by Shaun Hutson
'I wish it was,' Lambert called after him, then, softly, 'I wish to God it was a bloody film.' He turned to Kirby, 'There's always an expert in a horror film, isn't there? You know, some smart-assed bastard who knows how to deal with things like this.' He almost laughed.
Kirby shook his head. 'Let's not get too paranoid about it, Tom.'
Lambert looked at him for a second, then he headed for the door. When he reached it he turned. 'I'll stop being paranoid when all this is over.' He walked out, leaving Kirby sitting alone in the room gently rubbing the scars on his neck.
* * *
Lambert drove home slowly that night, taking a route directly through the centre of Medworth, something which he usually avoided doing. He didn't know why, but the sight of people milling about the town centre reassured him. He drove in silence, not bothering to switch on the radio. He had enough on his mind as it was. The clock on the Capri dashboard showed five o'clock and the shops were beginning to close. Dusk hovered on the horizon, a portent of the darkness which would envelope the land in the coming hours. Lambert wondered what this particular night would bring with it. More deaths perhaps? He pushed the thought to one side and brought the car to a halt at a crossing. He tapped agitatedly on the wheel as the two women crossed, nodding affably to him. He lifted a weary hand in acknowledgement and drove on.
A motorcycle passed him, the driver wearing no crash helmet. Ordinarily, the Inspector would have driven after the youth and maybe even cautioned him, but this particular evening he let the incident pass. He watched as the bike roared away out of sight.
The drizzle which had blanketed the town for most of the day had finally given way to heavier rain and, as large spots of moisture began to splatter the windscreen, Lambert flicked on his wipers. The rubber arms swept away the rain, momentarily blurring his field of vision. By the time he reached home, it was pouring down. He locked the car door and bolted for the house, careful to remove his shoes when he got into the hall. He stood there for a moment then swiftly slid both bolts across, securing the door. Satisfied, he walked into the living room. The smell of cooking beef wafted out of the kitchen to greet him.
'Jack the Ripper's home,' he called, reaching for the local paper.
'Oh good, I thought it might be someone dangerous,' Debbie called from the kitchen.
Lambert took off his jacket and draped it over the back of his chair, his eyes fixed to the column of newsprint beside the headline. The policeman sat down and scanned the small article headline POLICE BAFFLED OVER DISAPPEARANCES.
'That bastard,' he snarled and threw the paper down.
Debbie appeared in the doorway. 'What's wrong?' she asked.
'Have you seen the local?' said Lambert, motioning to the discarded paper on the coffee table. 'That bastard Burton, I told him not to mention this in the paper. He's called me three times in the past week to ask what's going on. I said I'd issue a statement when the time was right.'
Debbie picked up the paper and read the short - column which told of the disappearances of a number of people in Medworth. No names mentioned, though.
'It doesn't seem to give too much away, Tom,' she said, placatingly.
'That's not the point,' snapped Lambert. 'I told him. Nothing to be printed until I found out what was going on. It's bloody scare mongering, that's all it is. If people read this it won't make the investigation any easier.'
'It'll get round by word of mouth,' said Debbie, returning to the kitchen. 'People are talking about it now.'
'What people?' Lambert wanted to know.
'Come on, Tom, it's a big talking point in the town. After all, it's the most exciting thing that's happened here for years.'
'I'd hardly call five murders and twelve disappearances excitement, would you?' He sighed. 'Christ, if they knew the truth they'd shut up.'
He flicked on the television and watched the news. The same old stuff. Strikes, Government upsets, the usual batch of robberies and murders. He picked up the local newspaper and read the column again, wondering if Detective Chief Inspector James Baron had seen it. If he had, it would be odds on he'd be on Lambert's back the following day wanting to know what was happening. The Inspector dropped the paper again. How the hell was he supposed to explain if Baron did call?
Debbie's shout to tell him that dinner was on the table interrupted his chain of thought and he trudged out into the kitchen and sat down. He ate in silence for a time with Debbie watching him.
'I had a lovely day, thank you dear,' she said, sarcastically. 'Oh did you, dear, fine.'
Lambert looked up and smiled. 'Sorry.'
'Welcome back to planet Earth,' said Debbie, softly.
'I was thinking,' he said.
'You always are.'
'I mean, what do you call this? This state that Mackenzie and Brooks are in? How do you rationalize what Kirby and I saw the other night?'
'You can't rationalize it, Tom. It happened, that's all there is to it.'
'But, Mackenzie. I mean to say, it's not life after death in the sense we know it. It's living death. He's dead but he's walking around.' Lambert began to laugh, quietly at first and then more heartily. Debbie swallowed hard as she watched him. He smiled and shook his head, the spasm subsiding.
'I think I'm going insane,' he said, looking at her. 'None of this can be happening. Things like this only happen in bad horror films.' His tone darkened once more. 'And yet I saw Emma Reece get up out of that coffin. I saw her attack Kirby, I felt her strength. I saw that, Debbie. My eyes saw something which my mind can't accept. I saw a dead man walk.' He pushed his plate away from him and rested his head on his hands which he had clasped before him.
'Do you think I'm insane?' he asked.
She shook her head.
'What's happening now, it goes against everything I've ever believed in. Right from the start of your training, they teach you to keep an open mind about things. Never make hasty decisions. Always weigh up all the evidence before making your judgement.' He smiled humourlessly. 'The trouble is, I've made up my mind. All the evidence points to something which, by all the laws of nature, is impossible. The dead are coming back to life.' He paused. 'All those who are victims, in turn, become living dead themselves. Even Brooks, Mackenzie killed him in the fall.'
'But what about the first two victims,' asked Debbie, 'and Father Ridley?'
'June and Michelle Mackenzie were cremated. Ridley died of a heart attack. He wasn't actually killed by the living dead. It's only those who are murdered by them that return.'
'Like vampires,' said Debbie, flatly. 'Their victims always become like them.'
Lambert shook his head. 'This is different. There's a pattern, a reason for it. It's almost as if there's a force behind it. Something more powerful than the creatures themselves. Something… something that's guiding them.' He rubbed his chin. 'There's a key somewhere, Debbie, a key that will give us the answer. It's just a matter of finding it. I hope to God I can find it in time.'
The phone rang. Debbie got up but Lambert waved her back.
'I'll get it,' he said.
He walked wearily into the living room and picked up the receiver.
'Hello.'
The line was crackly, thick with static and he repeated himself.
'Inspector?' he heard through the hissing. 'It's Trefoile.'
Lambert perked up. 'What have you got?'
'It might be easier if you come to the shop,' said the antique dealer, shouting to make himself heard above the roar of static. 'I was right about…'
The phone went dead.
'Trefoile!' Lambert flicked at the cradle. There was no sound. Nothing. The Inspector repeated the antique dealer's name.
He held the silent receiver in his hand for a second then gently replaced it on the cradle. His forehead was heavily creased.
'Who was it?' asked Debbie.
'Trefoile,' he told her, then he added, more urgently, 'Come on, let's go.'
She looked bewildered. He explained that they
were to visit the antique shop immediately and, from the force with which he gripped her hand, she knew it must be important. Grabbing their coats, they hurried out to the car, and in minutes were speeding towards the shop. Lambert could feel his heart thumping faster as he drove and he pressed down just that little bit harder on the accelerator.
'A key.' His own words echoed in his mind.
Was the medallion the key?
He thought of the phone going dead and shuddered. Perhaps his imagination was running away with him, but, as he swung the car into the main street of Medworth, he prayed that Trefoile would be the only one waiting for them in the antique shop.
* * *
Lambert stopped the car and the two of them sat for a moment, watching the sign above the door which was swinging back and forth in the wind. The shop was in darkness, not a light to be seen anywhere. Lambert scanned the other shops along the street. Many had residential flats above and, in most of these, lights were burning. Trefoile's shop, though, was a stark contrast and the Inspector felt an involuntary shudder run through him as he opened the car door. Debbie moved too, but he put a hand on her arm and shook his head.
'Stay here,' he said, softly, reaching for the flashlight on the parcel shelf. He flicked it on, testing the beam, and then stepped out onto the pavement. Debbie leant across and locked the door behind him, watching as he walked briskly to the front door of the shop. Lambert's anxiety was beginning to reach her and she anxiously scanned the street from end to end. Not a living soul to be seen. The light from the dull yellow of the streetlamps reflected back from the wet pavement like pools of liquid gold. The rain bounced hard against the car roof, beating out a tattoo.
Lambert knocked twice on the front door and, when he received no answer, tried the handle.
It opened.
He held up a hand to Debbie to signal that he was going in. She watched as he closed the door behind him.
He flicked on the flashlight and swung it back and forth across the room, aware of the musty smell of the place.
Two gleaming eyes shone at him from a corner and he gasped, suddenly angry with himself as he saw that they belonged to the head of a stuffed fox. He walked behind the counter towards the back room which served as a dining room, workshop, and kitchen.
'Trefoile,' he called.
No answer.
Lambert reached for the light switch to his right and flicked it down. Nothing happened. He tried again. The darkness remained. His beam picked out a plate of unfinished mince lying on the table. Beside it was a large book which, upon closer inspection, was revealed as a ledger of some sort. He walked to the back door and tugged at the handle. It was firm, the door securely locked and bolted. The Inspector swung the light around once more and found that there was a door which led out of the room. It was ajar. He crossed to it and cautiously peered round, shining the beam inside. It illuminated a narrow flight of steps which led up into even more impenetrable darkness.
'Trefoile,' Lambert called again, suddenly, and for no discernable reason, wishing he was armed.
Again he received no answer and, slowly, he began to ascend the staircase, finally reaching a small landing which had two doors leading off from it. He shone the flashlight onto each one in turn then made for the nearest one. He opened it quickly and found himself looking into a cramped toilet and bathroom. He closed the door and walked towards the second room.
Something moved above him.
Lambert froze, the breath trapped in his lungs. He shone the beam upwards and saw a trapdoor which he assumed led up into the attic.
Another movement. Heavy footsteps from above. He edged back towards the head of the stairs, beam pointed at the trapdoor as if it were a weapon. He wished it were a gun he was holding.
The trapdoor opened and Lambert stepped down one stair. Copper he might be, hero he wasn't. If there was something in that bloody attic he didn't intend tackling it alone.
A face appeared in the opening.
It was Trefoile. He smiled affably. Lambert exhaled deeply and almost laughed.
'Bloody fuse blew,' the antique dealer explained. 'I don't know why the hell they had to put the box up here. Won't be a moment.' With that, he disappeared back into the attack and, a second later, the place was bathed in welcoming light.
The antique dealer jumped expertly from the attic and brushed himself down. He smiled at Lambert and said, 'The phone call, it was about the medallion.'
'I thought it might be,' said the Inspector. He explained that Debbie was waiting in the car.
'Bring her in,' said Trefoile. 'We'll have a cup of tea. I think she'll be interested in what I've found too.'
* * *
The three of them sat in Trefoile's back room with cups of tea before them. Lying on the table were two huge, leather-bound books. Their pages were yellowed and crusty with age, and one had gold leaf words upon its cover, written in Latin.
Between them lay the medallion.
'As I said to you before, Inspector, this is a most remarkable piece of work,' said Trefoile, prodding the circlet with the end of his pen. 'I sent it to a friend of mine who works in a museum and he verified the fact that it was sixteenth century. He couldn't pinpoint the exact time though.'
'That doesn't matter,' said Lambert, reaching to his coat pocket for his cigarettes.
'You may remember me telling you,' began Trefoile but he broke off as he saw Lambert fighting up the cigarette. 'Would you mind not smoking, please, Inspector? My father never did like it in the house. You understand.'
Lambert shrugged and looked for somewhere to stub out the freshly lit cigarette. Trefoile took it from him and dropped it into the sink where it hissed.
'Sorry,' said the antique dealer, returning to the table.
Debbie suppressed a grin.
Trefoile continued. 'As I was saying, I did mention to you when you first showed me the medallion that I recalled seeing it somewhere before.'
Lambert nodded, watching as Trefoile flipped open the first of the mammoth volumes. He found what he wanted and turned the book so that Lambert and Debbie could see the picture he was indicating. It was an early woodcut of the medallion. Beneath it was a caption in Latin which Lambert pointed to.
'What does it mean?' he asked.
'It doesn't mean anything,' Trefoile said, enigmatically. 'It's a name.'
Lambert read it again, the letters standing out darkly against the yellowing paper.
Mathias.
'I still don't get it,' said the policeman, a slight edge to his voice.
'Mathias was the owner of the medallion. That very medallion which came into your possession.' He paused, watching their reaction carefully to his next words. 'Mathias was a Black Magician. Said, at the time, to be the most powerful ever known.'
Lambert snorted. 'So you're telling me that this,' he poked the medallion, 'belonged to a witch?'
'A Black Magician,' repeated Trefoile, 'a High Priest if you like, a Druid. Does it matter what the name is? It all amounts to the same thing.'
There was a moment's silence then the Inspector said, 'What about the inscriptions? Could you decipher them?'
Trefoile sighed. 'The one across the centre of the medallion was pretty simple. It means Deathday.'
Lambert shrugged. 'The other one?'
'That was trickier, much trickier. You see, it's not like the central one. The inscription around the outside of the medallion is written in reverse.'
'A sort of code?' asked Lambert.
The antique dealer nodded. 'When the letters are transposed, that's when it begins to make a bit of sense.' He pushed the gold circlet towards Lambert, pointing out the letters with the tip of his pen. 'These two words,' he wrote them down on a pad, 'as they are, make no sense. Transposed, they read REX NOCTU.' He paused. 'It means, King of the Night.'
'What about the other words?' Lambert demanded.
Trefoile swallowed hard. 'Inspector, don't think me a fool, a coward even, but, if I were you, I'd get
rid of this thing now.'
'Why, for Christ's sake?'
'Because it's evil.'
Lambert half smiled. 'Evil.'
'Take these books,' said Trefoile, 'you'll find your answers in there. I want no part of this.' The Inspector's expression changed when he saw how pale the antique dealer had become. The older man's hands were shaking visibly as he wiped a bead of perspiration from his forehead.
'Trefoile,' he said, 'what the hell is it with this bloody medallion? It's important. People could have died because of this.'
'Does it have anything to do with what's happening here at the moment?' The question hung in the air.
'What makes you think that?' demanded Lambert.
'As I said, it's evil. I can't help you anymore, Inspector.' Trefoile's voice had dropped to a low whisper. 'Just take the books and go. Please.' There was a hint of pleading in that last word.
Lambert looked stunned. He looked at Debbie and shook his head before gathering up the two books and the medallion. He thanked the antique dealer for his help and told him that they would find their own way out. He nodded abstractedly, gazing into the murky depths of his cup, aware only of their departure by the soft tinkling of the bell over the door, lingering like some unwanted nightmare.
* * *
Lambert and Debbie hurried to the car and climbed in, placing the two huge volumes and the medallion on the back seat. The Inspector started the engine immediately and drove off.
'Tom, he was really frightened,' said Debbie, softly.
'Drive me to the library,' she told him.
'Now?'
'We'll need a dictionary to translate the Latin; there's two or three in our reference section.'
Lambert nodded and swung a right at the next junction. As he drove he noted how few people were on the streets. A couple of lads in leather jackets smoking, standing in a shop doorway. One or two in the fish and chip shop but, apart from that, they hadn't seen above five people since leaving the house two hours earlier.
He brought the car to a halt outside the library and both of them got out. Debbie was first up the stairs, fumbling in her jacket pocket for the master key. Cursing the cold weather, she finally found it and there was a loud click as the heavy lock opened. They stepped in, Debbie slapping the panel of switches near the door. The powerful banks of fluorescents blazed and the library was filled with cold white light. Lambert shivered as he followed her through the maze of shelves towards the reference section.