He pondered before answering.
‘Really, Andrew, it isn’t my province. It will take a proper police enquiry to establish any guilt. But your prima facie evidence is interesting, if not convincing. I think you were right not to tell the police your suspicions on Saturday. They would not have believed a word. But there may be enough here to get them moving. Do you mind if I keep your friend’s letter? I’d like to reread it this evening and make one or two enquiries of my own.
‘As for yourself, my advice is to go home now, take two of the tablets I’m going to give you, and get some rest. Will you do that?’
I nodded.
‘Good man. It’s time we got you properly on your feet. If it’s at all possible, you should consider going to Stornoway for a few months. But let’s wait until we know what the news is about your father.’
He gave me a small packet of tranquillizers and told the nurse to give me a large bottle of the herbal medicine I had had before.
‘This is slower acting,’ he said, ‘but it will have greater benefits in the long run, and no side effects. I don’t want you getting addicted to the tranquillizers. Take a tablespoon before meals. Make sure you have some with whatever you have when you get in. And I’d like to see you tomorrow, if that’s all right.’
‘I’ll make an appointment on the way out.’
He shook his head.
‘No, I’d rather you stayed at home for a few days. From the sound of it, you’ve been overdoing things. That isn’t good in your condition. I’d like you to stay in this evening and get an early night. Take one of those tablets at bedtime, it should help you sleep. I’ll call in the morning on my rounds. Are you still in the same flat?’
‘No, I’ve moved.’ I was about to give him my new address when I remembered that I had arranged to stay with Harriet. ‘I’m going to be with Harriet over the next few days,’ I said. ‘You’d better have her address.’ I wrote it down and left it on the desk.
As I reached the door, I turned and asked a question that had been bothering me all afternoon.
‘You don’t think Catriona’s body is in that church, do you? Would he have taken her there?’
He shrugged.
‘I really don’t know, Andrew. But we can get the police onto it and, if she has been taken there, they’ll find her and have her returned to Glasgow. For God’s sake, don’t even think of poking about in there yourself.’
THIRTY-ONE
Harriet was waiting when I got to Dean Village. She had prepared a meal, tiger prawns cooked in white wine.
‘I wanted to do a little better than last night,’ she said. ‘We should eat soon. Silvestri rang to say he’s expecting us at seven. We can get a taxi.’
‘Harriet,’ I said, ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t go tonight. I promised Dr McLean I’d stay in. He’s given me some stuff to help me sleep, and he wants me to have an early night. If he says it’s all right in the morning, I’ll go over with you again then.’
She frowned.
‘Silvestri said he wanted to see both of us. He needs to speak to you.’ She shrugged. ‘Well, I suppose it can’t be helped. McLean’s right, you do look tired out. An early night will do you good. Look, I have to pick up my car from outside your place. Is there anything you need me to bring back?’
‘I don’t think you should go there on your own.’
‘I’ll be all right. None of these manifestations starts till late at night, you said.’
‘No, but . . .’
‘I’ll be in and out. Make a note of what you need. I’ll pop over soon.’
While Harriet served the meal, I took my medicine. It tasted more bitter than I remembered. While we ate I told her about the talk I’d had with McLean.
‘He’s being very rational about it all,’ I said; ‘but maybe that’s just what we need at the moment.’
She shook her head.
‘It still leaves too many things unanswered. Last night was no hallucination. We heard what we did. None of this can be explained away, Andrew, and I think it could be dangerous to try.’
She sipped from her wine glass.
‘By the way,’ she went on, ‘Silvestri wanted to know how you came into contact with Mylne. He seemed to think it was important.’
‘I met him at the Fraternity of the Old Path. There’s nothing mysterious about that. Iain seemed to think that was how Mylne made contact with all his potential recruits.’
‘Okay, I’ll tell him that. I’ll drive over and explain to him that you’ll try to get over in the morning. Or maybe he can come here.’
‘I’m sorry I can’t make it tonight. But I really don’t feel up to it.’
‘Don’t worry. He’ll understand.’
I made the note of things I needed from my flat, and explained where they would be.
‘Do you mind if I use your phone to ring my mother?’ I asked. ‘I promised I’d ring her every night. She’ll worry if I don’t get in touch.’
‘Of course, you know you’re free to use anything you like. I won’t be long.’
‘I’ll wait for you.’
‘No, go to bed if you’re tired. The guest room’s been made up. I’ll see you in the morning.’
After she had gone, I felt restless. I sat reading for a while, picking books at random from the shelves, but I could not concentrate. Tired though I was, I was still too wound up to think of sleep. To fill in the time until Harriet returned, I switched on the television, just in time to catch the local news.
A baby had been taken from its pram in Gilmerton, on the outskirts of Edinburgh. There were, as yet, no suspects, but the police had not ruled out a connection with a similar case in Glasgow. I went to the bathroom and threw up the meal I had just eaten.
I did not like being in the house on my own. The silence preyed on my nerves, intensifying even the smallest sound until I was ready to jump at anything. Why did Harriet not return? I fretted, knowing I should never have allowed her to go to my flat on her own.
Desperate to speak to someone, I made my call to Stornoway. My father had made a slight improvement, but Dr Boyd still insisted on having the tests done in Inverness. They would probably fly my father there in the morning, provided he had not suffered a relapse.
‘Ramsey McLean will probably be in touch,’ I said.
‘That’s kind of him. He’ll have been wondering about your father.’
‘Why’s that?’ I asked. ‘I only spoke to him about it today.’
‘Oh, your father rang him about a week ago, when he was planning to visit you. He was thinking of staying with Ramsey, if there was room.’
‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘He said nothing to me today about speaking to him.’
‘He must have forgotten. Did he say if he has any idea what may be wrong?’
‘What? No, no, he wants to speak with Boyd first. You know doctors, they’ll never commit themselves.’
‘That’s true enough. I have terrible trouble getting Boyd even to admit there’s something wrong.’
‘Mother, I have to go. If you do fly to Inverness tomorrow, will you let me know? I’m staying with Harriet Gillespie for a few days. You can ring me here.’
‘Is something wrong? You’re not ill yourself, are you?’
‘Just a bit tired.’
‘Have you been overdoing it again?’
‘A little bit. But I’m in good hands. Ramsey’s given me some medicine like before.’
I gave her Harriet’s number and rang off.
Why had McLean not mentioned his conversation with my father? It would have been the most natural thing to say something like, ‘I spoke to your father only last week. He was thinking of coming to Edinburgh for a visit.’ But that was not what he had said. I remembered now. What he had said was: ‘I haven’t heard from him in months’.
That was not all I remembered. My first thought, when asked how I had met Duncan Mylne, had been of our brushes at the meetings of the Fraternity. But we had only met properly t
hat day at the pub, when he had come to my table as though by appointment. And I now remembered who had arranged for me to be there. Ramsey McLean.
The doorbell rang. I sighed with relief. Harriet must have forgotten her keys. I could not have sat there much longer, a prey to every fear that decided to take hold of me.
I got up and went to the door. Harriet and I had to talk. I was starting to let things get out of proportion. Perhaps I was growing paranoid, finding everyone around me somehow sinister, part of a plot.
I opened the door. Ramsey McLean was standing on the step.
‘Good evening, Andrew. I hope I’m not disturbing you.’
‘No, I . . . I was just watching television.’
‘Do you mind if I come in?’
‘No, I . . . Of course not.’
He stepped forward into the hall. As he did so, there was a soft movement behind him. A second figure stepped forward, moving into the light.
‘Hello, Andrew.’ It was Duncan Mylne. He had not changed. It’s time we had a little chat.’
THIRTY-TWO
At first, there was only silence. And if I opened my eyes, there was darkness; it did not alter, however long I stared. I thought I had gone blind. Perhaps McLean’s medicine had done this to me, turned me blind and deaf. I could remember nothing clearly. I did recall the doctor’s arrival at the door, then Mylne’s appearance, and being forced back into the house; but after that my memory was a blank. I had no idea where I was, or how I had come to be there.
The blackness and the silence just went on and on, as though locked inside my head. I shut my eyes and clasped my arms round my body. I could feel, at least, and I could tell that I was bitterly cold. I do not know how long I sat huddled like that, shivering, blind, conscious of nothing but the cold air and the discomfort of the stone on which I sat.
As my head cleared, so I became gradually more aware of my surroundings. I could hear sounds, ugly sounds that I wanted to shut out again the moment I heard them. Things slithering. Things bumping. Things sucking.
I opened my eyes. It was still pitch-dark. But I guessed now where I had been taken.
Voices nearby, whispering, then fading again. The sound of footsteps advancing, then receding. In their absence, the other sounds returned, louder than ever. A sound like bone scraping across a stone floor. The slithering again. And that obscene flapping sound I had heard so often before. I put my hands over my ears and shut my eyes. It did little good. I knew they were there.
‘Andrew, how are you feeling now?’
It was McLean, his voice solicitous, as though he had come to visit an ailing patient. I opened my eyes and blinked hard. He was standing next to me holding a lantern of some kind.
‘I’m sorry if you have been uncomfortable, Andrew, but you must understand that it is for the best. I think you must have taken rather too large a dose of my medicine. But the effects will wear off soon.
‘Angus is upstairs. Duncan, if you prefer. He’ll be ready to start as soon as the preparations are completed and you are feeling more yourself. You mustn’t worry, he doesn’t intend to let anything unpleasant happen to you. Quite the contrary. If you cooperate, you’ll find him most appreciative. He has a great affection for you, and profound admiration. Believe me, he would not see you suffer for anything.
‘But you must also realize that he is impatient. He has waited over a century for this moment. And your recent ingratitude has not pleased him. If you remain uncooperative, he could well grow angry. I advise you to avoid that at all costs. He’ll take you through the ritual until you’ve got it right. You’re already familiar with most of it, the rest can be read directly from the Matrix. The main thing is to be relaxed. I’ll give you something just before you begin, something to calm your nerves.’
To my surprise, I found that I could speak. I had feared that the power of speech might have been snatched from me.
‘What if I don’t do what he wants?’
‘That would be extremely foolhardy. Don’t even think of it. If you make him happy, your father will experience a full recovery. Otherwise, his condition will deteriorate. It really is that simple. The pain can be extended almost indefinitely. Your mother is not immune. If you won’t have pity on yourself, at least think of them. What is he asking, after all?’
‘Catriona is not his wife.’
‘Do you think that matters to a man like him? He wants her. He deserves to have her.’
‘She won’t want him.’
‘Do you imagine he hasn’t thought of that? You are really being very naïve. If he can bring her back from the dead, don’t you think he can influence her affections at the same time?’
‘Then why does he need me? Why can’t he do it himself?’
‘Tell me, Andrew – would you like him to try? Without your presence and your participation, the whole thing may go wrong again.’
He hesitated, as though reaching a difficult decision.
‘Andrew, there is something I think you should see.’
Bending down, he took my arm and helped me to my feet. I felt giddy, my limbs were stiff with cold. Standing, I could see more clearly, though mercifully the low light of the lantern left much in shadow.
We were in a low-ceilinged crypt, in a long stone-walled room lined with coffins. McLean urged me forward. As I walked, I saw them on all sides, nearly two centuries of decay lined against the walls, or crammed into niches. Heavy cobwebs hung down in tattered sheets, draping enormous studded boxes and narrow wooden chests, piled higgledy-piggledy on top of one another.
Here and there, a stack had fallen, the weight of succeeding generations too great for those who lay underneath. Lids had cracked open, sides had collapsed, entire coffins had split, spilling their contents onto the crypt floor. Great spiders, almost as large as mice, scuttled between the cracks.
But it was not the sight of so much decay that troubled me most. It was the sounds that came from the closed boxes as we passed. He had been coming here for years, practising, honing his necromantic skills, making his mistakes. And the mistakes were still here.
Something was banging and scraping against its coffin lid. I hurried past.
‘They can hear us,’ said McLean. Even in the unnatural light I could tell that his ordinarily ruddy face was white. ‘We disturb them. We remind them.’
We crossed through some vaulting and came into a separate room, much smaller than the one we had just left. The smell of decay was, curiously, stronger here, yet masked in part by another, darker smell.
In a niche set in the rear wall stood a large Victorian coffin with a bowed lid. The doctor half steered, half pushed me towards it. Close by, the dark smell was overpowering. McLean set down the lantern on a low shelf and let go of my arm. I did not think of running. I had nowhere to run to. With both hands, he pushed the heavy lid aside far enough to allow me to see inside. I saw him avert his own face as he brought the lamp closer and pushed me forward. The smell that rose up from inside was almost more than I could bear. I thought I would pass out again.
I looked down. How I wish now I had instead taken my chances and fled. The memory of that one, fractured glance will not leave me, I have it in me at all times, it will remain there until I die. Perhaps it will not leave me even then. For there is no paradise, I know there is not, I knew it at that moment.
The thing in the coffin wore a long Victorian dress. I remembered where I had seen the dress before – in the photograph of Angus Mylne and his wife, Constance. And I remembered the second time I had seen it – on the thing I had seen on the snowy meadow at Penshiel House, crawling and stumbling through the moonlight, as though blind.
I gasped and turned my head away. But not before I had seen one last, abominable detail. The thing that had once been Constance Mylne had neither nose nor mouth, nor even jaw, but it was still breathing.
McLean closed the coffin. We staggered out of the fetid little chamber. The warning could not have been clearer. I thought of Catriona, and I thou
ght of what I had just seen in the coffin; Angus Mylne had given me no choice.
We walked back to where we had started. Things moved in the shadows. I tried not to look.
‘I’ll leave you now,’ said McLean. ‘For a little while. To think things over.’
‘Please,’ I said. ‘Don’t leave me down here in the dark.’
‘You’ll find the dark is preferable to light, Andrew. There are things here it is better not to see. I won’t leave you for long, I promise.’
He turned and walked away, and moments later I was in the pitch-dark again. But this time I knew exactly where I was and what surrounded me. They did not stop their rustling and scraping. And I did not dare put my hands over my ears for fear they came too close.
THIRTY-THREE
I cannot be sure how much time passed. Minutes? Hours? It really does not matter. Time was not important down there. A minute could seem like an eternity. All that counted was not being there.
There was a movement in the shadows to my right, then a light. Startled, I looked round. An old man came shuffling towards me, supported by McLean. The doctor held a lantern as before, and the other man a candle in a holder. It was impossible to tell how old he was. His face and body were skeletal, as though he had been brought up from one of the coffins underneath. He wore a long black gown of pure silk, and leaned on a tall staff. Scraps of white hair clung to an otherwise naked skull. Had it not been for two bright eyes in the sockets, I would have thought him dead.
‘I have missed you, Andrew,’ he said. The voice was thin, barely recognizable. ‘You were an intelligent companion. You had promise. I could have made something of you, but you let yourself be distracted by sentiment. I promised you the mastery you sought, and you still betrayed me. It is a tremendous disappointment. I expected greater things from you.’
‘I didn’t betray you,’ I said. ‘You betrayed yourself years ago, you tried to have something no one has a right to.’
‘Eternal life? Is that what you mean? Don’t be so ridiculous. That’s hardly what this is all about. Eternal life on its own is grotesque. It has no greater value or attraction than life on its own. Ask anyone. Do they want bare life, mere existence? I don’t think so. What they all want is life together with those things that make it worthwhile: money, pleasure, good health, love, excitement, knowledge, contentment, success, power, children – the list is as variable as human nature. We can’t have everything, that’s something we learn early on, most of us. But we take what we can get, and we go on hoping that there may be something more, something we don’t have but can reasonably expect.
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