“A source in the police department has confirmed that their suspect is Derek Adams, a Private Investigator who has had run-ins with the police in the past. Given the high profile nature of this brutal murder, it is fair to say that an early arrest is anticipated.”
They showed an old picture of me, taking during one of the occasions when I was helping the police with their enquiries. It was hardly flattering, but that wasn’t the point... now everyone in the country knew what I looked like.
“Looks like you’re right,” I said. “I’m going to be incognito for a bit.”
“I could give you a hat and a pair of glasses...”George said, and laughed loudly. I hadn’t been awake long enough to find it funny.
“You’re famous now boy,” George said. “I’ve got a contact on the TV news team that will give me a grand if I hand you over.”
I looked over at him. He smiled back, but I’d played him at poker often enough to know that didn’t mean anything.
“Only a grand? I’d hold out for more if I were you.”
“That’s what I told him,” he said, and gave me the shark smile again.
I had to trust him... I had to trust somebody.
“I need to do something to clear my name George,” I said. “It wasn’t me.”
“That’s what they all say. Come through to the bar... you can tell me over breakfast,” he replied.
He left, and I watched the news for a bit longer.
It told me little I didn’t already know... or fear.
George made toast while I laid it out for him. I must say, he took it remarkably calmly, but I guess Glasgwegian barmen saw a lot of things that might be hard to explain away.
“Invisible?” he said.
I nodded while chewing on a piece of burnt bread.
“Like in that case with the dodgy amulet?”
I didn’t think I’d ever told him about that one, but in this town, stories get around fast.
“Not like that one... the old Arab is dead. This was something else.”
“And it was after the belt?”
I nodded again.
“So what’s the plan?” he asked.
I put the poster on the table in front of him.
“I don’t know anything about him... but it’s too much of a coincidence. I need to talk to this Black Elf.”
George lit a cigarette.
“I could have him brought here?” he said softly.
I knew what he was saying. People were brought to the pub, and taken down into the cellar. Some of them never made it out.
I shook my head.
“Thanks for the offer. But I’m in enough trouble already. No. I know where he’ll be tonight. I’ll go and have a wee chat.”
I lit a cigarette of my own.
“And I might take you up on the offer of a hat.”
I spent the day in the bolt-hole. At first I watched the news, but it was all the same ya-de-ya, round and round with no resolution. The story stayed the same. Lord Collins was dead. I was responsible.
I tried watching a different channel, but there are only so many home makeover programs a grown man can take if he’s not gay. I found a pack of cards, and beat myself up at Patience, waiting for the clock to turn around to the time when I could get to work. By the time George arrived I was close to climbing the walls.
He handed me a clean shirt... a black one.
“Not really my style,” I said.
“Put it on anyway,” he replied. “If you’re headed for Goth One, you’ll blend right in.”
“It’s that big converted church on Duke Street isn’t it?”
George nodded.
“But I’m not sure you should be going out son, there’s cops doing their nut trying to find you.”
“So, that hat you mentioned before might be in order?”
He laughed.
“I’m ahead of you there.”
He handed me my own black trilby. The last time I’d seen it, it was on the top shelf of my wardrobe at home.
“You got in and out the office without the cops seeing you then?” I asked.
“I didn’t say that,” he said, and rubbed his thumb and first two fingers together. “Somebody looked the other way for a minute.”
He looked me over after I’d put on the shirt, my jacket, and placed the hat at what I considered a jaunty angle.
“A master of disguise,” he said sarcastically. “Your own mother wouldn’t recognize you.”
“I hope not,” I replied. “I owe her two grand.”
He clapped me on the back.
“There’s a couple of lads in the bar who’ll run backup for you if you’d like? Denny and Frank... you know them, good boys in a tight spot?”
“No. It’s an in-and-out-fast job. I just want a wee chat.”
“There’s something else,” George said. “Your girlfriend was here looking for you.”
“Betty? Was she angry?”
“The polis are always angry son,” he said. “It’s in their job description.”
“OK... was she angrier?”
George smiled.
“I’d watch my balls if I were you,” he said. “She’s after them.”
I managed a tight smile.
“You sent her away?”
George nodded.
“I told her you took a wee trip.”
“There is something else you can do for me,” I said. “Find out what you can about this.”
I handed him the hair belt.
We both knew I’d just put myself in his hands. With the murder scene evidence, George could now sell me out to the cops, or his reporter buddy, and make a boatload of cash. But I had to trust someone, and there’s still some honor among thieves in the old town.
Hopefully enough to see me through the next night.
I decided to walk through town to my destination... public transport or a cab would have been far too risky. The streets were quiet, but as I reached the East End I started to notice black clad youths heading in the same direction as myself, and it wasn’t long before I saw our mutual destination.
The queue for Goth One snaked away from me across a graveyard, and shuffled slowly forward towards a huge Victorian church floodlit in fluorescent red.
As soon as I entered the converted church I knew I had come to the right place. The floor, bare stone slabs, had been painted in a gaudy, almost cartoon-like array of primary colors.
When I stepped back I got the full effect... a giant wolf’s head had been painted on the floor, jaws slavering, head tilted back, howling at an unseen moon.
At the far end of the church a stage was set for a band, and behind that a huge banner hung from the ceiling, another representation of the wolf, one that fluttered in a slight breeze giving it the semblance of life.
The church filled fast, but most of the people stayed around the edges, as if afraid to stray onto the painted head.
I lit a cigarette and waited. All was quiet.
But not for long.
The crowd cheered as the lights dimmed to leave everything bathed in a deep red glow. A drum came in softly, slowly, like a giant heart starting to beat. The lights pulsed in time, red then black, red then black, the black slowly filling with a deep crimson. A bass drone joined the drum and my heart synchronized itself with the rhythm.
The audience howled as, almost imperceptibly, the heartbeat speeded up. Dry ice cascaded over the front of the stage.
The concert had attracted the true hard-core; a tribe of lost souls, a tribe whose identifying costume was black clothing and mascara, with optional tattoos, lace, leather and, of course, high boots. But where some looked like they’d dressed especially for the gig, the bulk of the crowd in the church walked the walk. Their clothes looked lived-in ... dust encased in folds of leather coats, boots worn down at the heel, professionally rolled cigarettes dangling from lower lips.
A sudden increase in the noise level drew my gaze to the stage area. Three figures shuffled into p
osition, one behind the rack of keyboards, the other two picking up guitars. Some distance back, right at the rear of the stage, a squat figure sat behind a massive drum kit. The musicians bent their heads. Lank hair fell over their faces as they started to play. The crowd roared. Gothic organ chords filled the high rafters with wave after wave of sound.
A figure in a long velvet cloak strode forward to the center of the stage. The hood obscured his features, and his face sat in deep red shadow as he stood at the lead microphone.
“I am the Dubh Sithe,”he shouted, and the lead guitar counterpointed with a short blistering phrase that shook dust from the ceiling.
“And we are gathered tonight to open the way... with music.”
The band burst into a manic assault on their instruments, eight bars of an aural blitzkrieg that turned the audience into a thrashing frenzy. The hooded figure waved his hand, and the band stopped, as one, as if a plug had been pulled.
The Dubh Sithe stood stock still while the last echoes faded and the whoops and yells of the crowd died down.
“... with magic... “
He spread his arms wide, clenched his fists, and when he opened them again two crimson bats, each the size of a large gull, rose from his palms and fluttered away towards the roof.
“But mostly...with blood.”
He snapped the fingers of his right hand, and a cutthroat razor grew from his palm. He drew the blade hard across his left wrist, and an arc of blood sprayed towards the front row of the crowd. Even as they cowered away, the performer waved his hand, and instead of being drenched, softly falling rose-petals showered the audience. A black-haired girl, who could have been no more than fifteen years old, stood at the front, enraptured. The flowers fell around her like red snow.
The hooded figure floated backwards to the dark shadows at the rear of the stage. The band came in again, softer this time, building a lattice of sound around a plainsong chant. The audience howled as the hooded figure floated forward once more. He dropped the cape, revealing a kilted highlander in battle-ready dress. The crowd screamed in appreciation as he drew a claymore from its scabbard and began a series of stylized, almost balletic moves across the stage.
“Long years we have waited for this time to come,” he said. “And our pack has grown hungry. Soon we will run... “
A bass drum beat accompanied each word.
“And hunt.”
The crowd cheered every beat of the drum.
“And feed.”
The guitars came in with high lyrical passages that sent the crimson bats fluttering in the eaves.
The band brought the sound down to little more than a distant murmur. A flute started up, fluttery, like a little bird in flight.
The Dubh Sithe spoke over it, his voice low but carrying over the crowd.
“But first, in the grand tradition, we will have a volunteer from the audience.”
I wasn’t surprised to see the black haired girl barge her way onto the stage. When the highlander pulled her upright her skirt rode up her thigh and the crowd cheered louder. She had a broad smile on her face as she stood above the baying mosh-pit. The grin didn’t even falter as a clatter of chains announced the arrival of the trick.
At first I thought it might be a suit of armor. Only when the chains lowered it all the way to the stage did I realize what it was. I’d seen its like before, in the museum below the barracks in Edinburgh Castle. Iron Maiden they were called. And in this case the description was apt.
It had been cast in black metal, the top half in the shape of a female torso... a female from an adolescent boy’s wet dream, with a massive thrusting chest and thin, almost waspish, waist.
The Dubh Sithe pushed a button at the neck of the contraption and it swung open down a right-hand side hinge. With an exaggerated wave he showed the smooth interior to the crowd.
He snapped his fingers... and a forest of vicious six-inch spikes sprung out, then just as quickly retracted, leaving behind only the metallic echo of their passing.
The crowd went quiet as the girl stepped into the maiden. Her skirt proved too full to fit. She pulled it off in one smooth motion to a chorus of cheers. She performed an impromptu high-kicking chorus-girl routine before the Dubh Sithe swiveled the other half of the contraption into place. He raised an arm, the chains rattled, and the girl lifted an inch off the floor.
The band played the carousel theme from “The Magic Roundabout” as the Maiden, and the girl inside it, span above the stage.
The chains clattered noisily, raising her up over the heads of the crowd and swinging her out to hang suspended over the great painted serpent.
The music stopped, the chains fell quiet, and the vast space inside the church went silent as the Dubh Sithe raised his arms. He clapped his hands. The band hit a huge vibrating minor chord in perfect time... but the sound of the spikes emerging was louder.
The girl screamed.
The Maiden, chains and all, fell to the floor. The audience scattered like ants from beneath. Someone squealed but it was soon cut off. Silence fell... until the crowd realized that the girl wasn’t there... the Maiden was empty except for a swarming mass of blood-red butterflies that fluttered softly upwards to join the bats in the rafters.
The Dubh Sithe floated away to the back of the stage. The band started a four bar repeating riff. It slowly grew in depth and volume until almost everybody in the hall jerked in time.
The Dubh Sithe floated forward once more.
The band brought the sound down to a slow heartbeat.
“And now we have begun,” he said. “Are you hungry for more?”
The butterflies fell like snow around the conjuror. He snapped his fingers, and the insects burst into a dancing swirl of flames. With a wave of his hand the magician sent them out over the audience. The crowd moved aside as the tiny fires settled on the head of the painted wolf, giving it a semblance of squirming life.
Suddenly the flames flared. The pair of bats swooped and joined the conflagration, adding their burning flesh to the searing heat, causing the crowd to step further back.
The fires died as quickly as they came, leaving a rough pillar of red ash behind.
“The prelude is almost over,” the Dubh Sithe said. “It is written that the Hebrew god turned a wicked woman into a pillar of salt.”
He jumped off the stage and the crowd parted to let him pass.
“Let us see if we can do it the other way round shall we?”
He approached the pillar and, impossible as it seemed, drew a long wooden staff from within his clenched fist.
The band stepped up the beat, keeping time with the Dubh Sithe as he began a complex swirling dance around the column. The quarter-staff missed the ash by millimeters on each pass, and on each pass it edged closer. It wasn’t long before he was shaving small puffs of ash from the column with every stroke.
Like a master sculptor filmed in fast-forward, a figure emerged as the ash was stripped off.
With one last flourish he tapped the figure’s head hard. The red dust fell away.
The black haired girl shook ash from her hair and grinned widely.
The crowd stamped their feet, howling and cheering as the magician led her back to the stage, where she jumped up beside the band.
The keyboard player led the rest into ‘Riders on the Storm’. Rain started to fall inside the church, a red rain that turned to steam and fog in a thick layer just above their heads. The band got into the groove and the crowd swayed in time, heads down, feet stomping.
A crowd of dancers encircled the wolf’s head. An inner track of black-clad figures tramped counter-clockwise, heads down, marching in time with the band. Beyond that a second track marched clockwise and, even as I watched, a third, counter-clockwise ring started to form.
The band stepped up a gear and the circles spun ever faster.
Once more the Dubh Sithe came to the front of the stage. The band took the noise down so that he could be heard.
“We are o
f the dark,” he said. He raised his hands, and all light in the hall went out save for one red spotlight that illuminated his face from below. It was an old trick, but still an effective one.
“Long ago there was a night when the pack ran free and hunger never came. Soon we will bring that time around again. Patience little brothers and sisters... patience.”
He drifted to the back of the stage. Through the dry-ice smoke I saw him lead the black-haired girl away behind the curtain.
That was my cue. I made my way stage-side.
Nobody stopped me as I jumped up and followed.
There was no security backstage and I was able to pass freely. That should have made me nervous, but the music boomed so loud in the corridor that my head throbbed in time, and rational thought came a poor second.
That’s my excuse for what happened next.
The corridor ahead of me was too empty, and I took too long to notice. Somebody grabbed me by the shoulder and bundled me into a small room. They were too fast, too strong. Before I could react my head was rammed up hard against a wall. Things went a bit blurred round the edges, but I wasn’t given the luxury of passing out.
A grip, iron hard, held me around the neck. My attacker put his face up close to mine, and the Black Elf stared at me. He wasn’t a big man, but he was wiry and lithe, and hard as nails. His face was thin, almost skeletal, pock-marked and ravaged by teenage acne long since dead.
His free hand came up and took the trilby off my head, tossing it away out of sight.
“Ah... his Lordship’s drinking partner. Welcome.”
He forced my head to one side and exposed my neck. Then he sniffed, twice, close together, as if checking my after-shave.
“Where is it!” he said.
His voice was rough, harsh, almost a bark.
I tried to speak, but the grip around my throat was so tight that all I could manage was to keep breathing.
“Where is it!” he said again, almost shouting this time. His breath smelled, of stale food and stagnant water, but I guessed now wasn’t a good time to tell him.
With his spare hand he went through my pockets; fast and methodical, like a pro. When he didn’t find anything, the hold on my throat tightened further still. I tried to break the grip, but my strength was going fast. I punched him, hard, just below the heart, but he didn’t even wince.
The Midnight Eye Files Collection Page 46