As the BMW drove slowly through the stone archway, Harker couldn’t help raising a hand to acknowledge the curious onlookers with a regal wave. It was a tad childish of course, but he couldn’t help himself, and besides it would give them an interesting story to tell.
‘I wouldn’t get too cocky, sir. We’re parking up just here.’ Detective Owens remarked with a smirk.
Their car came to a smooth halt just beyond the entrance and, as more inquisitive gazes were drawn towards it, Harker gingerly lowered his hand and smiled uncomfortably. The detective then turned in his seat to face him. ‘Your meeting is in the White Tower, right over there, just make your way inside the front entrance and someone will meet you, sir.’ he said, clearly enjoying how uncomfortable Harker was now looking.
‘Thank you, Detective,’ his passenger replied, before he pushed open the car door and stepped out into the waiting crowd of tourists.
‘I’ll be here, sir, and don’t be shy.’ Owens called out, just as Harker slammed the door shut and turned to momentarily address his ‘subjects’.
‘Hello,’ he began politely, as several smartphones snapped pictures of him. ‘Great to see you all and thanks for coming.’
By now the onlookers were cottoning on to the fact that the man before them was wearing a stained camouflage paintballing outfit and therefore probably no one special, so the crowd began to disperse, allowing Harker the opportunity to slip off in the direction of his meeting.
Built by William the Conqueror in the early 1080s, the White Tower was gradually extended in the following centuries and became known simply as the ‘Tower of London’. Initially constructed as a military strongpoint, over the following years it became a symbol of fear for Londoners and a warning to behave unless they wished to become a guest within its cells. Famous residents imprisoned or executed there included Guy Fawkes, Queen Anne Boleyn, and in the twentieth century it was even home for a time to the Nazi Deputy Fuhrer, Rudolf Hess.
Originally built from creamy-coloured Caen stone mined in France, the Tower symbolised the monarch’s absolute power over his – or – her citizens, although these days you were far more likely to enjoy a good meal and trinkets from the gift shop than decapitation and a trip to the morgue.
Harker approached the White Tower’s old-style, raised wooden walkway and made his way up to the main entrance, stopping at the top to take in the view of the Shard building across the way, its tip peaking over the top of the castle wall. With so many historical locations to see in the capital, this was a must, and Tower Bridge located next to it only added to the splendour, drawing millions of visitors from around the world each year.
He enjoyed one final glance at this magnificent skyline and then, with his hands snugly jammed into his boiler suit pockets, headed inside to meet his mysterious contact, whoever it might be.
The first room he entered was a testament to all things feudal, lined with cabinets displaying every suit of armour possible. It was truly a feast for the eyes of anyone wishing to learn more about English history or to get a few snapshots to show friends and family back home. For Harker, though, this was something he had seen many times before and his only concern now – except for the meeting itself – was that it had taken forty-five minutes just to get here. So much for being returned within the hour!
He scanned the room, eyes darting amongst the crowds of people all scoping out the exhibits, and immediately clocked the only person not taking an interest in these displays but instead staring directly at him. This was an older man with white hair, a full beard and wearing a navy suit, red tie and a dark purple shirt – which surely meant that he was either colour blind or completely lacking in dress sense. Harker was about to offer an exploratory wave, to confirm if his instinct was correct, but the other man beat him to it and strode directly over with a serious look on his face.
‘Alex Harker?’ he asked in a quiet voice.
‘Yes,’ Harker replied.
‘Follow me,’ the man gestured and then did an about-face and began heading for the other end of the room. Harker followed close on his heels. From here a narrow wooden staircase led up to the first floor, then into a large function room with wooden pillars from floor to ceiling breaking up the length of the room. It contained four tables, each seating a number of well-dressed guests who appeared to be beginning their dessert course and as his guide beckoned him to wait at the entrance, Harker suddenly felt extremely awkward. Perhaps this was a normal reaction: I mean who wouldn’t feel out of place, he thought, appearing in a camouflage boiler suit covered with pink paintball splatters at a clearly swanky luncheon. The weird thing for him was that, despite sticking out like a sore thumb, no one batted an eyelid. Harker was still scanning the tables for any obvious reaction when he was approached by a young, blonde-haired woman maybe in her twenties, wearing a charcoal business suit.
‘Professor Harker?’ She greeted him. ‘Apologies for our cloak and dagger approach. I hope it wasn’t too much of an inconvenience?’
‘Not at all,’ Harker replied, momentarily allowing her attractiveness to distract him, ‘although this seems an odd place to meet with a police representative.’
For a second the young woman looked perplexed, then her eyes opened wide as she realised the mistaken conclusion he had made. ‘Oh, I don’t work for the police,’ she said firmly. ‘The detectives that brought you here were just doing a favour for me and the organisation I represent. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Stefani Mitchell, and Sebastian Brulet sends his regards.’
The mention of Brulet’s name in such a way had become a sort of Templar password for Harker and, as the penny dropped, he noticed that every one of the guests had now turned to him as they offered warm and courteous nods before getting back to their meal.
Stefani offered her hand and Harker shook it lightly. ‘Pleasure to meet you Stefani,’ he replied, though somewhat perplexed by the nature of this Templar meeting. ‘You could have just called, you know? And please call me Alex.’
‘Of course, Alex. I’m sorry but it couldn’t be helped.’ She raised her hands slightly in an apologetic gesture. ‘There’s a private office at the back, so I think it would be best to discuss everything there.’ Harker followed her towards a small office, where she courteously ushered him inside before closing the door behind them.
The room was exactly what she had suggested: a straightforward office with several work tables, desktop PCs and a white marker board at the far end.
This was the first time Harker had felt truly at ease since getting in Detective Owens’s unmarked police car. ‘So they are all Knights Templars outside?’ Harker asked, indicating to the dozen or so guests still enjoying their dessert.
‘That’s correct, Alex. We’re all friends here.’
This confirmation had Harker nodding his head. ‘Then perhaps you can tell me what is so important that I couldn’t even get changed first?’ He gazed down at his messy attire. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Stefani. If the Templars need me, then I’m here, but this meeting does seem to have been a bit rushed.’
‘You’re right but I’m afraid time is of the essence. Allow me to bring you up to speed.’
She made her way over to the farthest table, where she pointed to the nearest chair. ‘Please, take a seat.’
Harker tugged at the leg of his boiler suit that had been riding up around his groin and dutifully sat down. This paintballing outfit was proving bloody uncomfortable.
‘We were due to meet once you officially took on your duties as Jarl but due to unforeseen circumstances, that timetable needs to be brought forward. I was allocated to be – and still am your guide whilst you settle into your new position. Remember, we’ve not had a Jarl since your father died over twenty-five years ago, so a lot of this is new to me too.’
The fact that Harker’s guide was clearly as unfamiliar as he was regarding the workings of his new job should have been worrying. In fact he couldn’t help feeling glad that he wasn’t the only one unsur
e what this newly resurrected position would entail.
‘Well, that makes two of us then, so please go ahead.’
Stefani offered him a friendly smile, then took a seat at the work desk opposite. ‘Last night news reached me of a double murder that took place on the outskirts of Turin, Italy. A young boy and his mother were viciously killed in circumstances that can only be described as… bizarre.’ She opened the drawer next to her and pulled out an iPad, which she placed on the desktop next to her, then extracted a brown A4 envelope which she passed over to Harker. ‘I must warn you, these images are extremely unpleasant.
The warning only served to stoke up Harker’s interest and he carefully reached inside the envelope to retrieve a series of colour photographs, the first of which had him turning away in disgust.
‘I did warn you,’ Stefani said as he now returned his attention to the offending image. ‘And I’m afraid they don’t get any easier.’
The first showed a naked woman propped up in a wooden chair with her legs splayed wide and her arms hanging by her sides. The deep, wide cuts across her body were too numerous to count but the nature of them suggested someone had slashed away at her in a frenzy, and had done so with such force that white ribs could be seen through the thick wounds in her chest. This alone would have forced Harker to look away but it was the damage to her neck and head that ultimately caused his most visceral reaction. The woman’s entire head appeared to have been ripped off, leaving flaps of bloodied skin dangling from the neckline, but most disturbing of all was what had been deposited in its place. A young boy’s decapitated head had been placed on top of the woman’s severed neck, and his motionless blue eyes appeared to have been specially positioned so that they stared directly up towards the ceiling. ‘Positioned’ was the word because the head lolled forward at an angle, so this left Harker wondering how it did not fall off its perch. This gruesome question was answered when he noticed a small section of brown wood between the neck and the head, suggesting a stick or a broom handle had been used to fix the foreign appendage in place.
‘Jesus, that’s horrific.’ Harker came close to choking on his words. ‘Why are you showing me this?’
It wasn’t an unreasonable question and Stefani responded by plucking the top photograph from Harker’s hands to reveal the one underneath, which was as equally shocking. A decapitated body, also naked, lay sprawled on a bed and judging by its size – along with other more telling features – it was that of a young boy. More stomach-churning still was the water bowl located on a side table next to the wall, containing the head of a woman with long dark hair, her eyes staring forwards blankly. This presumably had belonged to the body from the first picture.
‘I need your opinion,’ Stefani continued and her strange request met with a perplexed look form Harker.
‘My opinion?’ he replied, still clearly revolted by the pictures. ‘My opinion is that they’re both dead!’
Had the circumstance depicted not been so appalling, his comment might have been considered comical and, without saying a word Stefani removed the photo to reveal the one underneath.
This third image showed just a wall and, because he could see the dangling wrist of the decapitated woman at its edge, he realised it must have been taken in the same room of horrors. A message had been scrawled onto the same wall, with red lines running downwards from each of the letters where the blood had dripped.
‘Your opinion of that?’ Stefani repeated, as Harker began to study and then identify the words.
‘Well, I would say it’s written in what’s known as vulgar Latin,’ Harker informed her as he focused on the words themselves rather than the sickening ‘ink’ that had been used. ‘It’s the common Latin once used by soldiers or working people of the Roman Empire rather than emperors or the scholars of the time.’
Harker ran a finger across the photo, translating as he went. ‘You are I and I am you. When he is myth and we are reality. This grand deception will be repaid in blood.’
Harker dropped the photo into his lap and stared over at Stefani with a frown.
‘Do you know what it means?’ she insisted, biting her lower lip anxiously.
‘It’s fairly cryptic and evidently by someone with an axe to grind, but it doesn’t ring any bells with me… Why? Who wrote it?’
If Stefani was disappointed with his answer, she didn’t show it, but instead reached over and pulled away the photo from his lap to reveal the last in the set. ‘Him.’
Harker looked down apprehensively with one eye closed, expecting to find another ghastly image, but instead it was a pleasant headshot of a smiling, grey-haired man and, so he relaxed and gave his full attention to it. ‘He doesn’t look that crazy,’ Harker remarked, ‘considering the damage he’s done to his victims.’
Stefani now picked up the iPad from her work surface and passed it over to him, then switched it on and tapped on a film file.
‘I’ve already watched it several times, which is more than enough for me.’
Her comment was ominous and, as Harker peered down at the revolving loading symbol, he narrowed his eyes in preparation for what might appear next.
As the clip began to roll it was difficult to make out any surroundings. The camera work was very shaky but, as it progressed, Harker soon realised it was the interior of a car.
‘The police responded to a complaint about noise,’ Stefani explained, pointing to the tablet. ‘This was taken on a chest camera belonging to one of the responding officers.’
The vehicle suddenly came to a screeching halt outside a quaint-looking cottage, whereupon the cameraman got out of the car and swiftly made his way up the path, even as another officer joined him. The footage remained shaky but now showed one of the policemen taking the lead, and he was just metres from the front entrance when the door slowly creaked open. Both officers came to an abrupt halt and stood staring into the pitch-dark. ‘Police,’ a voice called out. ‘Show yourself.’
All in a blur someone leapt through the opening and slammed hard into the lead officer, knocking the man to ground under a flurry of punches. Almost immediately screaming could be heard, and the cameraman’s hands could be seen frenziedly struggling to pull the mystery assailant from his partner. It suddenly became apparent that the attacker had his jaws clamped around the officer’s throat and even as he was grappled away, he took a thick chunk of the policeman’s neck with him – before he spat it out and then, with a single punch, knocked the cameraman backwards onto the ground. The maniac next turned his full attention to the cameraman, as the wounded officer clung to his throat wound with both hands; at this point Harker got his first view proper view of this violent freak. A white, bubbling froth spewed from the man’s lips, mingled with blood that appeared black in the evening light, and he now let out a deafening shriek before pouncing towards the cameraman.
Two shots rang out, one catching the frenzied man directly in the left side of his forehead and he dropped to the ground in a heap even as the cameraman got to his feet, breathing heavily, with his raised hand holding a gun which was now in view. The footage then came to a stop, showing the motionless body of the attacker lying face up, mouth wide open and eyes glassily void of life.
‘Bloody hell,’ Harker muttered, shocked by the violent footage, before taking another glance at the photo of a smiling gentleman in his lap and then focusing back on the screen. The fellow looked ravaged but it was definitely him, and Harker quickly placed the tablet onto the desktop, as if the very holding of it made him feel uncomfortable. ‘Who is he?’
Stefani reached over to pick up the tablet and tap her fingers on the screen. ‘Not who, but what.’
She passed it back with a news article now displayed, which Harker took a few seconds to scan through.
‘Father John Davies,’ Harker registered in surprise, and he passed the tablet back to her, ‘He was a priest?’
‘Yes, one whose training was called upon by the Vatican for specialised cases of possession.�
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This explanation had Harker shifting in his chair. ‘Father Davies was an exorcist acting for the church?’
Stefani nodded her head slowly. ‘And he was attending an exorcism when all this took place. The boy had been afflicted for over a month and therefore, with Vatican approval, Father Davies was to perform the exorcism that night –’ she motioned to the bloody photos Harker had studied earlier, ‘– and this was the result.’
A silence fell over them as Harker struggled with the very idea of possession and exorcism. He had never put much faith in the apparent causes, choosing to believe that it was the human mind that instigated such events rather than any ‘supernatural’ force exerting its will.
‘Tell me, Alex, do you believe in possession?’
Stefani’s question was asked in all seriousness and Harker treated it as such.
‘Honestly, I don’t know.’
His answer received a relieved smile from her. ‘Good, because I feel the same way, and it’s essential to have an open mind while going forward.’
Harker felt a chill run through him at her use of the word ‘forward’. ‘What do you mean, going forward?’
She got to her feet and placed herself in front of him, and Harker detected a pep talk of some kind was about to be delivered. ‘I don’t know what happened to Father Davies, Alex, but I can tell you what definitely did take place. A priest of the Catholic Church – and with its authority to perform an exorcism – simply murdered and mutilated a young boy and his mother in a way that even some of the worst serial killers would consider too messy. I should also mention that a friend of the Templars within the Vatican has asked that we look into this, because in twenty-four hours this story hits the media and I can’t even imagine what it might do to the Church. A sanctioned exorcism that turned into a bloodbath?’
Stefani’s main priority seemed a little off course to Harker and he couldn’t help but think it an odd stance to take, considering the grisly nature of the deaths. He knew the Knights Templar had unofficial connections with the Vatican and indeed they had always taken to protecting it, but given the loss of two innocent lives, then surely they would be more troubled about the whys and not so much regarding who was going to take the fall. ‘Why twenty-four hours?’ he asked, choosing to overlook Stefani’s rather cold stance on the matter – for now at least.
The Dark Temple Page 3