by Simon Clark
‘There is a lake down there?’ David asked.
‘There is. It’s the size of a tennis court. But it’s deep. Very deep. The bottom’s never been plumbed.’
‘And the underground lake’s the real source of the Lepping?’
‘You are starting to remember?’
David shook his head. Even so, he sensed a faint tingle of recognition. Something about the iron bars; and the darkness beyond.
It should look different somehow.
And the iron bars made a noise.
He frowned.
Come on, David, how could iron bars make a noise?
Again he realized how strange the world must appear to a six-year-old. As a twenty-nine-year-old he found himself glimpsing these surroundings through his six-year-old self. He began to remember.
There had been a strong smell.
Like the zoo.
Or a stable.
No, a pigsty.
And the railings in front of him weren’t silent.
He looked at the railings in the lamplight. They cast a heavy black shadow back into the cave. Then he noticed a steel peg as long as his forearm. It was tied by a length of white plastic-coated washing line to one of the horizontal bars. The bars there carried slight dents.
Suddenly he knew why.
The memory flashed back. Hard and clear. His uncle standing, holding young David’s hand while he rattled the steel peg backwards and forwards to produce what seemed to six-year-old ears a deafening, clanging sound.
But why on earth did his uncle do that?
Again David looked through the iron bars into the dark bore of the tunnel running away into the hillside.
There’s something there, he suddenly told himself; something there in the darkness watching me. I can sense them.
Them?
Why had he thought ‘them’?
The air in the cavern seemed suddenly colder. He shivered. A breeze — no, not quite a breeze, barely more than a draught, but cold, so icy that cold had begun to ooze up into his face.
When he breathed into his hands to warm them vapour blossomed into the air, a dazzling white in the light of the gas lamp. He shivered again. His heart began to beat harder as if deep down he knew something was going to happen at any moment. There was a deep-rooted sense of anticipation. It was so strong he felt as if he could reach out and clasp his fingers around it.
What is this place?
Why does it have such an effect on me?
Why couldn’t he take his eyes off that dark core of the tunnel running away to God knew where?
Which God, David? The God of angels and light?
Or a God of darkness and screaming and bestiality and blood?
He found himself thinking back an hour or so to when he’d seen the drain that had unleashed that bizarre twenty-three-year-old memory of seeing white footballs bobbing through the darkness beneath the grating in the street. Was that weird or was that weird? He wondered what other memories might come surging to the surface.
‘Those who make contracts with the gods must keep them,’ his uncle spoke in a low voice as he hung the lamp on an iron hook screwed into the ceiling where it hissed and pulsed with such a brilliant light that David could barely keep his eyes open.
‘Remember what I told you,’ George said in a low voice that was almost swamped by the hissing of the gas lamp. ‘The thunder god, Thor, gave the chieftain of the Leppingsvalt clan the task of creating a new empire that would cover the whole world. The chieftain complained that he had no army, so Thor offered him one, providing he would begin the invasion of the world immediately the winter snows had melted.’ George poured more whiskey into David’s cup. ‘You see, already the Nordic gods felt their powers diminishing as Christianity spread like plague throughout Europe. The Norse temples were being destroyed, the old rituals were no longer performed. The chieftain of the Leppingsvalts agreed. And so the contract was forged. Immediately, Thor summoned the Valkyries — these were the warrior maidens of the gods — and he ordered them to fly to the battlefields of the world where they would collect the dead warriors and bring them back to these valleys.’
‘But what use would a collection of old corpses be?’
‘Ah, but here we have the working of a god — an old and very powerful god. With the edge of his knife he split his tongue, then with his mouth full of his own blood he kissed each fallen warrior in turn and restored them to life.’
‘And these resurrected soldiers would obey the Leppingsvalt chieftain?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘So what happened when the invasion took place?’
‘The army wasn’t ready. They lay in the caves throughout that winter of a thousand years ago, feeding on the blood of bulls to regain their strength. Remember, Thor had told the Leppingsvalt chieftain to attack when the winter snows had cleared.’
David felt warmed by the whiskey once more. His uncle had become a silhouette against the brilliance of the lamp that hissed and pulsed until David could almost believe that a fragment of the sun had been brought down into the cave.
The old man continued. ‘Then, on the night before the invasion, disaster struck. The chieftain sat in his feasting hall with his sister and his bride-to-be. Also there was his lieutenant, Vurtzen. Now Vurtzen was a Goth warrior. By all accounts he was a gigantic savage of a man whose speech was closer to that of wolves than human. Then — and it is never made clear why — the chieftain and Vurtzen began to argue. The argument grew more and more ferocious until they drew swords and fought each other. The battle raged all night. At some point a huge wind blew open the door and extinguished the candles. But still they fought on — only now it was in utter darkness. Both men were expert swordsmen; neither could better the other. You can imagine them fighting there in the dark: the clang of steel blades echoing from the walls; the flash of sparks as sword crashed against sword. However, with neither of them realizing it, the chieftain’s sister and the bride-to-be were accidentally killed during the duel. Neither the chieftain nor Vurtzen knew who struck the fatal blows. In remorse Vurtzen fled the country. Chieftain Leppingsvalt reacted differently. Mad with fury, he burned down the temple to Thor, blaming him for the deaths of the women.’
‘But the god wouldn’t take that lying down?’
‘No. Thor appeared, ordering Leppingsvalt to begin the attack on the Christian kingdoms.’
‘Using what amounted to a vampire army?’
‘I suppose an army of vampires might be as good a description as any,’ the old man agreed softly. ‘An army of dead men fed on living blood. Perhaps you can allow your imagination to run freely, David? You can picture a hundred thousand men; they’re clad in armour that had begun to rust as they lay dead on the battlefields. Their leather boots may have been rotted from their feet, their eyes may have been pecked out by crows; but there they are, made magically alive again and as strong as the bulls on whose blood they’ve feasted. They are ready for Leppingsvalt — your ancestor, David: your flesh and blood — to lead them into a war against the living.’
‘Quite a story,’ David said, sipping from his cup.
‘Quite a story,’ the old man agreed. He took hold of the steel spike where it hung by the length of washing line from the bars. For a moment he gazed at it thoughtfully. ‘Yes. Quite a story.’
‘But Leppingsvalt never gave the order to attack?’
The old man didn’t reply.
‘There never was a vast empire with Leppington at its centre becoming a new Rome?’
The old man tested the weight of the steel spike in his hand. ‘Leppingsvalt refused to honour his deal with Thor. So he ordered his army — his vampire army — to return to their lair deep inside the mountains. So consumed with grief was he at the loss of his bride-to-be that he told Thor there never would be an invasion.’
‘The deal was off?’
George nodded his grey head. ‘The deal was off.’ Carefully he let go of the steel spike. It swayed gently, in the cool
breeze. ‘But whatever you do, you must always honour your contract with the gods. In his fury Thor struck Leppingsvalt with the hammer. Legend has it that the blow smashed every bone in Leppingsvalt’s face, leaving him resembling a pig. The injuries were so painful that even the touch of spider’s web on one cheek would leave him howling in agony.’
David shrugged thoughtfully. ‘So there ends the Leppingsvalts’ quest for a world empire.’
The old man turned to David and his face wrinkled into a dry smile. ‘Not quite, great-nephew. Remember, the blood of Thor, the thunder god, ran in Leppingsvalt’s blood. No matter how disobedient a son is, a father won’t hate him forever, And, to all intents and purposes, Chieftain Leppingsvalt was a son of Thor: he was half mortal, half god.’ The old man was speaking quickly, and somehow, to David, the voice sounded incredibly fluent, almost musical, the tongue loosened, no doubt, by the whiskey. ‘Years later, Leppingsvalt lay dying in his crumbling palace, the furniture rotting from neglect, the birds nesting in the ruined roof, the fireplace now eternally cold. As his final breath of life came Thor appeared to his son. He must have looked down on his son’s broken face with its piggish snout. At that moment Thor’s heart softened. He told the dying man that for a thousand years the fortunes of the Leppingsvalts would continue to slowly fall into ruin, the family would dwindle. Then, when all hope seemed to have gone and the once great family lay broken and scattered and dying, one of its sons would return from exile. He would take back the sword of Helvetes from the Christian kings. Then he would unleash his terrible army of dead warriors, sweeping away all of Leppingsvalt’s enemies.’
‘And creating the vast empire presided over by the old Norse gods?’ David recognized an inherent paranoia in the story. It was a legend told to Leppingsvalt children by the fireside down through the centuries to explain why the family was steadily losing its grip on the ability to generate wealth. And it was continued to be told when the Leppingsvalts’ name changed to Leppington. The story was an excuse for the Leppingtons’ failure. Maybe the old man found a perverse comfort in it. By repeating it you were saying the reason for the family’s decline came from outside, it was everyone’s else’s fault — the local Christian rulers of the time; betrayal by their own gods; market forces outside the area; why, even the government’s income-tax policy would do. David wondered if the old man allowed the story to prey on his mind now he lived alone in the house on the hillside. You never knew, the fixation on the story might be an early symptom of senility.
David looked back at the old man who gazed through the bars into the darkness beyond, lost deep in his own thoughts. Perhaps the old man spends hours in the cave, David thought, nursing his bottle of whiskey while brooding over the past glories of the Leppington family — possibly imagined past glories at that.
Still, he mused, you don’t get to know you have divine blood in your veins every day. I wonder what the guys and gals at the tennis club would make of that?
He found himself smiling, then quickly killed it: he didn’t want to hurt the old man’s feelings. He did like him. And after all, everyone grows old one day. With the wrinkles and aching joints comes the fixation on ideas that younger people might find peculiar. Weren’t winters colder and summers warmer in the old days? That’s what many a grandmother would maintain. And grandfathers always claim beer tasted better, that rum was thick as syrup, that neighbours were friendlier, that money went further and so on and so on…
In the light of the lamp David watched his great-uncle’s brooding eyes as they continued to watch the darkness.
Come off your high horse, David, he suddenly told himself. Quit the arrogance. He’s an old man living alone. His wife’s long dead. He has no close family. What else has he got left?
David felt a sudden fierce loyalty to the old man. His uncle had loved him like a son. He’d taken him for walks out into the countryside as soon as David could walk, bought him birthday and Christmas presents. George had probably babysat for him and his stepsisters. His Uncle George must have been broken-hearted when David’s parents had moved what was left of the Leppington family to Liverpool.
And now you stand here coolly assessing him as if he’s some stranger who’s walked into the clinic with a bunion. Remember, David. This old man is family. A blood relative.
He lightly touched the old man’s arm. ‘Uncle George. Is it possible to see the lake?’ The old man might brighten up if he showed an interest in the family mythology.
The old man shook his head. ‘Not anymore.’ He touched the metal bars with a strong finger. ‘Nothing will get through these.’
‘Isn’t there any other way into the caves?’
‘There’s a couple more entrances like this on the hillside. Colonel Leppington had them blocked off with these steel bars more than a hundred years ago.’
‘Why?’
‘Too dangerous.’
‘Too dangerous? How?’
‘Children were forever wandering in.’ He shrugged, sounding suddenly tired and old — incredibly old now. ‘They became lost. Place is a maze down there. Tunnels go on for miles.’ He shook his head; his voice now dropped to a whisper. ‘Too many children. They got lost in the dark. Never came back. So…’ He gave the iron bars a slap; they hummed as if he’d tapped a huge bell. Quickly — almost anxiously — he quelled the vibrating bars with the palm of his hand. ‘So, Colonel Leppington had all the entrances fitted with these steel bars. Made a damn’ good job, too.’ With a deliberate effort the old man was making himself sound more cheerful. ‘Well, we’ll catch our deaths malingering away down here. Come on, I made some bread yesterday. We’ll toast it over the fire in the forge. You used to love that when you were about so high. How’s your mother keeping? I kept meaning to drive across to Liverpool to visit one day, but…well, you know how it is. You lose touch. But it’s been grand to see you, lad. You’ve not got yourself spliced yet, eh?’
He reached up a muscular arm and took down the lamp from the hook. Then, making nothing but small talk, he led David back to the surface, the hissing lamp surrounding them in a globe of light. David walked quickly to keep at the old man’s side. The darkness behind deepened. The shadows seemed to follow them, as if eager to escape the cold loneliness of the cave.
CHAPTER 14
1
This was the part Jack Black liked best. The moment of entry. The instant of penetration. This was the NOW! when what belonged to someone else became his.
Bang.
His foot had gone clean through the plywood panel at the bottom of the back door. Another two kicks and there was a hole big enough for one of his maggots to climb through.
The maggot complained. ‘Did you have to make so much noise?’
‘Inside. Open the door,’ Jack Black ordered.
‘What if someone heard?’
‘No one heard.’
‘Look, I’m on bail. If I get caught again the bastard judge’ll send me down.’
‘You won’t get caught. Inside. Open the door.’
Jack Black stared down the maggot. He knew the maggot wouldn’t protest that much. The maggot still had the scabbed nose and black eye from when Jack’d put his maggot band together.
The other two maggots stood sullenly along the path. Jack Black knew they didn’t like him. But they feared him. And he’d promised them a good cut of the proceeds so that was enough to be sure of their loyalty.
These maggots thought small-time. They smashed a car window and stole a radio. If they broke into a house they took what they could carry in their hands — which wasn’t much: maybe a video, portable TV, a bit of jewellery. Jack Black would show them how to do it big-time. He’d rented a transit van from Whitby. Then he’d picked a house stuck in the middle of fields. Shit, this was easy meat. Wap! Wap! Kick in the flimsy plywood panel at the bottom of the door; send in one of his maggots to unlock the Yale. Then he was in.
That was what he liked: walking into some shit’s house and thinking: this is mine. For the next
couple of hours I own you. I’m taking what I want.
And the secret of making house-breaking pay is taking every piece of shit that’s worth money — cash, jewellery, TV, radios, computers, clothes if they’re half decent, furniture, vases, antiques, even the bloody pictures off the walls. Strip the fucker bare if need be.
‘Are you waiting for a handwritten invitation or what?’ he asked the maggots. ‘Follow me. Everything I touch, take it out to the van. OK?’
They nodded, stone-faced. ‘OK, boss.’
Christ, I hate the fucker…I’m going to grass him up to the cops first chance I get. My fucking nose. He hurt my fucking nose so much. I’ll kill him. Or I’ll tip off a cop. No. Wait and get the money first.
Jack looked at the kid with the ginger beard and checked lumberjack shirt.
Jack Black. What kind of fucking name is that? I’m going to tear out his liver. I’ll hurt him worse than he hurt me…
Jack knew what the kid was thinking. And that’s no figure of speech, he thought to himself. The kid’s thoughts rabbited away through Jack’s head.
I’ll cut him open; rip out his fucking liver. Kick his fucking liver all over the fucking street…
‘Oi.’ Jack pointed at the kid with the ginger beard. ‘Try anything…any fucking thing. And I’ll have your liver. I’ll roast your liver over a fire and make you fucking eat it.’
The bearded kid looked at Jack in nothing less than shock. His mouth dropped open — all stupid and wet-lipped. Now that had surprised the maggot; when you let them know what they’re thinking.
Jack grinned, feeling the scar on the side of his head tingle.
‘Now, you lot, move it,’ he ordered. ‘We’re going to get all this over to York by this afternoon.’
‘When do we get the cash?’ whined one of the maggots. ‘I need some blow. My head’s like full of shit. I need a line of coke or speed.’
Wap!
Jack slapped the maggot — an open-handed slap. Christ, aren’t I the merciful one today?