The Mayfly: The chilling thriller that will get under your skin

by James Hazel

  ‘You’re alive,’ Jessica whispered in horror. ‘Then who . . .?’

  ‘Who was impaled in the Ellinder warehouse?’ asked Priest. ‘A migrant, a vagabond? Just someone picked up off the street?’

  Lucia shrugged. ‘His name is hardly important now.’

  ‘I doubt you even know it,’ Priest said. ‘There is no shortage of undocumented migrants you could prey on. Although I still don’t understand why you had to impale him. It seems sensationalist, even for you.’

  ‘There are limits to your understanding, then,’ Lucia sneered.

  ‘But how?’ Jessica demanded. ‘How did everyone think that was Miles?’

  ‘Because his mother identified the body. I saw that on the interim autopsy report but it didn’t register as significant at the time.’

  Lucia stood up and pushed the chair aside. ‘Of course I identified his body! What else could a faithful wife do for her sick and grieving husband? And besides, it was hardly a secret that Miles was mine and not Kenneth’s.’

  ‘No one questioned a mother’s identification of her own son,’ said Priest. ‘And of course you have McEwen. He’s part of the network, isn’t he? And the pathologist who supposedly carried out the post-mortem. Also belongs to you.’

  Lucia raised an eyebrow. ‘McEwen? The pathologist? You’ve surpassed my expectations, Mr Priest. I doubted you would manage to identify all of my foot soldiers.’

  The devil’s in the detail, Priest. ‘Easy when the name that signed off Miles’s post-mortem report also appears on the Mayfly list,’ Priest replied.

  ‘But . . .’ Jessica stammered. ‘Why?’

  ‘Miles had to fake his death and I suspect he shares your mother’s love of theatre. So began the greatest wild goose chase of them all.’

  Lucia nodded and clapped her hands. In the distance, Priest could hear the muffled hum of the crowd; they were waiting for the performance, restless and eager. In six minutes time, they would be satisfied.

  ‘But why?’ said Jessica again. ‘Why did Miles have to fake his death?’

  ‘I think there were two reasons,’ said Priest, fixing his stare on Lucia. ‘Firstly, Philip Wren was starting to get very close to the Ellinder family; that was a major concern. So, Miles had to be killed off in a spectacular way to cast your family as the victims and not the perpetrators. Am I right?’

  Lucia nodded. ‘Wren was becoming a nuisance but killing him would only have made matters more difficult – no doubt someone would have taken his place. We needed to confuse the investigation and allow Miles the freedom to operate from the shadows.’

  ‘You ended up having to finish Wren off anyway once you found out he had got hold of the Mayfly list.’

  ‘I don’t understand . . .’ Jessica looked at Priest, as if pleading with him to make sense of it all.

  Be careful what you wish for, Jessica.

  Priest continued to address Lucia Ellinder. ‘The second advantage of faking Miles’s death was that it gave you the chance to get to me. You needed to retrieve the data but also establish what I knew. Miles failed to recover the data first time around so you killed the stand-in and planted my business card on him. You then persuaded your husband to instruct me to investigate Miles’s death. Jessica was encouraged to shadow me. That way I could be drawn in to the Mayfly web and McEwen would have every excuse to recover the data – like his failed attempt at exercising a warrant to search my offices.’

  ‘Bravo, Mr Priest.’ Lucia Ellinder clapped again.

  ‘But why involve me?’ Jessica asked.

  ‘To initiate you. To let you discover for yourself the glorious horror of what awaits you. Your mother has already said it, Jessica: this is your destiny, your house. This institution is bequeathed to you. As Eva passed her work on to her daughter, so in turn will your mother hand it on to you. You’re her apprentice.You are the next Mayfly.’

  Jessica shook her head. ‘This is madness,’ she whispered.

  Lucia Ellinder extended her hand to her daughter. ‘Have you not seen the wonder of what we have achieved, Jessica? The work of Kurt Schneider continued.’

  ‘You’re torturing people. For entertainment.’

  ‘We are living, Jessica. Through fear, we are redefining our relationship with God. Achieving the ultimate. The power and control we command in this house, Jessica. Imagine, establishing a direct conduit to Him – the Creator.’

  ‘People are paying you. To see you torture people.’

  ‘And that money has allowed us to retain the lifestyle that you have enjoyed, Jessica. Do not forget that. Your father’s businesses could not have sustained us. But this isn’t about money. It’s about the Mayfly. It’s about evolution.’

  Jessica buried her head in her hands. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘No doubt you do, Mr Priest,’ Lucia Ellinder tilted her head at Priest.

  ‘It would be easy to dismiss this as a lunatic death cult,’ said Priest slowly. ‘But that would be too simple an explanation. You said it is about evolution, which is ironic, given that it is actually about God.’

  Lucia’s smile broadened. ‘Go on.’

  ‘You believe you can be closer to God – or perhaps even see Him – through the unimaginable suffering of another human being. It’s like a sex rite, but whereas the conduit to God purportedly opens at the point of orgasm, here the channel is opened through pain and fear.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of anything so insane,’ Jessica whispered.

  ‘The idea of sacrificing human life to appease a god has been around since the earliest civilisations,’ Priest pointed out. ‘This is – in a way – the evolution of that idea. That’s what Kurt Schneider was trying to do.’

  ‘This isn’t happening . . .’

  ‘Wake up! This is your inheritance, child!’ Suddenly enraged, Lucia began to advance across the room towards Jessica.

  Priest calculated. He needed more time but his chances were ebbing away. Miles was twenty yards away, maybe less, brandishing a gun. He’d only have to be a moderately skilled shot to take Priest out.

  In the distance, a bell chimed. Nobody moved. Then, gently at first, rain started to patter on the opaque windows lining the circular room. This is it. Time’s up.

  ‘Enough of this,’ Lucia declared. ‘Come with me, Jessica.’

  Miles brought the gun up, and gestured for them to follow him through one of the doors at the far end of the room. Priest thought of Georgie, and what might lie in wait for her. As Lucia disappeared through the door ahead of them, Priest glanced at Jessica. Her cheeks were red and she looked exhausted, but she was not beaten. Far from it.

  ‘Miles,’ she said urgently. ‘What on earth are you doing?’

  ‘What I was born to do, sister.’

  ‘You weren’t born into this darkness, Miles. Open your eyes, for God’s sake!’

  ‘God, sister? I thought you were a non-believer?’

  ‘I am. You can’t tell me you believe any of this shit, you moron.’

  He chuckled. ‘Well, why don’t we step forward and meet Him and see if you’re right?’

  52

  Miles led them through another door off the great hall, down a dimly lit corridor and up the grand staircase to the balcony room overlooking the theatre. When they reached the final set of double doors, Miles paused. From inside they could hear the noise of the guests clearly. The performance hadn’t started yet. Maybe Georgie and Hayley were still alive, but Priest’s head was spinning. He had no plan.

  ‘Last chance, Miles,’ Jessica warned.

  Miles was amused. ‘You always were a tight-cunted bitch, Jessica. I don’t care whether or not you join Mother and me, but it’s in your blood.’ He pulled her roughly towards him. ‘Admit it,’ he whispered. ‘You want to see the bitch hurt.’

  Priest felt Jessica shaking with fear beside him.

  Miles marched them into the balcony room. In front of them a crowd of hooded people were craning to see over the edge of the balcony, j
ostling for position and applauding. The noise was deafening. If Hell existed, Priest thought, then this was how walking through its gates would feel.

  Miles led them round to the back of the crowd, which had increased twofold since Priest had last been in this room. Televisions had been set up around the sides of the room, showing the stage below. Every screen displayed Lucia Ellinder, bowing in front of her public.

  ‘Friends!’ Her words were barely audible above the noise of the crowd. ‘Welcome. Welcome!’

  Priest turned to his right. Miles jammed the gun into his ribcage. To his left, Jessica was transfixed by the television screen. He felt her hand slip into his. He squeezed. She squeezed back. She turned away from the screen. Her eyes were cloudy with tears. In front of him, Lucia was still talking, but he could sense the words slipping away from him. The drone of the crowd seemed numbed, as if the noise had been trapped behind closed doors.

  Not now, please God, not now . . . He was slipping away, into his own private dreamland.

  Priest watched as the scene played out in front of him. He saw himself standing at the edge of a gathering of faceless ghosts, all swaying to the discordant whine of an invisible orchestra. Moving metrically as one, they seemed hypnotised by an energy source on the far side of the auditorium. He saw his hand clasped around something warm and comforting and knew he might never find it again if he let it go.

  Suddenly both sides of the crowd began to implode, cascading inwards. Some of the ghosts began falling, toppling over like wooden soldiers, trampled by others. The intensity of the noise increased. There was screaming – the din of panic and distress. As he watched, the mob began to disintegrate, broken up by men and women in uniforms with heavy guns strapped over their shoulders, screaming.

  ‘Armed police! Get down! Get down!’

  Priest stepped back. Numb as he was, the noise was unbearable. He wanted to sink down, curl up, shut everything out, but someone had him by the lapels and was forcing him up against the wall.

  ‘Charlie!’

  He shook himself. Here and now.

  ‘Charlie!’

  ‘Jessica?’ He blinked his way back to reality.

  ‘Charlie! Miles. He went that way!’

  She was pointing to a small door wallpapered to match the surrounding walls. Priest was just in time to see Miles Ellinder disappearing through it.

  Priest pushed aside two hooded spectators trying to flee and sent them sprawling back into the crowd. He tore open the door.

  He ran blind down a tunnel barely wide enough to allow free movement. Slivers of light breached cracks in the walls. The house was old enough to be riddled with passageways separating the servants from their masters. Conduits between two worlds.

  He pressed on through the gloom, driven by the dark energy that had been building within him over the last week. Ahead of him, he could hear Miles stumbling through the dark, his progress laboured. The gap between them was closing.

  At the next corner, Priest found himself at the bottom of a flight of stairs, ascending into darkness. Above him, he heard boots on the steps and heavy breathing.

  Just as Priest was about to follow Miles up the steps, two shots ricocheted back down the stairwell. The bullets splintered holes in the wooden treads, missing him by several feet. Priest paused, calculating his next move.

  From above him, a woman screamed.

  Disregarding the risk, Priest took the stairs three at a time.

  ‘Georgie!’ he called out.

  ‘Charlie!’

  Her voice was distant and muffled. At the top of the stairs, Priest hurled himself through another door but rather than stumbling into another servants’ passage, he was met by the howl of the wind and driving rain. The shock of the cold and the wet gale slapping into his face arrested him and for a moment he lost his bearings. He began to pick his way across a moss-covered roof.

  ‘Charlie!’

  The alarm in Georgie’s voice was as unsettling as the change in atmosphere had been. He glanced ahead. Through the rain, he could see he was on a vast section of flat roof at the back of the house surrounded by four or five towers and bordered by turrets overlooking the grounds and lined with stone grotesques. On the far side, he could just make out Miles, standing facing him on the roof edge, his arm across Georgie’s chest, the gun jammed to her head.

  ‘Georgie!’ Priest had to make himself heard above the sound of the pounding rain. He crept forwards, closing the gap between them to ten feet or so. ‘Miles – give her to me!’

  ‘Fuck you, Priest!’

  Miles took a step backwards. Another two steps and he would go over the edge, taking Georgie with him.

  ‘Georgie!’ Priest yelled. ‘Look at me. Look at me!’

  Her head was twisted to the side but, with great effort, she managed to turn to look at Priest. She was white with fear, but otherwise seemed unhurt.

  ‘Georgie, it’s going to be OK,’ he assured her.

  She nodded uncertainly.

  ‘You’re a good liar, Priest,’ said Miles. ‘Useful for a lawyer.’

  ‘It’s over, Miles. There’s nothing to be gained from carrying on. They’ll get you one way or the other. Might as well give yourself a chance to plea bargain.’

  Miles laughed. ‘As if that’s an attractive proposition.’

  ‘You’re not in a good position to argue, Miles.’

  ‘I’m the one with the gun to your bitch’s head, Priest! Give me the flash drive.’

  ‘What? You think there’s a way out for you, still?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what I think, just give me the damn flash drive!’

  Miles was deadly serious. Out of the corner of his eye, Priest saw a figure take up position on the other side of the tower. He checked the angle – it was out of Miles’s eye line.

  ‘You’ve lost, Miles,’ Priest shouted. ‘The ceremony is over. Your mother is in custody. The data’s of no use now.’

  ‘I’ll do it, Priest!’ Miles shouted. ‘Putting a bullet through her head is child’s play compared with what I’ve achieved!’

  ‘And did you find God while you were doing that, Miles? Or just get off on it?’

  ‘Priest!’ Miles warned.

  Priest fixed his gaze on Georgie. She looked back, pleading with her eyes. I will not let you down. You will not become another ghost. Slowly, he reached into his inside pocket and produced the flash drive.

  Miles’s face lit up. ‘Throw it to me,’ he instructed.

  Priest gave Georgie one final look. Then he tossed the flash drive in the air towards Miles. It fell a couple of feet short. Enraged, Miles pulled Georgie closer and leant forward and around her to retrieve it. In that moment, a single shot from the other side of the tower ripped through the darkness and into Miles’s arm. He yelled out and tumbled to the ground, releasing his grip on Georgie, who immediately ran forward.

  Priest was quick off the mark but Miles had reared up and returned fire in the direction of his attacker. The bullet slammed harmlessly into the tower.

  Priest hurled himself at Miles and they both fell to the ground, sending the gun spinning away out of reach. Priest’s leg dangled dangerously over the edge of the roof as, off balance, he found himself thrown sideways.

  From behind the tower, the waiter, Marco, surged across the roof towards Miles but lost his footing on the wet moss. He recovered, but it was enough to bring him to one knee only a few feet away from Miles, who catapulted forwards and punched him in the face.

  The waiter fell backwards, blood pouring from his nose, his gun clattering across the roof. He scrambled back towards the tower but slipped again. Behind him, Miles picked up the gun.

  Priest watched as Marco whirled around but only to look down the barrel of his own gun. Priest searched the rooftop desperately. To his right, only a metre or so away, he saw Miles’s gun lying in a puddle.

  ‘Goodbye, whoever the fuck you are,’ Priest heard Miles say.

  Priest dived for Miles’s gun. I’m
too late . . .

  The gunshot cut through the night sky like thunder.

  Marco was on the ground. For a moment, Priest thought he hadn’t fired in time. But as he watched, Miles Ellinder began to stagger, clutching his side.

  And then he fell over the side of the roof.

  Priest made his way to the edge and peered down into the courtyard below. He removed the magazine from the handgun and pocketed it before turning to Georgie.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I’ve had a rough day.’ She attempted a watery smile.

  ‘I’ll bet.’

  ‘Thanks for coming all this way and saving me, Charlie.’

  Priest took her into his arms. ‘I’m a really thoughtful employer,’ he whispered into her hair.

  ‘Nice shot,’ Marco observed, getting to his feet.

  ‘I take it you don’t work here for the tips.’

  ‘NDEU,’ said Marco. ‘National Domestic Extremist Unit.’

  ‘How long have you been undercover?’

  ‘About a year now.’

  ‘Guess I almost blew it for you.’

  ‘Pretty close, but you made up for it with that shot. So, can you tell me who you are?’

  Priest sniffed and tightened his arm around Georgie. The rain had let up a little but he was drenched and incredibly thirsty. Georgie hadn’t let go of him.

  He shrugged. ‘I’m just a lawyer.’

  53

  By the time they had made their way back down and into the front courtyard, the Met had things under control. The driveway was packed with police cars. A kaleidoscope of blue lights danced off the stone walls as handcuffed spectators were led into the back of riot vans. A few people had managed to slip through the net but the dogs would soon catch them. One man had been found upstairs having turned a gun on himself.

  In the end, the demise of the House of Mayfly was a pitiful sight.