by Jim Eldridge
By early evening, Jake was feeling so depressed he could almost describe it as suicidal. But what would be the point of that? It wouldn’t get Lauren back. He wondered if it was the effects of the gas making him feel like this. But then he remembered there hadn’t been any gas, despite what Gareth and the doctor had told him. He knew there hadn’t been any gas. And this business of the Order of Malichea seemed to make the whole thing even clearer. There was a cover-up going on. And someone had tried to push him under a train!
Oh God, don’t start on that direction! he groaned to himself. Not another conspiracy! ‘Aliens ate my brother!’ ‘All World Leaders are Lizards!’
But there was something going on. Malichea. Sigma. The construction worker. And someone had tried to push him under the train. Jake was sure it was not just coincidence that it had happened after Gareth had spotted him in the archive library.
Jake thought about what Lauren had told him about this Order of Malichea hiding their library in places that were rumoured to be holy, or haunted, or sacred, or cursed. Like a fairy ring. Was it really possible . . . ?
His mobile rang. He checked the number on the screen. It was Lauren! Hastily, he made the connection.
‘Hi,’ he said, smiling to himself. She was calling him!
‘It’s Lauren!’ said Lauren, and she sounded seriously angry, and the smile vanished from Jake’s face as he wondered what he could have said or done to upset her. But then she said, ‘I’ve been burgled!’
‘What?’ said Jake, his mind in a whirl. His first thought was one of relief that she wasn’t angry at him over what had happened, but her next words put an end to that feeling of relief.
‘Who have you been talking to about me?’ she demanded.
‘What?’ stumbled Jake. ‘No one? Why?’
‘Because they took my laptop! And my notepads with my notes!’
‘What notes?’
‘All of them. Including my notes on the Order of Malichea! Why would anyone do that?’
‘I don’t know,’ stammered Jake.
‘Because they knew what you were asking me!’ said Lauren accusingly. ‘You must have told someone!’
‘I swear, I haven’t told anyone!’ insisted Jake. ‘I only picked up the word Malichea this morning for the first time, at my department. The only person I mentioned it to was the librarian in the archives library . . .’
And immediately afterwards, Gareth turned up in the library, thought Jake. Gareth, who never ventures below the third floor. Gareth, who if he wants anything from the archives sends a minion to get it.
‘Jake . . . !’ came Lauren’s voice. ‘Are you still there?’
‘Yes,’ said Jake. ‘Lauren, I don’t think we should say anything more over the phone right now. There’s something going on.’
‘And you think my burglary’s proof of it?’
‘Yes. I think it could well be.’
There was a pause, and Jake could hear Lauren talking, but muffled, and someone more distant replying. She wasn’t alone.
‘Lauren . . .’ he began.
‘Wait a minute,’ she said.
There was more talking at the other end of the phone, too muffled for him to hear, then she said, ‘The South Bank. One of the benches near the Festival Hall by the bridge.’
‘Got it,’ he said. ‘When?’
‘An hour. We’ll see you there.’
‘We?’ he queried.
‘After this, I’m not coming to see you on my own. If you’re right, I’m going to need protection.’
With that she hung up. Jake wondered who she would be bringing with her. She’d said ‘protection’. That suggested Robert, that huge hulking rugby player cousin of hers. The big question was: who had burgled Lauren’s flat? Circumstances pointed to Gareth being involved in some way. But why? And why take the stuff on the Order of Malichea?
Chapter 7
Jake sat on the bench on the South Bank in front of the Festival Hall and looked at the familiar landmarks along the Thames. The tower of the OXO building. The Savoy. The three bridges nearby spanning the Thames: the ancient rusted metal of the Hungerford railway bridge; the gleaming new shininess of the footbridge, and, further away to his right, the white stone walls of Waterloo Bridge. He remembered times when he and Lauren had sat here at this very spot, watching the lights sparkling on the waters of the Thames. Those had been the early days of their relationship, when they had been so happy together.
He shook his head to shake the image out of his mind. Stop thinking of her like that. A hand on his shoulder made him jump, and he half rose, half turned, and there she was, as beautiful as ever. But the man with her wasn’t Robert the rugby player. He was much smaller. Thinner, with a wisp of a moustache, and in his early twenties.
‘Jake, this is Carl Parsons.’
Of course. The new boyfriend. The Mature Brainiac.
Jake stood up and shook Parsons’s hand, though something inside him wanted to crush it. He was surprised at how firm the handshake was, coming from such a weedy-looking individual.
‘I’ve told Carl the story you told me,’ said Lauren as they both joined Jake sitting down on the bench. ‘About the building worker turning into something.’
‘Yes.’ Parsons nodded. ‘Intriguing.’
‘Carl’s in the same department as me, studying Theoretical Sciences,’ explained Lauren.
Jake couldn’t resist thinking sarcastically: He’s your protection? Aloud, he said, ‘Did you report the burglary to the police?’
‘Of course,’ said Lauren. ‘Waste of time though. They’re convinced it was just some junkies breaking in looking for money for drugs.’
‘And taking your information on the Order of Malichea instead?’ commented Jake.
‘They homed in on Lauren’s laptop,’ said Parsons. ‘They said laptops were a prime target. Easily portable.’
‘And the notes you said they took?’ asked Jake.
Lauren shook her head.
‘I don’t think they even bothered to write that down,’ she said. ‘They concentrated on the laptop and a CD player the burglars also took. For them that was proof it was just junkies.’
‘A CD player?’ queried Jake.
‘Obvious cover,’ said Parsons. ‘If they’d really been junkies they’d have taken the TV as well.’
‘Maybe it was too big?’ suggested Jake.
‘So, you believe what the police say?’ asked Lauren.
Jake shook his head.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Your notes being taken is the crucial pointer. They want to eliminate everything about the Order of Malichea completely, make sure you have nothing.’
‘But that’s stupid!’ exploded Lauren angrily. ‘Stuff about the Order is all over the internet! All anyone’s got to do is a Google search and it’s there!’
Jake frowned. He wished he’d thought of that before. But there was still one puzzle, if what Lauren said was true: why was the information on his department’s search engine restricted to Level 4 security and above? The answer had to be: because the information in the department’s archives was more detailed than anything anyone would find on the internet.
‘I think they’re trying to scare you off,’ said Parsons.
They both looked at him.
‘It’s logical when you think about it,’ Parsons continued. ‘The information you had about the Order is on the internet . . .’
‘Not all of it,’ interrupted Lauren. ‘Basic stuff, the history of the Order, that sort of thing, but some of my research came from other sources. Old books, libraries . . .’
‘And you could get hold of it again,’ persisted Parsons. ‘And whoever these people were know that. So I think this is a message, and a not very subtle one, warning you to keep out of this.’
‘Why?’ asked Lauren. ‘Why send me that message and not Jake? He’s the one poking his nose in.’
‘They already sent me a message of sorts,’ said Jake. ‘Someone tried to kill me.’
‘What?’ Lauren looked at Jake, disbelief on her face. ‘Oh, come on . . . !’
‘No, I’m serious,’ said Jake hastily. ‘Someone tried to push me under a train this morning at Victoria.’
‘The platform must have just been crowded,’ said Lauren. ‘People always push.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ agreed Jake. ‘But someone definitely pushed me, not just a little push, but a hard push. And they did it twice.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘I must admit, I still wasn’t completely convinced it wasn’t just some accident, or some lunatic, until you told me about your burglary.’
Lauren and Parsons exchanged looks. Then Parsons said, ‘I know it sounds far-fetched, but there have been instances of the government shutting people up by arranging accidents.’
Jake looked at Parsons in surprise. This was support from a very unexpected quarter.
‘But why would they burgle my flat?’ asked Lauren.
‘Because you know about the Order of Malichea,’ said Parsons. ‘Jake doesn’t. It’s a warning. They don’t want you helping him to find out more.’
‘Why should they think I would help him?’
‘You already were,’ pointed out Parsons. ‘You said to Jake you’d email him the information you had about the Order, remember? You told me so.’
‘Yes, but I only told you and Jake,’ said Lauren. ‘So how would they know that?’
‘Bugs,’ said Jake. ‘Eavesdropping equipment. Telephone taps.’
Parsons nodded. ‘That’s quite possible,’ he said.
‘No, it’s not,’ Lauren said. ‘I said that to Jake in the precinct in front of the British Library, out in the open air, and unless the table we were sitting at was bugged . . .’
‘Directional microphones,’ said Parsons. ‘State-of-the-art surveillance equipment. Parabolic mics. You can pick up a conversation in the open air from fifty metres. Even further with the latest technology.’
Lauren looked shocked. She shook her head. ‘But how would anyone know that we were worth bugging?’
‘Because of what happened to me this morning, getting kicked out of the department,’ said Jake. ‘It was me they were bugging, waiting to see who I contacted. And I contacted you.’ He gave an apologetic sigh. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drag you into this. Well . . . I did, but I didn’t think it would lead to this. I’m really sorry.’
‘I’m not,’ said Lauren.
Jake looked at her in surprise.
‘But . . .’ he began. Lauren didn’t let him finish.
‘I’ve always wanted to write a book about the Order of Malichea. This is all about what you could call “lost sciences”. Science books that the Order hid hundreds of years ago because the sciences in them were deemed “dangerous” by the powers that be. As far as I knew, all the evidence about the Order of Malichea and their lost sciences was circumstantial, stories with some evidence to back them up, but nothing tangible. Nothing solid. This is solid.’
Jake frowned, puzzled.
‘I don’t get you,’ he said.
‘The event that happened in Bedfordshire, the building worker turning into something weird,’ said Lauren ‘You saw that.’
‘Yes,’ said Jake. ‘I swear I did.’
‘The attempts by this boss of yours . . .’
‘Gareth Findlay-Weston.’ Jake nodded.
‘. . . by him to persuade you it was all a hallucination. And now this burglary, my laptop and my notes on the Order of Malichea being taken as a warning. It means there is hard evidence, and someone’s got it, and they don’t want it being known about as real instead of just some . . . weird stuff.’
‘You’re jumping to a bit of a conclusion,’ said Parsons doubtfully.
‘I am – a logical conclusion,’ said Lauren.
‘A circumstantial conclusion,’ challenged Parsons.
Good, thought Jake. Please argue between you.
‘I know what’s happened so far points to that, but there could be another explanation which we’re missing, because we don’t have all the information,’ insisted Parsons. ‘And there’s another thing . . .’ and he began to look around, concerned. ‘We’ve just agreed that it’s likely your conversation outside the British Library was bugged. So what’s the betting the same people are listening to us at this very moment?’
Lauren and Jake exchanged concerned looks. Parsons was right. Then Lauren’s expression changed to one of angry determination. It was an expression Jake recognised all too well. It was the expression she’d had on her face when she’d told him he could go to hell after she’d found him with the bridesmaid.
‘Then we’re going to change that,’ she said. She stood up. ‘Come on.’
‘Where are we going?’ asked Parsons.
‘Where we can talk without being overheard.’
Chapter 8
As Jake and Parsons followed Lauren across the pedestrian bridge over the Thames towards Embankment Station they kept a resolute silence, to Jake’s great frustration. Where are we going? he thought. Surely it wouldn’t do any harm for her to at least tell me where we’re heading. We’re walking on a bridge over the Thames; no one can pick up what we say here. Unless we had a parabolic microphone trained on us from a boat on the Thames. What were the chances of that?
Every chance, realised Jake gloomily. These people tried to kill me, they’ve taken Lauren’s laptop. They can get everywhere and do anything.
He kept silent, along with the other two, and just followed them. From the Embankment they caught a train to Baron’s Court. Outside the station Lauren hailed a taxi.
‘It’s only a short distance from here,’ she whispered. ‘But this way, if anyone has been following us, it should throw them off the scent.’
Under Lauren’s directions, the taxi turned off the main road, and then zigzagged through back streets, until she gave the order for it to pull up.
They were outside a small terraced house. Lauren rang the doorbell. After a few moments the door opened and the massive figure of Robert, Lauren’s rugby-playing cousin, looked out at them. He grinned massively when he saw Lauren, but then his look fell on Jake and he scowled.
‘What’s he doing here?’ he growled.
‘Later, Robert,’ said Lauren. ‘Can we come in? It’s urgent.’
Robert stepped aside and the three slipped into the house.
Jake expected the inside of the house to be the sort he expected from a hulking great rugby player like Robert: namely, a rubbish tip, with rugby boots and shorts and empty beer cans dumped all over the place. To his surprise, the interior was neat and tidy. And not just neat, it was very tastefully decorated, and quite modern in a minimalist style.
‘Nice place,’ murmured Jake, looking around at the room they had walked into in.
‘Robert’s an architect,’ said Lauren.
Jake looked in surprise at Robert as he joined them. This hulking great man-mountain of a rugby player, someone who looked like he could tear an opponent apart with his bare hands, was an architect?
‘What’s up?’ demanded Lauren. ‘You’re looking strange.’
‘Nothing,’ said Jake quickly. ‘I’m just a bit knocked over by all that’s going on.’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t believe this is happening.’
‘Oh, it is,’ said Parsons quietly. ‘What we have to find out is where you fit in.’
‘Tea or coffee anyone?’ asked Robert.
‘Decaf coffee for me,’ said Lauren.
‘Tea for me, please, Robert,’ said Parsons.
Parsons has been here before, thought Jake. He’s a friend of Robert’s now. Part of the family, he thought bitterly.
‘You?’ Robert demanded of Jake, his voice still menacing enough to make Jake worry.
‘Me, what?’ asked Jake, uncertainly.
‘Tea or coffee?’
‘Er . . . tea, please. If that’s OK.’
Robert glowered at him, then disappeared into the kitchen.
‘Right,’ said Lauren
, sitting down on the settee. ‘Tell Carl what you told me. About what you saw.’
‘You said you’d already told him?’ said Jake, puzzled.
‘Yes, but I want him to hear it from you in case I missed something out.’
So Jake repeated the story to Carl Parsons: the fairy ring, the digger, the worker suddenly being covered with vegetation, the panic, the SAS team arriving, the ambulances, him being ordered home on sick leave by his boss. And the attempt on his life at the underground station.
While Jake was telling his story, Robert appeared with a tray with their drinks on and set them down on the small coffee table, before sitting down with them and joining in listening to Jake.
When Jake had finished, Lauren turned to Parsons. ‘Well?’ she asked.
‘Sounds like fungal spores,’ murmured Parsons.
‘In particular, El Izmir and the greening of the desert,’ added Lauren.
‘And not just the text but the actual spores,’ added Parsons thoughtfully. He shook his head, an expression of awe on his face. ‘It’s not possible, is it? That the fungal spores were actually placed by El Izmir inside the pages of the book?’
Jake looked from Lauren to Parsons, and then back at Lauren again.
‘Would either of you mind telling me what you’re talking about?’ he demanded, annoyed. ‘I’m out of the loop here.’
‘It’s a treatise said to have been written in about 690 AD by El Izmir Al Tabul, an Arabian philosopher and agrarianist,’ answered Lauren.
‘Agrarianist?’ asked Jake, with a puzzled frown.
‘A gardener,’ explained Parsons.
‘Then why not say so,’ Jake complained, ‘instead of using words like some sort of code to cut me out and make me feel like a spare part.’
‘I’m not trying to make you feel cut out,’ defended Lauren. ‘The fact is, he was more than just a gardener, and – for me – science is about being precise. Anyway, when I was researching the Order of Malichea I came across a list of books that were said to have been in the secret library.’