THE HISTORY OF THINGS TO COME: A Supernatural Thriller (The Dark Horizon Trilogy Book 1)

by Duncan Simpson

  Blake made quickly for the exit at the rear of the concert venue. Half-running, half-walking, he passed the vacant seat that had been occupied minutes before by the doorman. He stepped over the pages of an abandoned newspaper fluttering in the sweep of an electric fan. The pages turned by themselves as the fan moved through its arc and then stopped to reveal the crossword puzzle page. The answer to four across—‘7 letters. Caesar’s crossing caused certain war?’—had been neatly completed in blue ink.

  ‘Rubicon.’

  Chapter 10

  Friday 20 March

  Blake’s hands had stopped shaking, but he still struggled to open the door of his bedside cabinet. It was stiff, and he strained to muster the power to tug the door free from its wooden frame. Once inside, his hands scrabbled to locate something. Finally, he flung himself back on the bed while holding a transparent zip-lock bag close to his chest. Blake held it up to the light and studied the five blue tablets huddled in one corner of the bag.

  His doctor had prescribed him diazepam after the accident. Now he needed it to stop the questions echoing in his head. Who was the Drakon? What had Newton coded in his notebook? Why was it so important? So important that the Drakon would kill for it? It made no sense. Blake swigged down two of the blue pills with a slug of whisky from the bottle next to his bed. The liquid tugged the hard tablets down into his stomach. His fingers tentatively touched his cheek. It stung like hell.

  Blake rolled over onto his side and felt the sharp edge of his mobile phone in his pocket dig into his hip. He rolled onto his back and with several large tugs liberated the phone from the vice-like grip of his pocket. All of a sudden, the phone started to feel heavy in his hand. Half-heartedly, he attempted to place the mobile onto the bedside cabinet, but it fell from his fading grip and lodged itself between the wall and the back of the cupboard. He gave in to the increasing feeling of tiredness. As he closed his eyes, he thought of Nomsa, Sarah and the life he used to have.

  When he awoke, he experienced the most curious feeling of falling backwards and threw his arms out to stop his imagined descent. As his palms slapped the mattress, his senses re-entered the world. Only a small part of his mind felt relieved with the realisation of where he was. The digital display of his Casio watch said the time was 7.21, but he had no idea whether it was a.m. or p.m.

  He felt hot and kicked the duvet onto the floor, but this seemed to have no discernible effect on lowering his temperature. Realising he was still fully dressed, Blake started to strip off his clothes. He fought with his shoes to release enough of the lace to enable his feet to wriggle free. As he kicked them off, sweat started to form on his brow. Once his feet were released from their constraints, Blake dragged them through the legs of his suit trousers, which he threw into a crumpled mess in the middle of the room. Next came his jacket, and then finally, his shirt. It was covered in blood. A series of unsettling thoughts tumbled into his mind one after another: Eight Ball; Vinka; the Drakon; the hammer! He collapsed back onto his bed panting.

  The sound of his breath was joined by the incessant ringing of his mobile phone from somewhere over his shoulder. He waited for the next ring. The sound echoed close to the floor. He saw the handset lodged behind the back of the pine cabinet, its display flashing. Before putting the phone to his ear, he checked the caller display to see the incoming call from Milton along with six voicemail alerts.

  ‘Vincent, is that you?’

  ‘Lukas?’

  ‘Did you get any of my messages?’ The detective was seriously pissed off.

  ‘No, I’ve been asleep.’

  There was a moment of silence before Milton came at him like a torrent.

  ‘What the hell, man? You can’t go around intimidating people, even scumbags like Eight Ball. He’s lodged a complaint. You’re lucky you haven’t been charged.’

  Blake sat bolt upright. The side of his face throbbed with pain.

  ‘You there? I mean, what were you thinking of? With your history with him, you could have got yourself killed.’

  Blake’s hand gripped the edge of the bed.

  ‘It’s bullshit, Lukas. He came at me with a bloody hammer.’

  A moment of silence. Then finally, ‘You okay?’

  ‘I’m still alive,’ said Blake. ‘Listen, Lukas, there were three of them doing the robberies. Vinka went to see Eight Ball to buy a stolen French passport. The passport belonged to a foreign student, a François Pineau.’

  ‘Give me that name again,’ said Milton.

  Blake spelled it out.

  ‘With Vinka out of the picture, there are two of them left.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Eight Ball was very talkative … eventually,’ said Blake. ‘And there’s something else. They are working for someone called the Drakon.’

  ‘Say that again?’

  ‘The Drakon. It’s Greek mythology.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Drakon was a huge dragon that terrorised the land of Anatolia. Anyway, the other two are working to commission for someone called the Drakon, Eight Ball says Vinka never dealt with him direct, always anonymously through secure phones or dead drops. They are stealing to furnish the Drakon’s private collection, I’m sure of it. If only I could—’

  The detective cut him off.

  ‘Vincent, Vincent listen to me,’ he said, each word getting louder. ‘The Chief is at my throat over this.’

  Blake could hear Milton take a deep breath down the other end of the line.

  ‘I can’t imagine the shit you’re going through with Nomsa and Sarah and everything, but I’m sorry I’ve got no choice. I can’t have you going rogue on me, and I can’t have another dead body on my hands.’

  Blake braced himself for what was coming.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ve got to pull you off the case. You’re too close. You’ve lost your objectivity.’

  ‘You can’t do that, Lukas. The Newton robberies, Vinka, Nomsa’s murder … they’re all linked somehow.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I have no choice. I’ll check out the names and keep you updated where I can, but as of now you’re off the case.’

  The line went dead.

  Blake looked up at the ceiling and screamed.

  Chapter 11

  7 Months Later: Saturday 31 October

  The problem was just as big today as it was in 1936, when the documents were first acquired for the Vatican’s collection. The great resources of the Holy Roman Church could be summoned easily to purchase documents of special theological or historical interest, but the difficulty lay in how fast the Church’s academic staff could process them. The pool of suitably qualified and sympathetic researchers able to sift through the mountains of acquired material, and understand their significance to the Catholic Church, had always been highly limited. As a result, important documents, once secured for the Church, often lay uncatalogued for decades in the Vatican’s massive underground repositories.

  Recently, a German magazine had proposed an alternative theory, suggesting that the Vatican was actively pursuing a policy of purchasing non-canonical writings dating back to the foundations of the Early Church to hide them from public scrutiny. So the theory went, the heretical works would be hidden in the miles of catacombs running under the Vatican complex and far away from the prying eyes of the academic community.

  Brother Nathan Vittori liked to work on Saturdays. The library was always empty, and he was seldom disturbed. He surveyed the physical condition of the cardboard box sitting on his office desk. The flaps of the box had been taped shut with a label that had once been white but was now a pale yellow. Its surface bore three neat lines of faded Italian copperplate writing: ‘Isaac Newton: Miscellaneous Papers. Acquired Sotheby’s sale, 15 July. Lot 249’. As Brother Nathan scrapped off decades of accumulated dust from the wax seal, the familiar crossed-keys emblem of the Vatican
emerged. He opened the central drawer of his desk and located his letter knife. After several saw-like motions, he sliced through the seal and the paper label underneath.

  Brother Nathan was a tall, plump man in his late sixties. He had refused to wear a clerical collar for many years and so wasn’t easily identifiable as a priest—a constant source of contention with his superiors. He had always argued that, although the collarina romana dated back to the seventeenth century, canon law actually did not require the dog collar to be worn, and so he didn’t.

  Brother Nathan, Chief Librarian at the Vatican Observatory, often thought that God Himself had handpicked him for the job. A former chief researcher at the Vatican Advanced Technology Telescope (VATT) in Arizona, he possessed a passion for the history of science that was matched only by his love of Christ. His first stay at the Vatican Observatory, one of the oldest astronomical research institutions in the world, should have lasted just two weeks, but almost seven years later, he was still there. At the time, he had been recuperating from a bout of nervous exhaustion, and his doctor had ordered him to take a complete break from his scientific research work or face the consequences.

  His mentor, Cardinal Antonio, had organised a room for Brother Nathan at the Observatory perched high above the sapphire waters of Lake Albano, thirty kilometres south-east of Rome. There he slept, painted watercolours of the lake, prayed under the warm sun and slowly regained his strength. As the days passed quietly, he learned about the history of the Observatory. Its roots could be traced back to 1582, when Pope Gregory XIII had set out to reform the calendar to fix the official date for Easter, a date which had varied widely across Christendom at the time.

  After morning prayers, Brother Nathan would head for the remarkable library attached to the Observatory. There, surrounded by the astonishing collection of rare antique books, including works by Copernicus, Galileo, Newton and Kepler, he found solace and gradually found his spirits rising again. When its administrator was called away to tend to family affairs in Prague, Brother Nathan offered his services to stand in. Seven years later, he was still running the library, and he relished the vocation.

  After hearing of the original auction records in the Vatican archives, Brother Nathan had made the request to examine the contents of the box to the Vatican’s Director of Historical Records in Rome. A large quantity of notes penned in Newton’s own hand would be a prized addition to the library’s collection. To his great surprise, his request was answered promptly, and the box had arrived at the Observatory the following week.

  His dear friend Dr Carla Sabatini had been overjoyed by his find. Sabatini was more like a daughter than a former research student. Now a director at the Pontifical Academy of Sciences, Sabatini spent her time studying the epistemological problems that could result from the latest international scientific research. She saw no conflict in her role. As far as Sabatini was concerned, both science and religion sought out the truth in God’s design, and things had changed since the Church’s persecution of Galileo. She held postgraduate qualifications in both theology and astronomy and enjoyed the rare distinction of being respected as an expert in both fields. The Vatican allowed her great freedom in performing her duties, and she split her time between offices in Rome and Madrid. She shared her old mentor’s passion for all things scientific, and was now regarded as a world authority on the history of European science. The directors of the Observatory often called upon her expertise, and she always relished the opportunity to spend time with her old mentor.

  Several days ago, Brother Nathan and Sabatini chatted on the phone for hours about the discovery of the box and its potential contents. A new cache of handwritten notes, penned by the great scientist himself, was just too good to be true. She would fly in from London to visit Brother Nathan as soon as he had catalogued the box’s contents.

  Before lifting the cardboard flaps, Brother Nathan dragged the box closer to his chest. Though the box measured only some ten inches across, its comparatively small dimensions belied its surprising weight. He wondered if there might be some heavy object such as a sculpture contained within, but as he arranged the contents carefully on his desk, he realised that the box’s weight came solely from the bundles of paper packed inside. The jumbled collection of several hundred sheets included some bound together to form complete essays, while others appeared to be scraps of larger existing works. All were written in Newton’s distinctive close and unfussy handwriting. Brother Nathan scanned each page, one after another, and then quickly allocated the sheet to one of a growing number of piles on his desk.

  Brother Nathan leant back in his chair and marvelled at the breadth of research represented by the stacks of paper arranged in front of him. As he lifted the final few sheets from the bottom of the box, he uncovered something that made him jump back in his seat.

  For an instant, his mind associated the bright crimson colour that had just been revealed with the colour of the red leatherback lizard, the small aggressive reptile that sometimes sunbathed on the library walls at the height of the summer. Chiding himself for his overreaction, Brother Nathan repositioned himself in his chair and looked at the small red book, no bigger than a thin paperback, that lay at the bottom of the box. He picked it up, and with the book now in his hands, realised that its cover was made of a thick red velvet material. The gold-leaf-embossed design on the front cover held Brother Nathan’s attention for some time. The motif was a large hexagram of two interlocking equilateral triangles. In each of the six smaller triangular compartments that formed the outer wings of the star was stamped a single golden symbol. He had seen similar designs in medieval books of spells and incantations in the Vatican’s manuscript collections relating to the Inquisition. His sense of unease started to build.

  For a moment, his fingers hovered over the elaborate border of gold leaf that ran around the book’s perimeter, and then with a sharp intake of breath he opened it and started to flick through its pages. Each facing page was illuminated in elaborate gilt lettering. After acclimatising his eyes to the form of the calligraphy, Brother Nathan realised that the language of the writing was a form of medieval French. On the opposite pages to the original French text was written a narration in small copperplate lettering, obviously added at a later date. He recognised the handwriting immediately; it was the same handwriting that appeared on each of the papers now organised into piles on his desk.

  He quickly located the title page. Its illuminated writing declared grandly that the volume represented the writings of one Gérard de Ridefort. Brother Nathan leant back in his chair and started reading Newton’s handwritten narrative on the opposite side of the page.

  I feel that the time is approaching, when Almighty God will call me from this transitory life. In these, my last days, I have searched after knowledge in the prophetic scriptures, and thought myself bound to communicate it for the benefit of the few scattered persons whom God hath chosen, and set sincerely to inherit the yoke from me. With these words, I shoot an arrow into the darkness, praying that Almighty God will guide its flight to a righteous man, for I impart something of extraordinary importance. Without correct instruction and warning, a calamity not seen since the Great Flood could be unleashed upon the world, such is the power of the relic and its author, our Lord in Heaven. Reader take great heed; I have been set against a formidable enemy, one that is armed with terrors that few men are sufficiently fortified to resist.

  In the year of our Lord, 1666, Almighty God set the City of London upon His anvil. Like Job’s messengers, first plague and then the Great Fire cleansed the land of its profanity. London lay exceedingly ragged and ruinous. The city lay dark and unfrequented, and the great Cathedral of St Paul’s lay badly damaged with vast stones split asunder. Dr Christopher Wren, Architect of His Majesty’s buildings, a man of assured and undaunted spirit, was instructed by His Majesty to take charge of the great rebuilding.

  I am compelled to recount the particular in
cidents of the night when I was summoned urgently to the Royal Society by Dr Wren. He was sadly troubled by knowledge that had taken such a deep root in his mind, he could bear it no longer. Without pausing for pleasantries, he solemnly implored God for protection, and then disburdened himself of the matter to me. With terrible apprehension, the Architect recounted the tragic events that had occurred the previous morning.

  Following the calamity of the great conflagration, the work of dismantling St Paul’s down to its crypt had only just begun some two months previous. The Architect himself had taken personal supervision of the demolition and was suddenly called from his duties by a labourer who had caused disturbance to an underground vault with his pickaxe. On inspection, the Architect made instruction for the chamber to be opened further, and after great and troublesome labour, a hole of about three feet was dug through the end wall of the vault. The place had lain undisturbed for a great age. Of natural inquisitive temper, the workman thought to proceed into the subterranean chamber without charge, and took to himself to disappear into its darkness.

  The humble labourer was gone from his station for no more than a trifle when a terrible cry came out from deep within the vault; a cry of such frightful manner that it was enough to place horror upon the stoutest heart. As he recounted these events to me, tears ran plentifully down the Architect’s face. With piteous lamentation, he continued to discourse how he had rushed to the scene, filled with the greatest of disquiet, and entered the chamber with a burning lantern held aloft. The sight that met him was of such dreadful consequence that for a long while he couldn’t will himself to move forward. For the young labourer was now a dead corpse and, where his eyeballs had once been, were now steaming blackened pits of flesh, as if an angel of death had branded them closed. Fearing the utmost peril, the Architect moved closer to the wretched body and, in the shifting light of his lantern, saw that some object was clasped to his chest.