The Sign of Ouroboros

by David Longhorn

  “Where are you now?” he asked.

  “The big house,” she said. “The big house in my dreams.”

  Marcus was about to ask another question when Kathy went on, “I'm in the village, at the shop. No, in the pub. No, I'm on a farm, working.”

  Kathy continued to describe a series of different people engaged in different tasks; dozens in all. Puzzled, Marcus sat back, wondering how to proceed.

  Is she just fantasizing? he wondered. Or could it be some kind of multiple personality disorder? Or something else?

  “What are you doing at this moment, Kathy?”

  “Pulling pints,” she replied, her voice expressionless. “Mucking out the pigs. Watching telly. Lots of things.”

  “You can't do all those things at once,” Marcus said, then bit his lip. The trite words had come out before he could stop himself.

  “We're in lots of places at once,” she said, and for the first time she smiled. “All through the village, all across the parish. We are the people now.”

  Baffled, Marcus changed tack.

  “Are you all in Wychmere?”

  She nodded, her face, once more, expressionless.

  “Why are you there? What are you planning to do? What is going to happen?”

  Kathy tilted her head to one side, and seemed to ponder.

  “We're going to bring the Old One back,” she said, hesitantly, as if trying to recall something only half-remembered. “The lines, the lines that feed the circle will awaken her. Then she will be made flesh again, and all will be filled with wonder and awe.”

  “What lines?” asked Marcus. “How will the Old One be made flesh?”

  Kathy's face suddenly twisted in pain.

  “No, she's found me again! I can feel her in my mind! She's too strong.”

  “Kathy,” said Marcus firmly, “wake up now. Open your eyes.

  The young woman's eyes opened. Marcus reeled back in his chair, putting up a hand in instinctive revulsion. Kathy's eyes were yellow, the pupils vertical slits.

  “Your second warning, Marcus,” she said, in a voice far louder and deeper than before. “There won't be a third.”

  The young woman's back arched, her eyes closed again. Marcus rushed over as Kathy's body went limp and she began to slide off the sofa. He tried to make her comfortable and checked that she had not swallowed her tongue, then got his phone. But before he could make the call, she was awake again. This time her eyes were normal.

  “Hey, I told you no doctors, no police, none of that,” she said muzzily, trying to stand up.

  “You need the kind of help I can't give you,” he argued, hesitating. “At least think about it.”

  “What happened?” she asked. “And where's that booze you promised?”

  Rather than risk her running out on him, Marcus put the phone down, then got a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

  “Come on, spill the beans,” she said as he poured out the Scotch. “What did I say?”

  Marcus replayed the digital recording of the session.

  “Bloody hell,” she said, after taking a gulp of Scotch. “I sound, well, bonkers.”

  Marcus realized she was putting a brave face on a disturbing experience.

  “You did say one thing that might be very significant.”

  He stood up and, after searching for a few moments, took a book from an unsteady heap piled in the corner by his desk.

  “I was re-reading this a while ago,” said Marcus. He handed her a battered paperback with the title The Old Straight Track.

  Kathy looked at the volume dubiously.

  “A book about roads by a bloke called Watkins?”

  “Not exactly,” said Marcus. “It's a highly speculative work about prehistoric sites and the links between them. It dates from the 1920s. The author was condemned for his unscientific approach and is almost forgotten, but I've always felt he had a point.”

  “So what's it about, then?” she asked, flipping through the book, pausing to peer at illustrations.

  “Ever heard of ley lines?” he asked. When Kathy shook her head he went on, “The idea is that mystical lines of paranormal energy run across country and converge at sacred sites.”

  “Like Stonehenge?” said Kathy.

  “Among many other places, yes,” explained Marcus. “Watkins thought our ancestors laid out a network across the whole island thousands of years ago. But traces were obscured when the old pagan religion died out.”

  “And Wychmere is part of this network?” she asked, flicking through the dog-eared pages.

  “Not just part of it, but a very important focal point,” said Marcus.

  He turned to his computer and opened a file. It showed red lines spread out across England and Wales, intersecting at a few dozen places.

  “Now, if we just look at the lines that intersect at Wychmere,” said Marcus, clicking with the mouse.

  Dozens of red lines radiated from a single point near the Welsh border.

  “Okay, there are lots of these magic lines,” said Kathy. “But what does it mean?”

  Marcus shrugged.

  “Maybe nothing, but 'the lines that feed the circle' is what you said. It could mean that energy, in some form, is being channeled into Wychmere and that the cult intend to tap it somehow.”

  “And revive this Old One? How?”

  Marcus shrugged.

  “I think they've already failed once, bungled the job at Hampton Round in Sussex. Not surprising, as they're trying to revive a spiritual power that's been dormant for thousands of years.”

  “So they hope it'll be second time lucky?” Kathy asked. “And then what? I never did understand that bit. Maybe I'm not very bright.”

  “Perhaps they don't know themselves,” suggested Marcus. “It could be that they're all being used, Clay, Olivia, all of the cult. While they think they're manipulating others.”

  Kathy stared into her whiskey glass.

  “Don't want to sound selfish or anything,” she said, “but I'd be happy to forget all this stuff and try to get on with my life. But that's not an option, is it? They've got their hooks into me. Or their fangs.”

  Marcus felt uncomfortable, unsure how to respond.

  “I think that if we can thwart their plans,” he said, “there's a good chance whatever influence they have over you could disappear.”

  “A good chance, eh? Not very reassuring,” Kathy laughed. “Is this a clever way to get me to fight the good fight?”

  “You're the only person who's been part of Ouroboros and escaped, went your own way,” he pointed out. “That means you beat them. And I need all the help I can get, as at the moment I've no idea how to do it.”

  Kathy shrugged.

  “Okay, Mister Valentine,” she said, “I'll think about it. Anything that keeps those bastards from crawling around in my brain is worth a try.”

  ***

  Declan Healy returned to his office at New Scotland Yard to find a backlog of internal emails and plenty of paperwork. He struggled to focus on normal police bureaucracy for the rest of the afternoon as he pondered what he had heard from the old priest. Eventually, he opened his file on Deputy Commissioner Faversham and added a few thoughts.

  'Ouroboros – cultists capable of hypnosis? Questionable, never known it was used by criminals. Drugs? Father Q. - not reliable, mental issues. But could be core of truth somewhere.'

  Healy thought back to the house in Berkeley Square, and the mysterious Cleo. He had no resources to put any kind of surveillance on the house. He had no surname or other details to try and identify Cleo.

  “Probably not her real name,” he said to himself.

  On impulse, he called the RSPCA to find that the animal welfare charity had recovered the hamsters from the premises.

  “We're looking for people to take them as pets, might you be interested?” asked a bright young volunteer.

  “No thanks, we have a cat,” replied Healy. “But when your people were at the house, did they find
anything else? Signs of anyone living there, for instance?”

  “No,” replied the charity worker, “they said the place was deserted. Though it was strange that someone had been keeping the hamsters fed and watered. They had fresh lettuce, apparently.”

  There was a knock at the office door and Healy quickly thanked the woman and hung up.

  “Come in!” he shouted, and Knapton entered, closing the door behind him.

  “Oh, it's you,” said Healy., “We need a special knock if we're going to do this cloak and dagger stuff.”

  “Yes, boss,” said Knapton. “I just wanted to tell you I've been reassigned for a couple of days.”

  “What?” exclaimed Healy. “Why?”

  “Some sort of training course,” explained Knapton. “It's called 'Improving Community Awareness,' whatever that means.”

  Healy sighed, and rolled his eyes in resignation.

  “We've never been so highly trained. It's amazing that any criminals can avoid capture, really.”

  “Yes, boss,” said Knapton. “So I won't be back until Monday.”

  “I'll struggle to survive without your help, Constable,” said Healy. “But we all have our crosses to bear. Is it time for coffee yet?”

  “Always time for coffee, boss,” came the response, as Knapton left, grinning.

  Healy was about to return to routine form-filling, when a thought struck him. He logged on to the police intranet and checked training courses for his section. Sure enough, Knapton's course was listed and everything seemed above board.

  But still, thought Healy. Old Quigley said there was a conspiracy. Whispers in corridors and all that. What if this is part of it? Taking away my only ally?

  “Got some cupcakes, boss,” said Knapton, returning with a tray. “One of the admin ladies has been baking again.”

  “Great,” said Healy.

  The detective picked up a cupcake, sniffed it. It was chocolate flavored, decorated with pink icing and multi-colored.

  “Knapton,” he went on, “suppose this apparently innocent cupcake was spiked with a powerful hallucinogenic drug that would make me putty in the hands of an evil conspiracy?”

  “Not very likely, sir,” replied Knapton. “I've had Mina's cakes before, she's quite traditional with ingredients.”

  Healy took a bite of the cake, and paused for a few moments.

  “You're right,” he said, “no ill effects. The point is, once you get paranoid you can't trust anyone or anything.”

  “Very true, sir,” said Knapton, taking a bite of his own cake as he leaned on his superior's desk. “Of course, just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get you.”

  “Exactly. So when you go for this training course,” Healy said, “watch your back. And whatever you do, don't end up alone with a naked woman.”

  “I'll do my level best,” replied Knapton, with a grin.

  Chapter 9: Encounters and Deceptions

  Brad arrived in the city of Hereford late on Thursday afternoon. After navigating the typical maze of confusing streets, he found his hotel and checked in. For the last few miles, he had lost sight of the silver Lexus. But he felt sure that she, and her fellow cultists, knew where he was staying.

  He was in the middle of unpacking when his phone rang. He glanced at the screen, then stared. It was apparently a call from Kelly's number.

  “Hello?” he said, not really believing his daughter wanted to speak to him.

  “Dad?”

  “Kelly? That really you?”

  “Large as life. Look out the window.”

  Not understanding, he looked out at the roof-scape of the ancient city. Then he looked down and he saw Kelly, across the street. She had a phone in one hand while she waved up at him with the other. She looked like her usual self. She was even smiling.

  “I'm coming over, meet you in the lobby,” Kelly said, and ended the call.

  Brad watched her looking for a gap in the traffic.

  Don't just stand there, you idiot, he thought.

  Brad was halfway down the stairs when he wondered if it might be some sort of trick. He slowed his descent, trying to work out how Kelly's presence could be used against him. Then he caught sight of her standing in the small lobby, talking to the receptionist.

  “Here he is now,” she said, nodding towards Brad.

  Kelly walked over to Brad and hugged him as if they had been parted for a few days. He clutched her more fiercely than he had intended.

  “Hey,” she said, “easy on the ribs.”

  “I just can't believe you're here!” Brad exclaimed.

  “Where else would I be? You came all the way to England to see me, after all.”

  Kelly glanced behind her at the receptionist, who was scrutinizing her computer screen.

  “There's a cute little park near the cathedral,” she said. “Let's go and take a walk there; it's a nice day.”

  She took his hand and led him out into the busy street. Pointing at the cathedral, she started to tell him about its long history, chatting as if they'd never been estranged. They crossed a bridge over the river.

  “This is the Bishop's Green,” explained Kelly, as they entered a small park. “Once it was fenced off so only the bishop and his guests could use it.”

  “God, this is so normal,” said Brad, half to himself.

  “No, Dad,” said Kelly, looking up at him. “It's not. It's really weird, and I wish it could be different. But I had to come here and deliver one simple message.”

  “And what message is that?” said Brad, suspecting he already knew.

  “Leave me alone,” she said. “I'm a big girl now and I have my own life. You don't like my new friends? Well, that's nothing new. But I'm happy, and you're not the boss of me, are you?”

  Brad felt a familiar frustration, and tried to hold it down.

  Don't get angry, that's the way to lose her.

  “Okay,” he said, “I can't tell you what to do. That's a fact. But I can't stop caring about you. I love you, and you worry about people you love.”

  “I know, Dad,” said Kelly. “But ask yourself who's being conned here?”

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “Your new friends,” she said. “What do you really know about them?”

  Brad was baffled for a moment, then retorted, “If you mean Marcus Valentine, he's an expert on cults like Ouroboros, so I don't imagine they like him very much. And Kathy ran away from them, so she's a traitor, right?”

  Kelly shook her head.

  “Dad, you're a rich man,” she said. “Sure, you don't think of yourself as rich, but wealthy people rarely do. Has it ever occurred to you that when a rich man asks for help, fakers and con-artists start queuing around the block?”

  “Marcus and Kathy are on the level,” he declared. “Neither of them asked me for a single red cent.”

  “So far,” replied Kelly. “I'm just saying, you've decided to believe a lot of stuff on zero evidence.”

  “I heard your voice come out of Kathy's mouth,” Brad said. “Do you deny that happened?”

  “No,” she replied, “but doesn't that prove that Ouroboros taps into something real? That it's not the kind of cult Marcus claims?”

  We're not going to agree, Brad thought. But how can she be so obtuse about this? Has she been brainwashed?

  “So what's the solution?” he asked. “I just disappear out of your life?”

  “It wouldn't be the first time,” she shot back. Then, seeing his wounded expression, she went on, “Sorry, but you did kind of ask for that. Why not come and see for yourself? You trust your own judgment, right?”

  “You want me to come and meet this Clay guy?” asked Brad. “Right now?”

  “Anytime you like,” said Kelly. “But why not now?”

  “You do realize this sounds like a trap?” he asked.

  “Why not meet on neutral ground?” returned Kelly. “At the village pub, for instance?”

  Brad considered
for a moment, then said, “Okay, but not straight away. I want some thinking time and I've got stuff to do. Make it tomorrow morning?”

  “It's a date.” Kelly surprised him by giving him a kiss on the cheek. “I'll see you around midday?”

  Brad watched her walk out of the small park and cross the street, where she got into a silver Lexus. The car pulled out and he watched it weave its way into the small city's traffic until it disappeared from view. Then he took out his phone and called a number he had used several times that week.

  “Yeah, it's me,” he said. “I do need that stuff we talked about. Yes, carefully packaged. No, not a large amount. Standard seismic kit. No, not at the hotel. I'll meet you at this place, Bishop's Green. You won't have any trouble finding it, it's pretty central.”

  The conversation continued for another minute as Brad finalized some technical details and then authorized payment for the goods he needed. As he finished the call, he wondered what Kelly would make of his behavior.

  She wouldn't be surprised by this at all, he thought. Maybe she does understand me all too well.

  ***

  Sister Mary Assumpta brought Father Quigley his dinner at the usual time, and set the tray down outside the priest's door. She knocked. There was no response.

  “I've got your evening meal, father,” she said. “It's spaghetti Bolognese, your favorite!”

  Again, Quigley did not reply. The nun sighed and was about to leave when she noticed that the door was not quite closed. She gave it a tentative push and it opened a few inches.

  Not like the old fella, she thought, to fail to lock his door.

  It suddenly occurred to her that the old man might be ill. Mary put her head through the door to see if Quigley was unconscious, or worse. But he was not there. She set off back to the main entrance of the retreat, only to meet another nun hurrying toward her.

  “Sister Mary,” said the breathless novice. “Somebody's been in the office and taken all the petty cash!”

  “Lord, bless us and save us. The daft old bugger's only gone and run away!” exclaimed Mary. “Did that policeman leave his card?”