The Dark Temple

by The Dark Temple (retail) (epub)

  The question was going off on completely the wrong tangent, but it did still give Harker pause for thought.

  ‘No, he wasn’t a Buddhist but, that said, I’m not sure he was a Catholic either.’

  ‘Well whatever he was, I need to call this in.’ Russo took one last look at the bull’s head, exhaled a large sigh and headed out of the room, and leaving Harker alone with his thoughts.

  Exorcisms, bull’s heads, swastikas? It was baffling, Harker decided, attempting to get his head around something clearly completely out of his reach for now. Following this gruesome discovery, what on earth was he going to tell Stefani? ‘Hey, Stefani, checked out your father’s place and you’ll never guess… not only was he the first exorcist ever to become possessed but he also saw himself as prodigy of Damien Hirst.’

  As Harker contemplated how best to tell Stefani that her father was already nuts before undertaking the exorcism, a thudding sound began coming from the other room. ‘Russo,’ he called out but heard no reply, so he moved swiftly away from the bull’s head and back to the menagerie of death in the living room, as the thudding continued. ‘Russo, are you all alri…’ Harker’s words trailed off as he turned the corner to see Russo standing there upright and shaking. His first thought was the detective was choking, because the man was gripping at his throat with both hands. But as he swayed to one side, Harker caught a glint of steel laced around his neck, and then a hand connected to it and he froze.

  Standing directly behind him, a hooded figure was pulling tighter on the wire garrotte as droplets of blood began to seep onto the detective’s shirt collar. Russo’s eyes were beginning to bulge due to the pressure around his neck

  ‘No,’ Harker yelled and, as he launched himself forwards with arms outstretched, Russo was thrust towards him and slammed into Harker, who sank to the floor under the weight even as the hooded man, garrotte still in his hand, ran for the front door, sending stuffed birds flying in his wake.

  Russo was now blue in the face and still clutching at his neck, but he managed a few words as Harker supported him under his arms. ‘I’m OK,’ he puffed finally, struggling to catch his breath. ‘It didn’t go deep.’

  This was all Harker needed to hear and he rolled the larger man onto his side as carefully as he could, then jumped to his feet and sprinted towards the apartment’s entrance. The front door was still wide open, and as Harker leapt outside into the stairwell, he could hear the scuffling of shoes on the level below. Without further thought, he raced down the two flights of stairs and towards the entrance leading out on to the street. He reached the last flight just in time to catch a glimpse of the hooded man’s legs disappearing through the main door; a sense of urgency made him leap the last ten steps and he dived out the main entrance, almost breaking his ankle in the process.

  The street was busy and though pain shot through his foot, he kept on moving. Up ahead of him the hooded man was already bounding along the street in a full sprint towards the Fontana della Barcaccia situated at the foot of the famed Spanish Steps. Harker knew the area pretty well but, with so many people milling outside, it wouldn’t be hard to get lost amongst the crowds. As the hooded escapee started to pull away, Harker began shouting in Italian, ‘Rapist! Stop the rapist!’

  In almost any city in the world if a person shouts ‘Stop that man’ or ‘Stop the thief’, most people will not intervene, or if they do it’s too late, but if a person shouts ‘rapist’ then almost always everyone piles in immediately and it was with this logic that Harker continued to yell at the top of his voice. Within seconds, heads within the crowd were darting back and forth and, as Harker barraged his way past the throng, he glimpsed his target’s bobbing black hood in the distance, getting further away. With so many people it was impossible for any have-a-go-hero to tell who the ‘rapist’ was and instead people began to look towards at Harker with aggressive intent. As the hooded man put even more distance between them, Harker came close to giving up, his ankle now throbbing.

  And then it happened.

  The hooded man looked back for just a moment and, in doing so, tripped on something. What it was Harker couldn’t tell, but the man went flying face first down onto the street and disappeared from sight. With renewed vigour Harker ploughed ahead and he reached the same spot just as the hooded man was still scrambling to his feet, whereupon Harker slammed into him with the full momentum of his body, sending them both sprawling to the ground and ending up in a heap right next to the fountain.

  Harker was the first to get back to his feet but his ankle buckled underneath him and, before he could recover his balance, the hooded man leapt at him and propelled them both over the low boundary wall and into the main trough of the fountain. Harker landed face down and before he could pull himself up he felt a tremendous weight pushing down on his back to keep him below the surface. After that short but energetic chase, Harker already needed another breath of air and the panic of possibly drowning now fuelled him as he managed to flip on to his back and raise his head up to gasp for oxygen.

  Above him his assailant allowed him no quarter, but instead grabbed him by his lapels and thrust him back underneath the surface, while some sort of unintelligible mumbling issued from the man’s lips.

  Back beneath the surface again, Harker stared with blurred vision and fought wildly against the rippling image of a hooded head hovering above him. The crazy thing was that the water itself was barely six inches deep, but this was all that was needed and digging his fingers hard into the man’s forearms had absolutely no effect. Harker’s lungs were now burning and then, as his strength began to weaken, the pressure around his neck suddenly eased, enabling him to propel himself upwards and suck in one of the most gratifying mouthfuls of air he had ever taken in his life.

  Coughing and choking he still managed to look over and glimpse his hooded attacker sprinting off until he melted into the crowd, and out of sight.

  His ankle aching painfully, Harker dragged himself shakily to his feet only to see a large man in an NYU sweatshirt moving rapidly towards him. He put up a hand and was about to say ‘Thanks, but I’m OK,’ when a voice from the crowd called out, ‘He’s a rapist. Stop him!’

  Harker felt a solid punch catch him in the side of his head, then everything went black even before he hit the pavement.

  Chapter 5

  The woman’s thick and matted dreadlocks slapped against her dark-black skin as she jerked her head backwards and raised her hands high above her head. ‘And with dis truth you are free. No longer can the bonds of subservience bind you and no longer can those who seek to control your lives exert any influence.’ The preacher’s strong Jamaican accent meant certain words were shortened and, although not rare within the Catholic world, her very accent offered an exotic and vibrant feel to the sermon being delivered. ‘You are now protected by the shield of your faith in me and in God, and if anyone has not felt the touch of this truth and enlightenment, let themselves be heard now or forever hold their peace.’

  The small congregation maintained a respectful silence, with eyes wide open and still focused upon the silver cross the preacher stood next to. Numbering only six, this mesmerised group would have looked insignificant in any other setting but in such a small church, containing a couple of benches, the assembly seemed fitting. For this place of worship was nothing short of a hole in the wall and in the city of Rome, where basilicas – each with a rich history – reigned supreme, it was not exactly a focus for pilgrimage or tourism. The most impressive thing about the tiny church in fact was the beautiful stained-glass window behind the altar, stretching up to the ceiling, and it appeared to radiate a light from within it attesting to the fine craftsmanship of centuries before and now lighting up the preacher in a dazzling glow as she waited for a response, with her arms still raised.

  A few seconds passed without any interruption, so the woman lowered her hands and a proud smile began to form across her bright pink lipstick-covered mouth. ‘It is good to see dat your faith in
me is unwavering, and is a reward dat shall be reaped back upon you tenfold for you are now my hands, my fingers and must know I will always be your body, your base, your strength.’

  The shrilling of a mobile phone now began to echo around the sanctuary, and the preacher turned and scowled at the item responsible which lay on a simple wooden chair standing next to the altar. ‘My apologies,’ she said with an embarrassed chuckle. ‘Even I myself am not without my failings.’

  The congregation however, appeared unconcerned by this interruption and remained silent as the preacher strode over to the device and picked it up. ‘One moment, please,’ she addressed her flock, then tapped the green accept button and placed the phone to her ear. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hope I’m not disturbing you?’ a man with a heavy Italian accent began politely.

  ‘I was in the middle of something.’ She replied, glancing back at her audience who remained patient and motionless despite the interruption. ‘But for you I always have time.’

  ‘Good,’ the voice replied in a more resolute tone, ‘because I require your services, and time is of the essence. Are you still in Rome?’

  ‘Dat I am,’ she replied in barely more than a whisper, not wanting to be overheard. ‘I was just finishing up with some recent converts to the flock, but this session will be ending shortly.’

  ‘Ahh,’ the man commented gleefully, ‘there is no stronger zeal than that of a convert. I shall therefore await your call.’

  The line went dead and the ping indicating a text message had her checking it. Then she reached underneath her white garb and slipped the phone into a trouser pocket. ‘I’m afraid we have to cut today’s service short,’ she announced apologetically, making her way over the front pew and the man seated closest to her, ‘but know I will be with you wherever you go.’ She now patted his shoulder firmly, causing the attendee’s head to slump to one side. His inflamed eyes continued to stare blankly ahead as blood trickled into them from where his eyelids had been sliced away. ‘Always.’

  She turned her attention now to the rest of the congregation, who also remained motionless, and gazed upon each of their bloody faces and then down to the severed eyelids that had been deposited in each of their laps.

  ‘I appreciate a captive audience,’ she declared and began pulling off the white priest’s garb and over her head. She then wrapped it up neatly before dropping it on the lifeless body of a man laid out flat on the pew behind. ‘Thank you for the loan, Father, but I have no more need this.’

  With a clicking sound from one the side of her mouth, the strange woman made her way to the chapel’s entrance as the dead priest continued staring towards the ceiling, his eyes as wide as the others and his severed eyelids placed like medals across his top pocket.

  ‘So, it begins,’ She announced loudly, then unlocked the door and calmly made her way out into the bustling streets of Rome.

  Chapter 6

  ‘Professor, wake up,’ Detective Russo growled before administering a hard slap across Harker’s face. ‘Are you with me?’ His hand was already poised for another firm blow when Harker’s eyes flickered open and he grabbed hold of Russo’s forearm.

  ‘Enough with the slapping.’ he demanded weakly and, as his blurred vison became more focused, he began to look around him to get his bearings. He had been pulled out of the fountain and was now propped awkwardly up against its stone rim. ‘What happened?’

  ‘You got punched out by that guy,’ Russo said indignantly, pointing over to a beefy-looking fellow wearing a NYU sweatshirt, who now raised his hands up apologetically.

  ‘My mistake,’ The man said in a heavy Floridian accent.

  Harker gave an understanding wave and then suddenly everything came back to him. ‘The one in the hood?’

  ‘Don’t worry, he’s in custody. He ran straight into a couple of patrolmen at the top of the street,’ Russo informed him with a satisfied smile. ‘And he would have got away too, but the fool panicked and pulled a knife.’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘One of the officers wasn’t as lucky as me,’ Russo replied, pulling down his collar to reveal a thin welt cut running around his neck where the garrotte had dug in. ‘He took a stab wound to the chest but he should make it.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Harker exclaimed, studying Russo’s injury, ‘you OK?

  ‘Fine, it didn’t go deep enough but it would have if you’d not appeared when you did.’

  The detective pushed his collar back up, and then hauled Harker to his feet, water running off his clothes and splattering onto the street as he did so. ‘That man over there who punched you out, he thought he was stopping a rapist. Not a bad tactic, so shame it didn’t work.’

  ‘It was all I could think of,’ Harker replied, now brushing down his sodden garments and becoming ever more aware of the large crowd surrounding them with interest. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In the back of a police van over there.’ Russo pointed over to a white transit van parked at the side of the road, the word ‘Polizia’ painted across its side. ‘I thought you might want to have a word with him before he’s taken to a holding cell, but we need to be quick. Attempted murder of a police officer is a serious offence, whichever way you cut it.’

  Russo began pushing his way through the curious crowd and towards the van, with Harker, dripping wet, close by his side. ‘You put up one hell of a fight. He could have drowned you.’

  ‘Maybe.’ The remark had Harker already shaking his head. ‘I was about to pass out when he just let go. I think something must have scared him off’

  This received a knowing look from Russo. ‘That would have been our helpful tourist. Lucky for you I reached you when I did, because he was about to punch the hell out of you.’

  Harker could feel his ribs ache with every step, and he rubbed his chest where the big man had pummelled him. ‘Yeah, really lucky,’ he replied with an air of sarcasm.

  Russo managed a vague smile. ‘Bruises will heal, Professor, but I myself am going to have a permanent scar.’ He pointed to his neckline. ‘Now, why don’t we both say hello to the man of the moment?’

  Russo grasped the police van’s back door and flipped it open so, for the first time, Harker got a good look at the man who had nearly drowned him.

  He could not have been more than eighteen, with short mousy hair and a pathetic attempt at a beard which could only be described as ‘bum fluff’. The offender looked anything but concerned about his predicament, offering them both a glare before returning to his navel gazing, while Russo and Harker joined him inside the tight confines of the vehicle. The teenager’s hands were handcuffed to the seats on either side of him and, apart from a bruise developing on his left cheek, probably courtesy of the arresting officer, he looked none the worse for wear.

  Harker took the seat opposite him, as Russo closed the door behind them and then sat down alongside. The only light now came from the rear doors, two porthole windows.

  ‘Before we really start I need to get something out of the way,’ Russo declared forcefully and, without warning, administered a heavy punch to the boy’s already bruised cheek, sending him reeling sideways against the neighbouring seat.

  ‘There’s no need for that,’ Harker protested, placing his arm defensively in front of the handcuffed youth.

  ‘This little shit just stabbed a fellow police officer, so he’s lucky I don’t break his kneecaps.’

  Russo’s reaction was understandable but Harker wasn’t about to let this go any further. He shifted his position and leant forwards so that he was partially positioned between the two men.

  ‘Do you speak English?’ Harker asked, but the boy gave no reaction. Then ‘Parli italiano?’

  The teenager glanced briefly at Russo, then he returned to face Harker and offered a slow nod. ‘Who are you?’ Harker asked, using his best Roman inflection.

  The prisoner remained silent for a few moments, then he uttered with a quiet, ‘It doesn’t matter who I am.’

 
; ‘Considering you just tried to drown me, I’d say it does.’

  The boy smiled at that remark before he slumped back into his seat. ‘If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead just like that.’ He held up his hands as far as his restraints would allow and snapped a thumb and finger together in a show of defiance.

  Behind him Russo reached over and, before Harker could stop him, the detective gave the youth a hard smack across the cheek. ‘And I could kill you even easier than that.’

  Harker was about protest once more but the slap – or the threat of continuing punishment – appeared to settle the younger man.

  ‘I am your wake-up call. I am the gun at the starting line.’

  He spoke the words quietly, attempting to sound tougher than he really felt as do many teenagers, but Harker detected a sincerity in his response. There was no attitude in his tone per se but rather the suggestion that, whatever the boy was alluding to, he believed it wholeheartedly.

  ‘What’s your association with Father Davies?’ Harker asked next, deliberately sounding more aggressive as Russo stared menacingly over his shoulder.

  ‘He was on a journey,’ the youngster replied with a wry smile. ‘As am I… and, now, as are you.’

  Harker sat back against the interior wall of the van and scrutinised the lad in front of him. Given his apparent youth, he was most definitely above his years in terms of maturity, for there was a confidence in his eyes and his demeanour had strength not built on testosterone but rather experience, and so Harker decided to treat this cryptic answer with the seriousness he felt it deserved.

  ‘Do you know where Father Davies is now?’ Harker asked, even though he well knew that at this moment the priest was probably lying in a refrigeration locker at the city morgue.

  ‘Yes, he took a wrong turn and the path laid down for us has no room for detours.’

  ‘And what path is that?’

  ‘The only path that matters,’ the boy offered sternly. ‘That which leads to the kingdom.’