[Vampire Babylon 01] - Skarlet (2009)

by Thomas Emson

  Lawton explained about the report of a break-in at the flats. He said they had one of the vases.

  Wilson sat up straight and his eyes widened. “You have one?”

  Lawton said Lithgow had come across it, and that it was one of three.

  The old man clutched his chest. “Margaret, bring my pills.”

  “Are you all right, Tom?” said Lawton.

  “Yes, fine,” said Wilson.

  Mrs. Wilks came through with a tray containing mugs of tea, a plate of Digestives, and Wilson’s pills.

  “Are you all right, granddad?” she said, throwing a glance at Lawton.

  He swallowed a pill and said he was fine. Mrs. Wilks nodded and distributed the tea and biscuits. Then she went out into the kitchen and switched on the radio. Music wafted into the living room.

  Wilson said, “She doesn’t like to hear my war stories. Upsets her.”

  Lawton nodded.

  “Well,” said the old man, “best I tell you my story, then you can tell me yours.”

  Lawton said okay and Wilson took a deep breath.

  He said, “We were based in Hillah. Were you in Hillah, lad?”

  Lawton shook his head. “Americans and Poles in Hillah. I spent all my time in Basra.”

  “You know that the ruins of Babylon are near Hillah, don’t you?” said Wilson.

  Lawton looked at Sassie. “Yes, we do.”

  “And do you know about Nebuchadnezzar? How he built Babylon?”

  Sassie came forward, and kneeled next to Lawton’s armchair. She put a hand on Lawton’s hand. He skin was warm and soft. She told the old man she knew about Nebuchadnezzar. She said, “Nebuchadnezzar’s father, Nabopolassar, defeated the Assyrians and Babylon became independent again.”

  “Clever girl, isn’t she?” said Wilson, grinning at Lawton.

  Sassie’s nails dug into Lawton’s hand, and he felt her bristle.

  Wilson said, “Nebuchadnezzar, when he became king, ordered the city rebuilt. He built the Ishtar Gate, he built the Hanging Gardens – he made Babylon a golden city again.”

  The old man faltered, coughing. Lawton stiffened. Wilson held up a hand, indicating that he was fine. He grabbed the remote and switched off the television.

  He went on: “But you see, lad,” addressing Lawton, “Nebuchadnezzar had help. Story goes that his dad had allies when he defeated the Assyrians. Demonic allies. Nabopolassar unearthed three demons, destroyed, so the legend goes, by Abraham.” He shook his head and frowned. “Says nothing about it in the Bible, though. At any rate, Nabopolassar raised up the demons and in return they helped him defeat the Assyrians. And after Nabopolassar’s death, the demons helped Nebuchadnezzar rebuild Babylon.”

  “And these demons were . . . ” said Sassie.

  “Were vampires, love,” said Wilson. “Vampires. Bloodsuckers.

  Parasites. They were given slaves and criminals to feed on, transforming these victims into a vampire army that helped Nabopolassar, and then Nebuchadnezzar.” Wilson shrugged. “So the legend goes.”

  “And what about the vases?” said Sassie. “They depict – well, we think it’s Alexander the Great. And those bodies, they’re his enemies.”

  Wilson said, “This is one legend: when Alexander conquered Babylon, he defeated these monsters, destroyed most of the vampire army, as well. Nebuchadnezzar’s descendents, the vampires’ human allies, fled.”

  “And the vases?” Sassie said again, her nails digging into Lawton’s flesh.

  “Those vases were stolen from me,” said Wilson, “but they should never have been stolen. I should have destroyed them, and destroyed what was in them. Just like it said on the lip – that old cuneiform.”

  “The cuneiform means nothing, Mr. Wilson,” said Sassie. “It’s praise for heroes, that’s all.”

  Wilson’s eyes filled with fire and he said, “Who told you that? That’s a lie. Those words are a warning. A warning that if ever Alexander, master of the world, dies, the vessels and their contents should be destroyed. Only Alexander, it says, can prevent the return of the dark magic that raised those monsters. And if any magician gets that power again, the world will be destroyed, the demon trinity will reign over Babylon – or wherever they happen to be; London, maybe.”

  Sassie’s hand tightened on Lawton’s.

  “What was in them, those old pots?” said Lithgow.

  Mr. Wilson looked over at him. “You found them did you?”

  “Um, well – yes,” said Lithgow. “There were pills in the one I – um – found, and dust – dust in the other two.”

  “Not dust,” said the old man. “Ashes. And I should’ve got rid of them like my lieutenant said. I should’ve destroyed them.” He sagged, as if the air had been pushed out of him.

  “Where did you find them?” said Sassie.

  “Find them? Oh, we didn’t find them. We stole them. And they were stolen from me, and then” – he nodded at Lithgow – “your friend here stole one of them.”

  Lithgow said, “I didn’t – ” but Lawton raised a hand to silence him.

  “Where did you steal them, Mr. Wilson?” said Sassie.

  “We stole them in Hillah in 1920.”

  Chapter 58

  FINDING THE TREASURE.

  Hillah, Mesopotamia – 11.32 p.m., July 23, 1920.

  “QUIETLY, now,” said Lieutenant Guy Jordan, “let’s not make too much of a song and dance of this, Wilson.”

  They sneaked in through a window. The house was decked in silks and carpets. A smell of incense drifted through the room. It made Private Tom Wilson feel giddy. They’d walked from the garrison and crossed the Euphrates by the bridge made of fifteen boats. Hillah stood on both banks of the river. Date gardens surrounded the town on each shore. The river was about a hundred yards across, and the only way over it was the bridge.

  “Keep your eyes open, lad,” said Jordan. “We can’t trust these bloody Arabs.”

  Wilson swallowed, but he had no spit. His legs felt drained of strength. He shouldn’t be here – he should be back home. Christ, I’m only seventeen, he thought. He lied when people asked him: told them he was eighteen. But he felt an idiot for joining up two years ago.

  Fifteen years old. A kid; a stupid, head-full-of-dreams kid. He’d seen enough mud and blood in the trenches of France to last a lifetime.

  He’d only lied about his age so he could be with his brother, Bill. And then Bill got killed, and Tom, in a daze of mourning, found himself in Mesopotamia, fighting Arabs.

  When they were skulking through the narrow streets under moonlight, Wilson recalled notes issued in May 1919 by the 17th Indian Division on how to fight Arabs:

  “Do not get rattled by his unexpected appearance.”

  Easier said than done, thought Wilson, trying to make some spit to wet his mouth and throat, his gaze skimming the gloom inside the house.

  Wilson and Jordan were armed, so any attacks would be seen off. But killing locals wasn’t a good idea. They were trying to get on with the population, to win hearts and minds. Killing insurgents was one thing; murdering innocents was asking for trouble – military and diplomatic.

  If they did get caught here in this house, he’d let Jordan explain their nighttime jaunt through Hillah.

  Guy Jordan had arrived in Mesopotamia in March, along with Brigadier-General Aylmer Haldane, who was to lead the Mesopotamian Expeditionary Force.

  He’d latched on to Wilson when he saw the youngster reading a copy of Dracula by Bram Stoker. Wilson liked those scary stories; he’d always loved ghostly tales as a kid. The copy was tattered by now, but he still dipped into it, enjoying its creepiness.

  “You’re interested in vampires, Private?” Jordan had asked.

  Wilson said he liked scary stories, that was all.

  Jordan asked if he’d heard of Babylon. “It’s three miles to the south of Hillah,” said the lieutenant. “Did you know that, Wilson?”

  Wilson shook his head, not understanding why he was being ask
ed.

  Jordan had said, “If you like scary stories, son, I’ve got a scary story for you.”

  And Jordan told him.

  A week later, here they were, breaking into this house in Hillah.

  Jordan said, “Careful, now, Wilson.”

  Wilson gripped his Lee Enfield 0.303 rifle. His eyes were wide, but they weren’t getting used to the darkness.

  “Sir, do you know what you’re looking for?”

  “Of course I bloody know,” said Jordan.

  Jordan crept through the house, and Wilson followed. Wilson looked down, careful not to stand on anything that looked like a body. The Arabs slept on the floor, so it was easy to step on them. Mounds of bodies seemed to fill this room.

  “Lord in heaven, here they are,” said Jordan, his whisper startling Wilson.

  Wilson went up to him. The lieutenant had opened a chest. A musty smell breezed from it, and Wilson wrinkled his nose. Jordan lifted a sack from the chest, laid it on the floor. Wilson could barely see, moonlight the only illumination. He squinted, watching Jordan unwrap the sack.

  Dust belched from the material. Wilson gasped when he saw what was inside. Three clay pots with a similar painting on each.

  And a pair of horns or tusks joined by a shaft.

  “The two-horned spear,” said Jordan, holding up the weapon by the ends, “made from the bones of a great hunter, the father of demons.”

  The shaft had been wound in a material that looked like leather.

  Jordan gripped the handle and said, “Skin.”

  Wilson felt dizzy.

  Jordan said, “The skin of that same hunter, Wilson,” and he grabbed one of the pots, saying, “Look – the same as this image. Didn’t I tell you? Alexander the Great.”

  Wilson saw that the man painted on the vessel held a replica of the weapon that lay on the cloth.

  “We must take them,” said Jordan, “even if it costs us our lives, one of us must get them back to England.”

  “Put them back, you dogs,” said a voice in Arabic from behind Wilson.

  He and Jordan turned. Three figures stood in the dark. A lamp flickered, momentarily revealing their opponents. Jordan laughed.

  Three boys, two of them were teenagers, perhaps thirteen or fourteen, and the other couldn’t have been older than five.

  Wilson, using the smattering of Arabic he’d picked up, told the boys to get back and let them leave.

  “You’ll not leave. We’ll die before you leave with those,” said the tallest boy.

  “Tell him we’ll shoot them, Wilson,” said Jordan, gathering the artefacts in the cloth. “Tell them we’re British soldiers and if they prevent us from carrying out our duties, we’ll arrest their parents tomorrow and have them tried and executed.”

  Wilson didn’t say that. He asked the boys if they were brothers and where their parents were.

  “Our family is gone. We’re all that’s left,” said the tallest boy.

  Wilson translated.

  Jordan, after packing up the treasure, stood and pointed his Webley pistol. He had it aimed at the eldest boy. “This is what’s left, then?” he said. “All that remains of their human serfs – three children.” And he started laughing. He cocked his pistol.

  Wilson said, “No, sir, we can’t shoot them.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “They’re children.”

  “They are the servants of hell, Wilson.”

  “We can’t.”

  “I can,” said Jordan.

  He fired. The boy dived to the side. The middle boy raced forward, a knife in his hand. Wilson raised his rifle and batted the boy aside.

  The eldest lad got up, rushed forward. Jordan didn’t miss this time.

  The bullet struck the boy in the chest. The lad stumbled backwards. A dark stain spread across the youth’s shirt.

  The youngest boy screeched. He sprang forward. He struck Wilson in the arm, and Wilson felt a pain shoot up into his shoulder. Wilson shoved the child aside and glanced down at his arm. A knife jutted out of his flesh. The blade stuck out the other side. He gritted his teeth and moaned, feeling sick.

  The middle boy said to the youngest one, “Run, run and commit your life to looking for these dogs,” before Jordan put the pistol to his head and fired. The boy’s head burst in a halo of blood and brain.

  Wilson, dropping to his knees, saw the youngest boy race out of the house.

  Lamps flared in nearby houses. Shouts came from outside in Arabic, voices flashing with rage.

  Wilson thought, We’re going to die.

  But then he heard English voices shouting, “Put down your weapons. British Army. Put down your weapons.”

  And Wilson, the pain pulsing through his arm, fainted.

  Chapter 59

  LOST BOYS.

  TOM Wilson rolled up his sleeve. “Little bastard stabbed me,” he said, pointing to a scar on his old, brown skin. “Went right through.”

  “Did they catch him, the boy?” said Lawton.

  “No, they didn’t. Got lost in the crowd. Disappeared, the scamp.”

  “You didn’t tell your superiors?”

  Wilson shook his head. “We were in enough trouble. We were up for punishment, but the next day we were ordered to relieve the town of Kifl.”

  “What happened to Jordan?” said Lithgow.

  “Died that next day, July 24th. On our way to Kifl, we’d stopped off at a canal, the Rustumiyah. About fifteen mile from Hillah. Couple of thousand Arabs attacked us. We were ordered back to Hillah. It was chaos. Arabs picking us off. We lost two hundred men, Jordan among them. I was lucky to get back to Hillah in one piece. A dark time for the Manchesters, lad.”

  Lawton said, “Were you sent home?”

  “No. I were out there for a few more months, had to keep the artefacts hidden in my kit. Then I got injured, got sent back to India.”

  Sassie said, “Tell us about the robbery, Mr. Wilson.”

  He shrugged. “I’d gone out. Very lucky.”

  “Yes, you were. It would’ve been terrible for you,” said Sassie.

  “No, love,” said Wilson, “for them. Lucky for them. I’d’ve got my old Webley pistol out, shot the bastard between the eyes.” He pantomimed a gun with his finger, and aimed it at Lithgow, who curled his lip.

  “Don’t worry, son – can barely see you from here. I’d probably miss – ”

  “Oh, good,” said Lithgow.

  “ – and hit you in the balls.”

  Sassie glanced at Lawton and rolled her eyes. She said, “The burglary, Mr. Wilson.”

  “Yes. I was down the Legion. I go every Wednesday. Play dominos, have a stout. Meggie comes to get me, brings me home. That night we got back to find the place ransacked.”

  “They’d taken the pots,” said Lawton.

  “Aye, lad. The pots.” He shook his head and frowned. “I should’ve destroyed them. Like Jordan said. His last words to me, Get them home safe, Wilson, and bury them deep – bury them deep.”

  “Why didn’t you?” said Sassie.

  He shrugged. “We sometime don’t do the right thing, do we. I don’t know. Life got in the way. Came home, first time in years. Put them in the attic at my Ma’s place, forgot about them. Thought nothing. Then I got wed, they followed me around. Ended up here twenty years ago when my wife died. Then the lassie, my great great granddaughter, she put them on the internet thing – this eBay, she called it. I’d forgotten. They’d slipped my mind – slipped to the back of my mind, let’s say. Then she goes, ‘Gramps, I’ve put some of your old stuff on eBay; Mum said I could,’ and I says, ‘That’s fine, love,’ and, well, here we are.”

  “That’s how they found them,” said Lawton.

  “Oh, aye – that’s how they found them?” He looked at Lawton.

  “You know who ‘they’ is? They’re the descendents of Nebuchadnezzar. Those vases contain the ashes of the demon trinity.”

  Lawton clicked his fingers at Lithgow. Lithgow jerked, ope
ned up his rucksack. He took out the Tesco bag, handed it to Lawton.

  Lawton unwrapped the plastic bag, showed Wilson the vase.

  Lawton said, “Brought it back.”

  Wilson sneered. “Anything in it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Means they’ve got the ashes out. Means they’re trying to resurrect their demons,” said the old man. He glanced over his shoulder, and called towards the kitchen: “Another cup of tea in here, Meggie – and bring the bottle, love.”

  * * *

  Murray said, “Where are the boys?”

  “Out, Chrissie,” said Richard, “out doing what boys do.”

  Murray felt a chill seep through her insides.

  “Richard,” she said, “it’s almost five o’clock, they should be inside.

  It’ll be dark soon.”

  He chuckled and drank from the can of Stella. He’d not turned to acknowledge his wife, just continued to stare at the Sky Sports channel.

  He said, “You don’t buy into this ‘don’t be out after dark’ nonsense, do you?”

  “Richard, I do buy into it. Dozens are dead. There are people missing. There are children missing.”

  His eyes stayed on the TV. A blonde girl talked about football.

  Murray grabbed the remote and switched off the television.

  Richard Murray glared at his wife. “Don’t do that,” he said.

  She saw fury in his eyes; she’d never seen fury there before – only boredom.

  He reached for the remote and she yanked her hand away. “Not until you tell me where my children are.”

  “Our children,” he said, “our children whom I look after. I don’t know where they are. I spend all day wondering where they are and in return all they do is wonder where you are, Chrissie. So where” – he flicked beer at her – “the fuck” – and he did it again, flipping the can till it shot booze in her face – “are you?”

  “Richard – you idiot.” She wiped her face. Beer filled her eyes and ran down her cheeks. “You’re drunk, you fool. Drunk. And you’ve let our kids go out there at a time like this.”

  “Times like what?”

  “Don’t you know what’s happening?”

  “Yeah,” he said, sneering, “vampires,” and he pantomimed ghosts, making hooting noises.