‘How d’you know it wasn’t werewolves, Fiorinda?’ said Sage at last.
‘Of course it wasn’t. Don’t be stupid.’ She untied her scarf and hid behind her hair from that penetrating blue look, the one that said I am fifty years old, and you are making me tired. ‘I know. I shouldn’t be here. No girlfriends on manoeuvres.’
Sage had not wanted Fiorinda on this trip at all.
‘Ignore him,’ said Ax, ‘He’s having a male chauvinist pig attack, he can’t help it. I want you with us, even if he doesn’t, and you were right to come out to the camp. You were brilliant with the lads.’
‘Tell me one thing,’ said Fiorinda. ‘Were they alive? When they got torn up?’
‘Brock thinks they’ll have been garotted first,’ said Sage. ‘Or doped, at least. The Celtics don’t like a struggling sacrifice, it spoils the whole effect.’
‘I suppose that’s something. Even if you’re making it up.’
Sage grabbed her, suddenly, in a fierce embrace. ‘Stupid brat, you terrify me. Why d’you have to go there alone, what did you have to look at that for—?’
‘I had to see.’
‘I don’t think we’ve frightened them off,’ said Ax, off on his own angle. ‘I think this is a blank space on the map, far away from the rest of their lives, where they feel completely safe. If they know that Fiorinda suddenly decided to visit Wethamcote they won’t have put two and two together. They’re not Reich fans and they’re too arrogant. They’ll be back, and we’re going to bust them.’
‘How many do you think are involved?’
‘Not a huge number.’ Ax finally took out his cigarettes, ‘D’you mind?’ His lovers shrugged: he lit one and pulled on it fervently. ‘Thirty to forty, max, from the traces, far as we’ve analysed the footage Chris took. Which accords with the farmer’s story. He reckons there are around ten or twelve small private cars, some of them the same every time, and a couple of horseboxes—that’s why he thought of the horse sacrifice. He admits he’s sneaked down to the layby to have a look, but his mind’s a blank when it comes to number-plates.’
Fiorinda smiled. ‘Obviously, the horseboxes were for the werewolves.’
‘Yeah.’
The roof and walls of the bender were layers of fine mesh, stretched over a frame of rods and heaped with woodland debris: leaves, earth, twigs, moss. A little green caterpillar came swaying down on an invisible thread, into the light of the globe. Fiorinda caught it and returned it to the roof.
‘What about David Sale?’
Sage shook his head.
‘I can’t reach him,’ said Ax.
‘Oh, God.’
There’d been occasions, over the last months, when the Prime Minister’s Office had seemed unable to find Mr Sale. His staff had covered for him; but it had been awkward enough that the Triumvirate had known there was something wrong. They’d colluded with the cover-up, assuming that the PM was too smashed: wasn’t fit to pick up a phone, make the meeting or whatever. That’s the price you pay, the downside of tearing up the drug laws. Less death, crime and corruption, some vulnerable people going off the rails—
‘I can’t get hold of him, and I daren’t persist because I’ll make it obvious—’
‘You’ve tried your all hours access red phone number?’
‘Yeah. Lucky I’ve never needed that, because it doesn’t work.’
‘You think he’s on his way?’
‘That would be one reason why he doesn’t feel like answering his phone.’
‘We don’t know he’s involved at all,’ Sage pointed out, weakly. ‘We only have Fergal’s word, and so-called evidence that could still be fake.’
‘Oh, he’ll be here,’ said Ax. ‘This is a set up.’ He stared bitterly at the glowing end of his cigarette. ‘I can believe David Sale is into Celtic blood sacrifice. I believed it the moment Fergal told us—as the Irishman fucking spotted. Sale’s a natural groupie, looking for adventure, he always was. But human sacrifice? No. He’s not a complete monster. He’s been set up, he thinks he’s coming to see a horse tortured to death, prove how wild at heart he is: but he’s going to be here, and we can’t reach him to warn him off. We have to bust these bastards. We have to bust them hard and I can see where it’s heading, you don’t have to tell me. And the Celtic thing will explode too. We’re in over our heads. Fuck.’
‘We’ve been in over our heads since Massacre Night, Ax.’
‘Yeah, thanks. The thing that gets me is, whoever, or whatever agency arranged this set piece, what’s the motive? What do they hope will happen? Which way are they trying to make me jump?’
‘Unless Fergal’s genuine,’ suggested Fiorinda. ‘He’s telling the truth, and the people who sent him are friends?’
‘Nice idea.’
The barmies were very quiet: an occasional murmur, a rustle of movement.
‘What about the town?’ asked Sage. ‘Any suspicious characters, Fee?’
One of their fears had been that they’d come up here and find a gathering of media vultures, already circling, already knowing the worst and prepared to pounce. ‘Not when I arrived,’ said Fiorinda. ‘There’s a circus now, a small, dedicated circus: chasing after me. I’m sorry about that, Ax.’
‘No problem. If things go the way I think they might, tomorrow night, a news embargo’s going to be the least of our worries.’
They took off their boots and lay down together, on a heap of green bracken where Sage and Ax’s sleeping bags were unrolled, Ax in the middle, as most in need of comfort: and talked about what might happen tomorrow night, how they would deal with screw-ups, until there was no more to be said.
‘Don’t cry baby,’ said Fiorinda, hugging him. ‘At least it’s not werewolves.’
‘Yeah,’ Ax buried his face in her beautiful soft hair, ‘at least. But you could be wrong. The way things are going, nothing would surprise me.’
Sage got up to put out the lamp. He kissed Fiorinda’s nose, sighed resignedly, and lay down again beside Ax, his arm around them both.
I will talk to you, she thought. I promise. As soon as this is over—
Dawn came too soon. Fiorinda and Sage, left alone in the nest, woke to hear their lover’s voice reciting, somewhere close by, the Arabic words that cannot be translated but may be interpreted—
I take refuge with the Lord of the Daybreak,
from the evil of what he has created…
Later, Fiorinda got an escort back to the edge of town.
Preparations for the nightclub raid came together. More barmies skulking through the fields; the police contingent in two methane-burning hippy vans, disguised as travellers. Before dusk the tech was set up and there were close on a hundred armed men (including a few women, as the saying goes), under cover.
The hours passed slowly. At quarter past eleven, Sage, deep in the grove, in the silent cordon surrounding the clearing, heard a tawny owl hoot her question, too-wit?, and the male bird answer, from the other side of the wood. Woo, woo. Brock would like that. The desert is coming back to life: but oh, at what a price. He kept thinking of Fiorinda, this girl who is more stubborn than God, and seeing in his mind’s eye those carcasses, the sheered planes of flesh, the ropes of blood, the major bones sliced clean through. What the fuck did that?
Fiorinda says there’s a rational explanation.
And we believe she would know. The lads certainly believe she would know. When did she become our authority on the impossible, and how dangerous is that?
Will someone tell me, by the way, what happens if she’s wrong?
Beside him, Fergal shifted uneasily. He was coping well with field conditions, amazingly well, considering his state of health: he had the pickled toughness of a hard-drinking man. The rifle he’d been given—for the look of the thing, since everyone was armed—seemed to bother him. He kept fidgeting with it.
‘You want me to take that? They’re heavy buggers if you’re not used—’
‘Tell the truth,’ whispered F
ergal hoarsely, ‘I’m wonderin’ how I’d make out if it came to a firefight. It’s not the first time I’ve had a gun in me hands. I wouldn’t want yez to think that. But… I’ve niver killed a man.’
If it came to it, Fergal would keep his sheet clean. They hadn’t given him live ammunition. There’s too much that doesn’t add up about our Irish ‘defector’.
‘Nobody’s going to do any killing.’
‘Aye, but… How’s yer kid? I niver asked after him yet.’
‘Marlon?’ Sage shrugged. ‘He’s okay.’
‘Marlon Williams, isn’t it? I remember I met him onc’st. Lovely boy. Now that must be a very hard thing, not to have the naming of yer own son.’
‘Knock it off, Fergal. Continue in that line, an’ you’ll annoy me.’
‘Jaysus, there I go. I’ve a big mouth, God help me. I didn’t mean to offend.’
The glimmering skull wore an eye-wrap that gave it the look, in the ashen darkness, of some solemn allegorical figure, Blind Justice? It offered Fergal a crooked grin. ‘You’re right, it’s a hard thing. I can live with it. Now shush.’
Softly, in the distance, they heard the murmur of an approaching car.
It stopped in the layby and two people emerged, a man and a woman. The driver stayed inside. The pair had flashlights, they seemed to be checking for signs of danger, but they were confident and didn’t waste much time. They got back into the car, which stayed where it was, without lights. More cars arrived an hour later. Barmy signals had detected the use of a radiophone, but hadn’t been able to eavesdrop. These people were not amateurs. They arrived, they got out of the cars, they made very little noise. About half an hour after midnight they set off, in silence: dressed for a glitzy night out, carrying coolboxes, shading their flashlights, the women stumbling on high heels. Most wore masks, strange animal muzzles and horned things glowing in the dark; a few had naked faces. A small group went ahead: they stopped and barred the way where the track entered the grove. The guests were scrutinised and briefly questioned, one by one, but it was a formality, maybe part of the ritual. No digital masks were removed; no one was turned away.
Sage had been dividing his attention between several scenes: the dark wood around him, the live feed from the concealed night cameras; developments inside the enclosure. He spoke softly to Brock, next in the cordon; beyond Fergal.
‘Hey, Brock, look after Irish for me, will you? I’m going in.’
Up against the fence he paused to review the scene inside again. An orderly line had formed outside the changing room. The first comers were emerging sky-clad, later arrivals moving along. Grease tubs hanging on the wattle walls had been lit. The evening dresses of the women in the queue glowed with colour in the trails of smoky light. Dinner jackets, glossy leather. No unwashed outlaws, no struggling rurals here: this was exclusively the Celtics’ high society camp following. Figures, thought Sage. He would bet he knew a few hippies at Rivermead who would defend human sacrifice. But they’d never commit Personal Transport Hypocrisy to reach the venue.
A horned man went around with a horse-skull full of something dark, marking masked and unmasked faces on the brow. Brittle flurries of laughter and conversation rose, and fell, and rose again. Time to move. He stripped off the wrap and stowed it, switched the living skull to a conventional, charnel version, grabbed the top of the wattle fence and vaulted over. Ax was not available for much consultation, but it didn’t matter. They’d agreed on what to do if the worst should come to the worst. Which it had. The night camera at the entrance to the grove had left no room for doubt. David Sale was here. A bare-faced woman saw him as he landed. She beamed, eyes like pinwheels. Not much danger of being spotted as a stranger. None of these punters were likely to be facing the business part of the entertainment sober, even if they were convinced this was the acme of green cool. He hunched his shoulders and stayed near the tallest people, just in case; and watched the line going into the toilet block.
‘Ax,’ he murmured, touching his wrist. ‘Do it now.’
An explosion of lights, a wail of sirens. Loudhailer voices: This is the police.
Instant uproar. Everyone panicking, trying to leave—
Sage shouldered through the naked people rushing for the toilet block and scrambling out of it, clutching their clothes. The last of them he shoved out as he pushed his way in. In the light of a dim fluorescent tube he saw lockers, basins, a row of cubicles. Strewn underwear, a glittering gown, lost shoes. Half in and half out of the last cubicle, two half-clothed men crouched over the naked body of a third: trying to get him dressed, against his feeble resistance. The man on the floor wore a bull’s head. A white-face clown and a demon of some kind stared up at Sage in desperate consternation.
‘Get out of here,’ said Sage.
They left.
He shut the door (quite a riot going on out there), restored his own mask to its usual setting, squatted down, switched off the bull’s head at the patient’s wrist-controller and administered a popper: a vicious dose of straighten-up. David Sale opened his eyes. His face crumpled like a protesting child about to howl, then he jerked into a sitting position, eyes popping, his back against the toilet.
‘S-Sage!’
‘Yeah. Sage. Aren’t you lucky, and look, he’s got real arms and legs. Want my autograph?’
The Prime Minister clasped the sting on his neck, looking terrified.
‘What have you done to me?’
‘Don’t panic, it’s just straighten-up. I haven’t hurt you. Yet.’
‘No, no. You don’t understand. I must be naked. This isn’t happening.’
‘Shut up drivelling, put the mask back on and get dressed.’
The nightclub raid noises peaked and died down. A barmy signals voice in Sage’s ear was telling him the bad possibilities (armed resistance, deaths, serious casualties) that had been avoided; the alarming discoveries (sophisticated weapons, mysterious high-tech devices) that were being made. The door opened a crack. Two barmies looked in: Jackie Dando and Chris Page.
‘How’s it going?’ said Sage, over his shoulder.
‘S’all over,’ said Jackie chirpily, full of it as usual, and trying hard to get a good peek at the bull-headed geezer. The barmies didn’t know who was getting rescued, but they knew he mustn’t be recognised. ‘No trouble, just a bunch of naked hoorays, frowing up and crying for their lawyers. We’re minding their socks and knickers for them, Ax’s orders. No one gets past us, right?’
‘That’s right. Wait outside. Be with you in a minute.’
‘Okay Sage.’
David Sale dressed himself. He stood by the basins and took off his mask so he could smooth his hair. Sage had to work hard to control the impulse to put his autograph on the bastard’s slack, abject face.
‘The mask stays on. And please keep your mouth shut.’
The clearing was full of the aftermath of disaster, all too familiar. Sobbing people with blankets round their shoulders, armed police, armed hippies. But thank God, this time, no more blood… He kept the Prime Minister out of the light and took him through a fresh gap in the wattle fence; into the wood. Circled round to meet the truck that was waiting halfway down the track. Sage got in the back with the PM, Chris and Jackie in the front with the driver. Off we go.
The sacrificial bodies had been retrieved, bagged and taken away. The extra barmies and the police were down in the lane, processing the night’s haul and waiting for fresh transport. Sage, in a filthy mood, let it be said, had called to report that all was well (relatively speaking), and the bull-headed man was in safe lodging. An armed policewoman was sorting and packing clothes and personal effects, by the toilet block. Other than that, Ax and the Yorkshire lads, and Fergal Kearney, had the clearing to themselves.
Two new victims had been found, tied up and gagged, in a van that had come along after the cars. From the few questions they’d answered so far, they were street kids from Leicester. They were half-doped, and knew nothing. Some of the ravers
had been making unsolicited disclosures (babbling like lunatics); the wiser human sacrifice fans, including the organisers no doubt, were keeping quiet. The horseboxes, which had turned up as predicted, were empty.
There was no sign yet of how the killing had been done.
The half-moon of the holy month looked down, wan and dim against the beams of a floodlight somebody had left behind, hung up on a branch. The barmies stared into the pit.
‘Vultures,’ suggested one of the lads. ‘Or no, I mean trained eagles.’
‘Maybe they tear ’em up somewhere else,’ said someone else. ‘An’ bring them here and strap them on them totem poles in pieces.’
‘What about those kids what was going to be offered up tonight, then?’
‘What do they offer them up for? What’s supposed to happen?’
‘Zip, you are an innercent. You and Fergal both. There’s no reason for it. They do the sicko stuff because they fuckin’ like it.’
‘Anyway, Sage got a good shufti, and he said… Is Sage coming back?’
‘Dunno,’ said Ax. ‘Look, I’m going down there, to see what I can find.’
‘I don’t think the forensic types have finished, Ax,’ said Brock, doubtfully.
Ax gave him a pitying glance. ‘Call yourself a hippy? Okay, I’ll ask permission.’ He went over and asked the policewoman.
‘I’m sure that would be all right, Mr Preston,’ she said, round-eyed.
‘Good. If it turns out it’s a problem, it’s my responsibility.’ The tackle that had been used to retrieve the bodies was gone. ‘Hey, someone give me a rope ladder. My name’s not Aoxomoxoa, you know.’
The barmies had started one of their interminable arguments, as to whether werewolves require a full moon, or is that vampires, and what about the silver bullets. Ax descended a nylon ladder into the pit. It was more unpleasant to be down there than he had expected: like being inside a hollowed, rotten tooth. The air smelled foul, the ground was soft underfoot, scattered with an abstact design of luminous outlines, where suspicious traces had been photographed… They’d found no actual footprints except Sage’s, apparently. He stepped carefully, wondering how much the ‘forensic types’ would be able to learn. The poles loomed, seeming twice their actual height. He couldn’t make anything of the carving, the light was too dim.
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