“Not the same, are you boy?” he said sadly. Jasper whined in answer.
Rob got to his feet, wincing. Incredibly, the pain in his stomach was now no worse than that delivered by a hefty punch in the gut. He grabbed the legs of the steel worktop and hauled himself up. The dead eyes of the boar met his own once more.
Rob turned around and stared at the corpse of the head chef. He wondered if Jasper’s killing would be permanent, or if Cassell’s wounds would slowly heal.
Not going to take that chance, he thought grimly. Jason Franklin had the right idea after all…
He stepped away from Cassell’s canvas and walked over to the ancient looking gas cooking range in the far corner.
There were four cooking rings. Gas powered, not electric. He twisted the knobs on full, then reached over for a heavy wok. He balanced it on top of the dials. The weight of the wok kept the knobs depressed, and the gas flooding out.
Jasper waited patiently by the service door as Rob returned to the work top and pulled it forward. Its badly oiled castors squeaked and the boar’s carcass and its unholy filling rocked on the platter. He ignored it.
He bent over and retrieved the Browning Hi-Power. He checked the magazine and sighed. Empty. Not even a live round left in the chamber. He threw it at the prone body of the head chef. Cassell’s head jerked to the left as the Browning hit his face. Rob turned back to Jasper
“Okay, shitbag. Time to go. I really need a cigarette.”
The Mayfair was in his mouth by the time they left the kitchens. Rob stared dispassionately at the slumped body of the catering worker on the safety rail. Then he slammed the door shut. Give the gas plenty of time to build up before he returned…
He stared at the open side door of the Transit van; saw the trail of congealed black blood and yellowish smears that Jasper had painted in the snow on his way to the kitchens. Then the green tendrils, fresh shoots retracting from the ground and disappearing into the van.
Eternal life in stone…he looked at Jasper and saw a shimmering green light in his eyes. It vanished as the shoots of green vegetation disappeared into the van.
As he stepped out of the cover of the kitchen building he saw the hijacked cook-chill Luton. His jaw dropped and the Mayfair dangled vertically from his mouth, held to his lower lip by nothing more than a trace of saliva.
He saw the broken double doors and the dancing candle and cresset flames within. On the crumpled, blood-spattered tail lift he saw the bisected body of a fat, gowned and bearded man that he recognised as the Bursar, Simon Davies. In front of the glaring headlights he saw the motionless figure of the porter who had run from the battle in the wood, soaked in an oily, clear fluid. The broken petrol can near his head told Rob all he needed to know about that.
And then he saw the battling figures of David Searles and Jason Franklin - no, not Franklin, he told himself. Searles, Jason Searles - on the nearside of the van. Saw the open flap on the fuel filler; saw the dirty rag stuffed in where the cap should be. Saw the temperature probe grasped in the Master’s hand, the point racing towards Jason’s chest. Saw the lighter in Jason’s hand.
The Mayfair finally disconnected from his dry lips. It hit the floor at the same time as the temperature probe slid under the Reebok logo on Jason’s sweatshirt. The same time as Jason’s thumb pressed down on the wheel of the Clipper and ignited the fuel-soaked rag.
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
David Searles had seen Jason’s eyes widen at the sight of what was coming from the kitchen. That was all he needed to race across, over the motionless body of Street, past the blinding headlights of the van, and thrust the steel point of the temperature probe into his son’s chest.
The probe had easily pierced the Reebok logo and passed through the heavy cotton of Jason’s sweatshirt. It travelled through the thin layer of flesh and muscle and then ground to a halt, scraping on the bone of his ribcage. Searles snarled in frustration, pulled back on the probe and angled it downwards. Then he pushed again. This time there was no obstacle to Jason’s heart.
Jason’s eyes widened further, in agony. He opened his mouth and screamed to the darkening sky; his body juddering and jerking as though lethal bolts of electricity coursed through it. Searles forced the probe deeper, his free hand reaching for the object clenched in his son’s right hand.
Then he saw the thumb jerking involuntarily on the wheel of the Clipper lighter. Pressing down, moving back. Sparks flared and the gas ignited. A flame sprouted from Jason’s fingers.
The hand dropped to the fuel-soaked rag that acted as a temporary filler cap. The flame grew.
A shining, blinding sword of light that became an expanding star of incandescence and searing heat. A star that became the centre of David Searles’ universe.
All he could see, all he could feel, was the power of the fireball that consumed him. He was only dimly aware of his clothes and skin vaporising, the flesh stripping away from his bones. The paltry reserves of fat beneath his skin melted away to nothingness and his freshly exposed bones began to blacken and char.
He felt no pain, heard nothing but the screams of his son and the roar of the fireball. And even as his eyes, no longer shielded by the feeble protection of lids, popped and bubbled he was aware that he could still see.
Abraham…
It was a different kind of sight. A vision that owed more to what he saw in the meteorite embedded in High Table in the Great Hall than the human method of observing with two eyes.
In this bodiless manner he observed the scene outside the Great Hall. Next to the blazing white inferno of the Luton van he saw the charred collection of sticks that could only have been the blackened skeletal remains of himself and his son.
Isaac…
The light changed. The flames darkened, imbibed with an angry crimson colour. They moved differently, more fluid. They licked at the charred remnants of his bones, and David Searles knew now he was not alone.
You are my Abraham. He is your Isaac.
Alongside the chilling female voice he heard something else. He heard the screams of his son.
Finally, you have given him unto me.
The screams faded slowly and David Searles knew then that his son had departed to join the other choristers of Andraste. He knew then that he had been so utterly, utterly wrong: that his recent resurgence of faith in his duty was a terrible mistake. Knew that James Freeland and Charles Harvey had been right after all.
Knew then that he, like so many others before him, had been deceived. But in addition, he had the awful realisation that what was to come was his fault.
He had killed his son, given him to Andraste - and thus had given her the strength to break through at last.
The girl in the cellar was not necessary. But it was too late for her now. It was too late for any of them.
The flames were no longer angry, darting tongues of red and gold fire. They moved languidly over the charred remains of his earthly body, covering it from view with the flowing, liquid action of a running river.
A river of blood. Pouring from the centre of High Table; flowing rapidly from the glistening scarlet orb embedded in the blackened wood of the table.
Blood from Andraste’s conduit: the blood of the thousands of slaughtered souls who had been offered unto her. Blood that signified her rebirth.
Your reward shall be great. You shall join your son, and you will both sing such hymns of suffering that the very stars shall tremble in the firmament.
* * * * *
Andy Hughes and Jennifer Callaby silently watched the flames leap into the sky, melting the falling snow before it had a chance to land on the slate roofs and pinnacles of the college buildings. They saw the wrecked Luton in the doorway of the Great Hall, its tyres nothing more than smouldering pools of liquid black rubber. The windows and windscreen lay in jagged fragments on the melting snow, glinting sharply in the light cast from the roaring fire that coated the bodywork and the underside of the box wagon.
The bonnet
was missing and the exposed engine was a gleaming, white hot furnace. Behind the vehicle both of the wooden doors had been blasted off their hinges and thrust into the bowels of the Great Hall.
Andy’s eyes streamed with tears from the heat but he kept them open, focussed on the two smouldering clumps of blackened bone lying by the nearside of the Luton.
Searles and Jason. Jesus, he finally did it. And he instinctively knew now that the Master had killed Jason before the fire began. Andraste had at last been given the soul she craved.
“Greedy bitch,” he breathed. His words were accompanied by a shattering of glass; fragments of stained glass burst from the panes that held them and scattered on the ground. There was a loud groaning sound from the Hall, a sound more like the growling of a beast than the complaint of medieval brickwork and ancient timber.
“Andy, look!”
He followed Jen’s pointed finger, and saw Rob Benson and the dog Jasper walking slowly towards them. Rob was eyeing the dented lump of blackened metal that had been the Luton’s bonnet. Judging from the melting snow surrounding it, the bonnet had only just landed and avoided hitting him.
Rob’s eyes brightened in recognition and relief at the sight of Andy and Jen - relief that soon faded when he saw the state Andy was in.
Andy raised a hand in greeting, and then stared hard at the dog. Jasper wagged his tail and barked in greeting.
“Fuck me, Andy! What happened to you?”
“Had a debate on the definition of the word ‘caretaker’ with Franklin. He lost.” Andy turned his attention to the rest of Old Court. The whitened buildings reflected the dancing flames and the snow on the lawns was melting in the heat from the fire. He saw the motionless body of the Senior Tutor, the fresh fall of snow on his academic gown turning to slush. His cropped grey hair was splattered with blood and optical fluid, his remaining eye staring accusingly in Andy’s direction.
“Looks like he’s not the only one,” Rob said. “Jason’s been busy.”
He whipped off his fleece and passed it to Jennifer. While she put it on, Andy gave Rob a hard look. He saw how pale Rob was, but the same could be said for all of them after what they’d been through. The strange thing, though, was the large vertical gash in Rob’s bloodstained T shirt - and he noticed the same gash and bloodstain on the fleece Jen shrugged herself into. Rob Benson had obviously been wounded, yet showed no trace of pain or injury.
“And you? Had a run-in with Cassell again, did you?”
“More like a run-through,” Rob said with a weak smile. And then Andy saw what looked like a newly-healed wound in Jasper’s left flank - and the strange red pinprick of light in each black eyeball.
Andy shot him a quizzical look, the look that said shouldn’t this dog by lying in state in the back of the Transit? What the hell happened in there?
“Don’t ask me, Andy. I’ve given up looking for logic to all this.” Rob shivered, staring at Jennifer with pained eyes. Eyes that moistened with tears.
“I’m glad you got her out, man. I - I know what happened to Emma. What would have happened to…” Rob’s voice cracked. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “Well, tell you later. Let’s get out of here. You still got the key to the van?”
Andy thought for a moment. He remembered putting the key in his back pocket when he followed Franklin and Searles into the Great Hall. Wincing, he slowly fished for the key. He held the warm piece of plastic and metal in his hand, about to hand it over to Rob, when the groaning sound from the burning Hall returned. Louder this time and higher pitched. Almost like a…
Andy looked back at the burning Hall. The pain racking his body, threatening to overcome him once more, was put on hold. Something wasn’t right.
“Andy?” Jen asked, her hand on his tensing bicep. “What’s wrong?”
His eyes widened in disbelief at what was taking form in front of them. Jen and Rob followed his eyes and Jasper began to growl.
Andy’s fist clenched over the Transit key, snapping the blue plastic housing as his body tensed. No snow fell to the ground now. It melted, and then evaporated instantly. The snow on the ground was rapidly melting also. The lawns of Old Court began to reveal themselves in great, uneven patches that steamed as the melt water evaporated. The neatly trimmed grass didn’t remain green for long.
Andy’s breaths no longer misted in front of him with every exhalation, as the air temperature was rapidly rising. At first it was the pleasant warmth of a balmy day in late summer, complimented by the parched, sepia tint of the dying grass; then it was the uncomfortable, stifling heat of a furnace that tore the air from his lungs.
And all the while, the crimson light from the focal point of the Great Hall grew brighter, shining through the inferno of the Luton, dazzling and blinding them all. Accompanied by the roar of the beast that was breaking through.
A roar of shrieking, protesting steel and crashing masonry. Of splintering, fragmenting timber and shattering slate roof tiles. There was a howling noise that filled his ears like a gale, and Andy realised with horror it was the sound of air rushing past them, around them, and heading for the thing forming in the doorway of the Great Hall of All Souls College.
Air: from the lungs of those unfortunate enough to survive and witness the triumph of Andraste. Fire: from the petrol tank of the incinerated van. Stone: from the Clunch that the medieval masons had used to build the walls of the college. Wood, from the heavy timber used to create the doors. Iron: from the steel bodywork and engine components of the vehicle.
And lastly, water from the blood of the innocents. Six elements conjoined. Six elements that were fusing: binding together with the assistance of an unnatural heat, a fire that was not of this Earth. A fire created by the final sacrifice, the touchstone that allowed this being from beyond the stars to work its power. A heat that transformed these six elements into something new, something unholy: something that had not been on this planet since Boudicca had, in desperation, invoked a being that she foolishly believed she could control, could use to win her battles and defeat her enemy for her.
A being that had deceived her. A being that was a far greater enemy than the Roman war machine ever had been.
The ground trembled beneath Andy’s feet. The last trace of greenery had vanished, replaced with the dull, malevolent brown of baked earth. Earth that cracked into wide fissures running the length of the Court. The ornamental fountain shuddered, wavering as though floating on a moving ocean rather than mounted on solid earth.
Earth…
Earth that was no longer solid. The fountain disappeared from view; fell into a chasm that matched the length and depth of the grave dug to bury the body of the boar that would have been consumed tonight. The fissures increased in number, a multitude of cracks that now reached his feet, but Andy had no thought of running for safety. He had no thought of anything but the horror of what was coming for them.
He felt Jennifer’s hand clench his, her fingers squeezing tightly, adding to the pressure he inflicted on the van key. He was dimly aware of fresh blood pooling from a new cut caused by the steel. Blood that trickled to the ground…
Blood…
He stared, despairingly, into her eyes…
She tried to scream something in his ear, but the air torn from her lungs sounded like a horse’s whinny.
Horse…
He stared back at the thing forming in the Great Hall, and realised that its power wasn’t unassailable.
…power.
He tried to shout the word into Jen’s ear, but it was torn from him the moment it left his lips. She frowned, her mouth opened to form a questioning, silent what?
He mouthed the word to her. Horsepower. He smiled at her confused expression. Smiled reassuringly. Sadly.
Because he knew now what he had to do. Knew that the Green Man in the Transit was waiting for him, and why it had imprisoned itself on the van’s bulkhead.
The link between himself and Jason was stronger than any of them realised. It
went beyond the same colour eyes and the black rage. The Elder had spoken to both of them. Summoned them both - but demanded nothing.
Because it was all about choice. Jason had known it, and was happy to lay down his life - but it seemed his father had got there first. Jason’s life had been taken, not offered. An unwilling sacrifice, and one greedily taken by Andraste.
And me? Am I happy to lay down my life? Andy Hughes looked at the Transit. In the red glare reflecting off the windscreen it should have been hard to make out the carving of the Green Man on the bulkhead. But the eyes shone brightly, twin orbs of green penetrating the red glare of Andraste’s presence. That light illuminated the face, and the centre of the windscreen was an oasis of greenery.
He thought back to the war memorial he had seen the previous morning. Remembered feeling the same emotion then as he had done fifteen years ago, the first time he set foot in Cambridge. What had he said? The idea of sacrificing yourself for a higher purpose…it’s humbling, Rob. It really is.
He smiled grimly. He saw the leaves writhing in the mouth of the carving as the lips parted wider, opening into a smile. A smile of approval at the choice Andy Hughes had made.
He walked slowly towards the Transit and The Elder. The pain of his broken ribs, mutilated hand and ravaged shoulder kept him company each agonising step of the way, but didn’t hinder him.
He wouldn’t let it. The choice was made and he would carry it through. He was aware that Jen, Rob and the resurrected Jasper were following him. He could imagine the confused expressions on their faces, slowly turning to horror as they realised his intention.
He would combine the horsepower of the vehicles, as hinted in the dream-vision The Elder had given him. In this way the two pieces of the meteorite would also be reunited. The Divine Judgement would be whole once more. Sealed with his own blood.
For the love of humanity. The door swung open easily. He blinked in the glare of the enveloping green light from the carving. The black pupils of the eyes swung and focussed on him. The lips moved, the vegetation twisting as words were uttered. Words that he heard clearly over the deafening roar of the storm.
The Caretakers (2011) Page 44