by Des Sheridan
House of the Dead
Des Sheridan
Part 1 of the Triskell Story
* * *
Published Des Sheridan July 2013
Copyright Des Sheridan
ISBN : 978-1-78301-177-3
The right of Des Sheridan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.This e-book is copyrighted under the Berne Convention. All rights reserved.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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Find out more about the author and upcoming books online at http://about.me/dessheridan
Editor: Jill Clough
Cover design and illustration: Andy Fielding www.andyfielding.co.uk
For Sheila who would have loved this adventure
or told me plainly of her reservations
Contents
Prologue
Tides in Time
I: The Auditor and the Soldier
Chapter 1 Skellig Islands, Ireland, July 823
Chapter 2 Reno, US, February 2014
Chapter 3 Baghdad, Iraq, May 2003
Chapter 4 Skellig Islands, Ireland, July 823
Chapter 5 Boston, US, March 2014
Chapter 6 Baghdad, Iraq, December 2003
Chapter 7 Skellig Islands, Ireland, July 823
Chapter 8 Mayo, Ireland, June 2014
Chapter 9 An Nasiriyah, Iraq, January 2004
Chapter 10 Skellig Islands, Ireland, 823
Chapter 11 Sligo, Ireland, July 2014
Chapter 12 An Nasariyah, Iraq, September 2005
II: The Psychopath
Chapter 13 Weris, Belgium, February 2003
Chapter 14 Cashel, Ireland, 14 September 1647
Chapter 15 Sligo, Ireland, July 2014
Chapter 16 Brussels, Belgium, November 2004
Chapter 17 Cashel, Ireland, 14 September 1647
Chapter 18 Sligo, Ireland, 14 September 2014
Chapter 19 Brussels, Belgium, November 2004
Chapter 20 Cashel, Ireland, 15 September 1647
Chapter 21 Sligo, Ireland, 15 September 2014
Chapter 22 Brussels, Belgium, November 2004
Chapter 23 Cashel, Ireland, 18 September 1647
Chapter 24 Sligo, Ireland, 15 September 2014
Chapter 25 Brussels, Belgium, November 2004
III: Father and Son
Chapter 26 Tipperary, Ireland, 18-19 June 1649
Chapter 27 Sligo, Ireland, 15 September 2014
Chapter 28 Weris, Belgium, May 2009
Chapter 29 Tipperary, Ireland, 19 June 1649
Chapter 30 Sligo, Ireland, 15 September 2014
Chapter 31 Rotterdam, the Netherlands, July 2011
Chapter 32 Tipperary, Ireland, 19 June 1649
Chapter 33 Sligo, Ireland, 16 September 2014
Chapter 34 Brussels, Belgium, 16 August 2014
Chapter 35 Fermoy, Ireland, 21 June 1649
Chapter 36 Sligo, Ireland, 16 September 2014
Chapter 37 Brussels, Belgium, 16 August 2014
Chapter 38 Fermoy, Ireland, 21 June 1649
Chapter 39 Sligo, Ireland, 17 September 2014
Chapter 40 Tipperary, Ireland, 9 July 1649
Chapter 41 Sligo, Ireland, 18 September 2014
Chapter 42 London, 19 September 2012
Chapter 43 Tipperary, Ireland, 10 July 1649
Chapter 44 Dublin, Ireland, 19 September 2014
Six Days in September
IV: The Storyteller
Chapter 45 Sligo, Ireland, 20 September 2012
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49 Sligo, Ireland, 20 September 2014
Chapter 50 Sligo, Ireland, 21 September 2014
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
V: The Vengeful Suitor
Chapter 55 Sligo, Ireland, 21 September 2014
Chapter 56 Sligo, Ireland, 22 September 2014, 18:35 hours
Chapter 57 Sligo, Ireland, 23 September 2014, 10:45 hours
Chapter 58 Sligo, Ireland, 22 September 2014, 21:15 hours
Chapter 59 Sligo, Sligo, Ireland, 23 September 2014, 11:47 hours
Chapter 60
Chapter 61 Sligo, Ireland, 23 September 2014, 05:10 hours
Chapter 62 Sligo, Ireland, 23 September 2014, 18:32 hours
Chapter 63 Sligo, Ireland, 23 September 2014, 15:45 hours
Chapter 64 Sligo, Ireland, 23 September 2014, 20:14
Chapter 65 Sligo, Ireland, 24 September 2012
V1: The Caves of Kesh
Chapter 66 Sligo, Ireland, 24 September 2014
Chapter 67
Chapter 68 Sligo, Ireland, 25 September 2014
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Prologue
Sligo, Ireland, 3500 BC
The acolyte crawled up the long passage on all fours, lizard-like. Naked, save for a dazzling array of tattoos and pigmented patterns daubed on his skin, he felt the grit and sand scrape his skin as though his flesh would soon fuse with the soil and its worms. Fasting for three days had left his senses quivering in expectation. Music swamped his ears, a distorted stream of warm vibrations of voice, clay drum, bone flute and wind stone that echoed up and down the tunnel. Burning torches of the sacred trio of oak, ash and thorn, impaled at intervals, illuminated the multi-coloured patterns on the stone walls which filled his vision and aped the decorations painted on his skin.
Inhaling the bitter scent of wormwood, the sensations strengthened as his mind entered deeper levels of the trance state. Ecstasy jostled with terror as he caught glimpses of a mental swamp of fantastic places, improbable plants, coloured birds and indescribable sounds. The presences of the dead assumed form from thin air and rose to greet and accompany him on his journey, chanting in unison. When at last they reached the central chamber the acolyte looked up. There, emblazoned in light on the wall above him, the huge triple spiral rotated, like a slowly coiling snake, uniting past, present and future: the doorway to the Otherworld. Dipping his fingers in the bowl that sat on a central plinth, he caressed the sacred oil onto the triple spiral tattoo engraved over his fast-beating heart. The salve warmed his flesh as it was absorbed, burning its way inwards. He felt the transformation intensify, deep within his inner being, as the creature destined to be his guide on this passage into the Otherworld stirred and stretched, and finding consciousness, cried out, announcing occupancy. The acolyte rose up to full height, stretching his arms roof-wards. As he opened his mouth, a strange sound emerged, hardly recognisable as his own voice, and called out in return, in salutation. Then the creature arrived in an instant, overwhelming him: a multi-coloured vortex of animal energy that fused with his own being, molecule by molecule. A shaman was born.
&n
bsp; Tides in Time
I: The Auditor and the Soldier
Chapter 1
Skellig Islands, Ireland, July 823
The youth’s heart was beating faster than he could ever recall, violently smashing hard against his rib cage as though any moment it would burst through. Faster than when, hurling as a lad, he would ratchet his long, thin legs to streak past his opponents and speed towards the goal. Like a spear cutting a sure arc through air, he thought, the memory inspiring him.
But today was no game. Sweat drenched him as he scrambled desperately up the steep slope, earth and stones scuttering in his wake. Each stride stretched every sinew, propelling him upwards towards his only hope of escape, the Hermitage. The thought passed irrelevantly across his brain that it was an odd name. What sounded like a grand edifice was nothing but a series of thin rock ledges, scarcely more than rabbit runs, at most a few feet wide, linked by short steep paths. The monks had created them on the upper reaches of the high seaward cliff that dominated the island of Skellig Michael. Bleak sills, open to the elements, it was here that the monks faced the primeval forces of the Great Creator whose proximity they so craved. These precarious slivers of rock usually offered the harshest of solitude, but today were the young monk’s only prospect of deliverance.
A despairing thought enveloped him. If only the Abbot Lorcan had let him go with them to Skellig Bheag this morning he would have been safe! He had never encountered anyone like this Prince of the Church before and would have followed him anywhere. But shyness had held him back as he stutteringly requested to be allowed to join the party. He saw the Abbot’s eyes change as he spoke, switching from engaged attention to detached disinterest. A bitter shaft of hatred towards the man pierced the boy’s soul; if only he had protested further, argued his case better!
Glancing over his shoulder saw his pursuer - a savage-looking creature with long, fair, plaited locks and an unkempt beard - only six paces lower down on the slope. And he was gaining ground! The man’s wild features were purple with exertion. Their eyes locked and the marauder, venting his blood lust, emitted a murderous screech, raising the haft of his bloodied axe with his right hand. A flux of bile mushroomed in the youth’s throat. Gulping back the rising tide of vomit he resumed his upward flight, a tell-tale trickle of warm liquid on one leg telling him that he had lost control of himself. In mortal fear he threw every inch of his being into attaining the dizzying, higher reaches where he was certain the Dane dare not follow him. He strove with all his might, muscles straining, his breathing fast and tight in his strained chest. No watery grave was destined to hold him down! He could do it – he just knew he could!
At that moment he sensed something untoward under his left foot. The boy didn’t realise that the chord of his tunic had unravelled. It snagged under one of his loose-fitting leather sandals and he slipped, his knee cracking on a kerb of rock and pain shooting through him like a knife. In an instant he lost his footing. The seventeen-year-old – a scarcely matured bundle of flesh and bone, beliefs and dreams – stumbled into the void. A sound like trumpets blasted his ear drums. A long wail, a crestfallen mix of disbelief and anguish, rose from his throat and was carried effortlessly in all directions.
The Dane, pausing, heard the cry of his quarry dissipate among the many calls and caws arising from the vast colonies of gannets and gulls that inhabited the rocky islet. The brute shook his frame in rage, horned helmet and scraggy woollen fleece quivering in frustration at being robbed of his hard-earned spoils of rent flesh and free-running blood. But the boy’s cry was not spent. It oscillated its way seawards, journeying towards Skellig Bheag, the smaller of the two islands.
Chapter 2
Reno, US, February 2014
The security guard was a black man in his forties with a thin Clark Gable moustache, dressed in a perfectly pressed uniform. Edgar Johnson liked his job. Heck, people didn’t realise that most of his time was spent sorting things out for others. It was rare for him to have to manhandle anyone although, coming in at one eighty pounds and a regular basketball player, he could do that no problem when he needed to. But mostly it was a case of getting folks to simmer down and helping clear up misunderstandings; for Edgar was good with people, given a chance. Usually the auditors involved him as a foil in their interrogation, tapping into his knowledge of the local operation as a means of checking out what the interviewees said. But the one today was having none of that; one glance from her told him that. Not invited to sit down, he leant back against the wall with arms crossed, and watched her in action. She was undeniably easy on the eye; a real looker with large green-blue eyes and windscreen wiper eyelashes, not to mention her legs, long and slim and inviting under her beige pant suit. But what you saw was not always what you got and what Edgar saw unfolding today left him with an increasingly bad taste in his mouth.
At first things were fine. The interviewee, Porter Shultz, told a convincing tale, demonstrating in-depth mastery of the detail of the business with a plausible air of being a safe pair of hands. A skinny man in his late fifties, he had a bald pate fringed by greying frizzy hair that was heavily oiled and framed a wrinkled face. He wore a gold Rolex watch and a large raspberry ruby signet ring. From Macedonia he would say proudly if asked. A bit flashy by any criterion, Edgar noted, but that was no crime amongst the Reno business community. In fact it was more like the norm.
The auditor was all friendliness, putting Porter at ease and making small talk about how nice a place Reno was, even offering him a bagel. She invited Porter to call her by her first name, Tara. And that was where Porter made his big mistake, Edgar thought. Porter judged her to be young and inexperienced and that led him to underestimate her. Progressively it became clear that she had done her research and come very well prepared. Initially focussing on the obvious questions she smiled at Porter’s plausible answers as though it was a familiar game where they both knew the rules. But after a time she would change tack and take Porter back a few steps, to topics that the poor man thought they had shut down. At first Porter just dealt with it, pointing out that she was barking up the wrong tree. But once or twice she had wrong-footed him and he had started to sweat a bit, only for her to drop it and move on. Or so Porter thought, until she would raise it again ten minutes later. And she did this again and again, relentlessly.
After about an hour and forty minutes she abruptly changed direction and zoomed in on the retail trail left by Sabrina, Porter’s spendthrift thirty-something girlfriend. Porter was taken aback. He had not anticipated this line of inquiry and, pressed to give answers, started making mistakes. The auditor now proceeded to crawl over every aspect of his business and personal life for the last twenty years. Edgar wondered how she had gotten access to some of the more personal information. She even knew stuff that Porter, judging by his expression, had clearly forgotten about. Following each trail unerringly, she surfaced false invoices and receipts, the lies and red herrings, like a voracious sniffer dog.
It was like witnessing a car crash in slow motion, Edgar reckoned. He watched in fascinated horror, as the auditor moved in for the kill. Like a hound on a scent, she closed in on the two areas of the accounts that were problematic. Her questions, still delivered in the same gentle Irish lilt, became dogged as they probed further towards her objective. Porter tried everything - evasion, bluster, even sarcasm - but he couldn’t shake her off. Five hours into the inquisition, Porter was reduced to little more than abject silence. Finally her voice sharpened and she came out with it.
‘Well maybe I am, as you say, being obtuse, Porter, but it looks to me like there is one pretty obvious explanation - you cooked the books. I know how it is – stuff happens; we are only human. Why not just admit it? Maybe your nose habit got too costly? And Sabrina has expensive tastes in clothes, too. The Gucci outlet, three times a week, isn’t it? Look Porter, I am not going anywhere – and neither are you – until we sort this crap out. So let’s quit fucking around, OK?’
There was no charm or po
liteness now: it was a full frontal assault. And that for Edgar was the problem. She didn’t just expose Porter’s theft; she got personal, real personal. She took pleasure in demolishing the man’s character, exposing him as a failure at work and with women, and you could see it get to him. By the end his shoulders had sagged, neck jowls replaced his previously sharp jaw line, and his eyes and the corners of his mouth were twitching like a creature in torment. The fight was gone. And she didn’t give a shit, Edgar noticed. She saw through Porter, and told him so repeatedly, cruelly.
After the Police came and took Porter into detention, Edgar escorted the auditor back to Reception. In his job he saw lots of situations where people were painted into a corner of their own making: it went with the territory. But what he had seen today made him angry.
‘Tell me, Ms Ruane, do you enjoy your job?’ he ventured.
The cool green-blue eyes turned and met his full-on like a beam from a lighthouse.
‘I sure do, and it pays real well too.’
After a few moments he added pointedly,
‘What about the mess you leave behind? How do you feel about that? I guess you expect someone else to mop it up?’
Now it was her turn to pause. Their respective pairs of shoes clicked on the tiled floor, filling the silence, as they marched down the corridor. Finally, she said.
‘With all due respect,’ the green-blue eyes, which seemed to have darkened, flicked over his name badge. ‘Mr Johnson, I don’t make them thieve. They do that all by themselves.’
‘True, but you could let a man keep his pants on, mam.’ He virtually spat the last word at her.
She turned and flashed at him.
‘OK smartass. The way I see it is this. I only know I have got it right, when I can lay all the pieces out on the table. If I get the bits right then well and good, the jigsaw pieces fit. If I get them wrong my ass gets sued and I lose my job. So there is no room for error or sentiment on my part. I can’t afford it. Like I said, they bring it on themselves.’