cracking open? Like an egg hatching?”
“Yeah,” said Brad, “but Kelly is in them, trying to reassure me, somehow.”
Kathy shook her head.
“Mine involve nobody I know,” she said. “Just global disaster. I feel a bit jealous.”
Marcus looked puzzled by the exchange, so Brad explained as best he could the nature of his nightmares.
“I'm normally skeptical about this sort of thing,” said the Englishman, dubiously.
Kathy gave a humorless laugh.
“They rely on that,” she said. “If you don't believe something can happen, you've got no defenses prepared when it does.”
“So what happened to you?” asked Brad.
Kathy looked around quickly. There was nobody nearby. She rolled a sleeve of her hooded jacket, revealing dozens of old scars on her arm before quickly covering them again.
“I never knew my dad. My mum couldn't cope, so I went through a long line of foster families. Nobody wanted me, I was too much trouble. I ended up in a care home. It's an old story. I got into trouble, self-harmed, did some drugs. Other things I'm not proud of to get drugs.”
“And then someone offered you a new start in life?” said Marcus.
She looked at him, gave a mirthless smile. Brad could not help noticing that, even for a Brit, she had very bad teeth.
“Yeah,” said Kathy, “Last spring I was living in a squat down in Whitechapel and trying to avoid some very brutal people when I met a girl my own age, or a bit older. Told me it was the system, exploitation, greed, cruelty. That there was a better way, and people who'd be a real family to me.”
“And you joined Ouroboros?” asked Brad,
“No, I told her to sod off!” exclaimed Kathy, “I'm not a bloody idiot!”
Some people browsing the exhibition turned to look, and Kathy lowered her voice.
“Sorry,” she said. “But it took them weeks to wear me down, they're so persistent. This girl, she called herself Salome, she acted like a big sis, kind of. Putting up with my lip, acting sensible, being kind, buying me burgers and stuff. So one day, when I'd not been fast enough and one of my customers had beaten me up quite badly, I went with her.”
Kathy sniffled, wiped away a tear. Marcus offered a handkerchief.
“Thanks, you're a nice bloke,” she said, blowing her nose. “I couldn't even pronounce Ouroboros then, didn't know anything about it except that it was a kind of religion. They gave me some First Aid, a proper meal, a place to sleep. It was in this nice house up the West End, Knightsbridge I think.”
“Did you see this guy, Clay?” asked Brad.
“Yeah, the Herald, they called him. He was nice, not a perv or anything. Like a kindly old uncle to me and the other girls. But then it got weird. One morning, I found these.”
Kathy fell silent, then she pulled down the top of her shirt. At the base of her neck, just above her collar bone, were two tiny red marks edged in white.
“Mark of the vampire, eh?” she said, with another grin. “But after that I got all confused. I mean, even more than before. I reckon I was hypnotized or something.”
“Brainwashing can feel like hypnosis,” said Marcus. “The principles are much the same. Repetition, loss of self-control.”
Kathy shook her head.
“No, it was more than that. They had ceremonies and stuff, but it was the private meetings with Olivia that really did my head in. We all had to do those, all the novices.”
“Olivia Ballard?” said Brad.
Kathy nodded.
“She's this tall, really beautiful woman, but she's so scary. The way she talks, like she's pretending to be friendly but really, she's mocking you. And her eyes. When I was with her, I never really remembered what she said. I just got all fuzzy.”
“When did you meet Kelly?” asked Brad, unable to hold the question in.
“About a week before I did a runner,” said Kathy. “I didn't talk to her much, but she seemed happy enough. I know the leaders were really excited about her. One of my duties was general cleaning. I wasn't much good at anything else, I suppose. I was outside Clay's office door when I overhead them talking about this new girl, how much potential she had.”
“What sort of potential?” asked Brad. “What did they mean?”
Kathy shrugged.
“Dunno. Then they mentioned me. Olivia said I was too badly-damaged to be a true convert. Because of the drugs and stuff, I suppose she meant. Clay sounded upset by this, but the big bitch kept saying I had to be 'disposed of', that they couldn't let me go. I did a runner right then, just grabbed some cash, and went. I'd heard people talk like that before. Pimps, dealers.”
“You really think they were going to kill you?” asked Marcus, sounding incredulous.
“They killed that bloke in Hyde Park,” she shot back.
“Yes, but how?” asked Brad. “He was crushed to death.”
Kathy shrugged.
“Maybe they've got a trained snake. That would explain those rats.” Seeing the men's bafflement she went on, “Every week, they'd take a delivery of half a dozen white rats in a big cage. They'd be taken upstairs to Olivia's room. And every week, the empty cage would be sent back to the supply firm for another batch. So she must have been keeping one of them big snakes, right?”
***
“Piglets?” said Mickey Garvin, incredulously.
“Live piglets,” corrected Bill Stroud.
“You're making this up,” scoffed Garvin, the younger and more garrulous man.
They were in the bar room of the Lamb and Flag, the only public house in Wychmere. Talk, as it usually did, had turned to the financial problems faced by farmers. Garvin, the local handyman, had asked Stroud, the pig farmer, how things were going. The latter had then revealed
his new sideline.
“So you take a piglet up to Garlock House every week,” said Garvin, “and they pay you fifty quid for it?”
“That's right,” said Stroud. “Cash on the nail. Not a word to the bloody Inland Revenue, either.”
Garvin pondered this a minute, then asked, “But what do they do with them?”
“I don't bloody know!” replied Stroud. “Kill 'em and eat 'em, I suppose.”
“Well, that's downright strange,” mused Garvin. “But I suppose they are from London. Or foreigners, maybe?”
Stroud shrugged.
“I only see the bald bloke, Clay. I drive up in the van, drop off the piglet, he takes it and gives me the money.”
“How many of them live up there, anyway?” asked the landlord, who had been eavesdropping from the other side of the bar.
“No idea,” said Stroud. “I catch glimpses of faces at the windows now and again. And I did see this real peach of a girl a few weeks ago, waiting for Clay when he took the piglet inside. Fine big filly, she was.”
To underline his point, Stroud outlined voluptuous curves in the air.
“Well,” said Garvin, downing the last of his pint and climbing off his bar stool, “I'll soon find out. I'm going up there this afternoon.”
“What for?” demanded the landlord.
“This Clay bloke rang me this morning, wants me to take a look at their central heating boiler,” explained Garvin. “Hope he pays me in cash, too. See you later, fellas!”
“See if you can find out what they do with them piglets,” called Stroud as the handyman left.
An hour later, Garvin was shaking his head as he replaced a panel on a boiler in the cellar of Garlock House.
“Sorry, Mister Clay,” he said, “I can't find anything wrong with it. Apart from it being very old, of course, but I dare say, you don't want to replace it?”
Clay, who had looked on during Garvin's inspection, put his hands together as if in prayer.
The Sign of Ouroboros Page 5