Brotherhood of the Tomb

by Daniel Easterman

  He was behind the man now. Without a sound, he set his shoes down. Faint as gossamer, his breath hung in front of his face, trembling. He braced himself and reached with both hands at once. His left grabbed a clump of hair, pulling the man’s head back fiercely, while the right brought the knife round hard against his throat. He could feel the blade touch flesh, the Adam’s apple neat on steel.

  ‘Kneel.’

  The old voice out of the darkness; his own voice, and yet not his voice.

  The man grunted, about to scream, his throat bulging unseen against the blade. Then, slowly, his legs buckled and he lowered himself to his knees. Patrick moved hard behind him, a knee in his back, the knife well poised, the long throat taut. He could feel the stranger’s fear, acrid in the sea air, in the electric presence of the storm.

  ‘Take your gun and throw it to the ground. Please don’t force me to hurt you.’

  The man struggled for words.

  ‘No ... gun ... I ... swear.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  Silence. The wind moving, cold as death.

  ‘Who sent you?’

  The knife again, a trickle of blood, frost on the blade. Silence. Death hovering breathless in the thin air. The man’s fear was rapidly giving way to something else: Defiance? Indifference? Transcendence?

  ‘Why are you watching me?’

  Silence. Then a roll of thunder that echoed across the bay.

  He switched to Arabic.

  ‘Min ayna ta’ti? Where are you from?’

  No sign of comprehension.

  He tried Persian.

  ‘Az koja amadi?

  No answer.

  Suddenly lightning flashed, turning the world to light for an instant. An image fixed itself in Patrick’s mind: a dark-haired man, his head held back, a knife against his throat, a thin line of blood across bruised flesh.

  Patrick blinked, and in that instant the stranger made his move. His right hand came up, grabbing Patrick’s wrist, knocking the knife away. He swung in sideways, his hair twisting painfully in his captor’s grasp, his left arm pivoting, his fist striking out hard. Patrick rocked, loosening his grip. The man staggered with him, then dropped forward, using his head to butt Patrick, knocking him down. At that very moment, the storm broke. Like a river bursting through a dam, rain came flooding out of the sky, thick and cold and heavy.

  Patrick heard the man’s feet ring out on the hard ground. He rolled onto his knees and started scrabbling for his shoes. The rain smothered and blinded him. His clothes were already soaking. Frantically, he passed his hands over the road. He found one shoe, then the other, and hurried to pull them on, leaving the laces untied.

  The stranger had headed off to the right. Patrick followed, hampered by rain and darkness. Lightning flashed again, sheet upon sheet of it, white and cold like anger. Stencilled against the night, he saw a car and a man opening the door. He stumbled forward, desperate now.

  There was the sound of an engine rasping, unwilling to ignite. He had a chance. Panting, he ran through the darkness. The engine turned again and died. A lace caught beneath his foot and sent him off balance, pitching forward in a heap, skinning his hands badly on the rough ground. He heard the engine cough then hold. Biting back the pain, he hauled himself to his feet, staggering across the last few yards.

  He crashed into the car as it pulled away from the kerb, turned, ran, snatched for the handle. The door opened and he threw himself into the seat as the vehicle picked up speed. The driver had not yet switched on his lights. Rain and darkness flooded the windscreen.

  Patrick reached for the wheel, pulling it towards him. The driver braked suddenly, sending them into a spin. The car mounted the kerb, tilted, and crumpled against the sea wall.

  Panicking, the driver opened his door and stumbled into the road. He slipped, then picked himself up and began to run.

  Patrick threw his own door open, but it stuck on the wall, leaving a gap too narrow for him to squeeze through. He wriggled across the gear-stick, then out through the driver’s door. Wind and rain grabbed him, tearing him back into their world. He spluttered, catching his breath, and broke into a run.

  Another stroke of lightning raced down the sky, dragging behind it an angry roll of thunder. Out at sea, raging waves were frozen, as though the light had carved them in an instant out of raw ice. A ship appeared, running for harbour, hopeless and alone on crystal waves. He saw the man jump the wall, heading for the beach.

  The sand was already filled with rain. His feet sank in it. It was like treacle, clawing at him, pulling him down. He moved as though in a dream, no longer certain why he was here. The world had vanished and been replaced by nightmare. He could hear waves crashing on rocks and wind tearing the sky to shreds. Jagged bands of lightning grew out of nowhere like the sudden branches of giant trees. The man was only yards ahead of him, scrambling among white spray at the edge of the rocks. A crash of thunder rolled across the void.

  Patrick shouted, but the wind snatched the words from his mouth, leaving him breathless. The man was crazy. The rocks he was climbing on would soon be covered as the tide came further in: he could find no shelter there.

  Waves were already dragging at his ankles. He pushed further out into the freezing water, unable to see a thing, his eyes blinded by the last flash of lightning. The water was already at his knees.

  The first rock caught him unawares, striking him in the shin and almost sending him flying into the sea. He scrambled onto it, crouching down, finding his way to the next by touch. He was no longer sure which way the land lay and which way the sea. At any moment he might lose his grip and go spinning into deep water, at the mercy of cold currents, battered on dark rocks, pulled down into darkness.

  He slipped on kelp and pitched forward into a freezing pool. A voice came to him out of the maelstrom, thin and anguished. The wind drove away all semblance of meaning. There was no way of knowing whether the words had been a threat or a cry for help. Out here, there was nothing but the wind and the sea.

  Another rock, the rough edges of barnacles, rain and spray mingled in a single sheet of water, a wind like barbed wire against the skin. He saw a shadow darker than the rest, something crouching at the edge of the rocks, where they joined the sea. Scarcely balanced himself, he lunged forward and made a grab for the man.

  They fell backwards onto a broad wrack-covered rock. He heard his opponent gasp as the breath was forced from his lungs.

  Who are you?’ he shouted, anger forcing his voice above the storm. The man remained silent, struggling in his grasp.

  Overhead, lightning tore the darkness away like a thin veil. Patrick saw a white face, the eyes opened in terror, and a hand across the face, as though to ward him off. A clap of thunder burst the sky open.

  Suddenly, his opponent pushed him back, slipping out of his grip on the wet rock. He flopped down into a gap, twisted, and tried to stand. As he got to one foot, a huge wave crashed into him, throwing him off balance. He lost his footing completely. There was a loud cry, inhuman, passionate, past articulation. Patrick reached out. But there was nothing. Another bolt of lightning crossed the sky. The rock ahead was empty.

  The tide was still rushing in. There was nothing Patrick could do for the stranger, not in a sea like that. He turned and started crawling back along the rocks. There were no lights on the shore to guide him. In the madness, he could have been moving away from the land, out to sea and certain death. He lost count of the number of times he slipped, crashing heavily onto the rocks. It would be so easy to break a leg and be trapped until the sea took possession of everything and dragged him out into its depths.

  Lightning again. The world stark, insane. He got his bearings and dropped into the water, desperate for balance. Even here, the undertow was fierce, like ropes that tried to pull his legs from under him. The water rose up to his chest now. He felt tired suddenly, as though the sea had sapped him of all strength.

  Aching, he gave himself to it, half swimming, half dro
wning. Salt water poured into his mouth, filling his stomach, weighing him down. His arms and legs moved sluggishly, as though he was swimming in another substance, in quicksand or mercury, thick and deadly, pulling him down.

  Suddenly, he felt land beneath his feet. Coughing and spluttering, he threw himself forward. His head went under, then rose again. He fought to regain his balance. His feet found purchase on the sloping beach. Spewing up water, he staggered through the last few yards of angry waves, coming at last to rain-drenched sand. A few feet more and he threw himself to the ground.

  All around him, the world was bedlam. But he scarcely noticed. All he could think of, all he could see polished on the darkness of the night was the white oval of the watcher’s face and his hand raised, pushing him away. And on the man’s inner wrist a tiny circle tattooed in black, and inside the circle a seven-branched candlestick crowned with a cross.

  It was impossible, he thought. A nightmare from the past, a nightmare that could not possibly have followed him here, to this place, to this moment.

  Behind him, in the darkness, the sea moved, rank and heavy with drowning men and the bodies of great fish sinking to its rotten bed. They were devouring one another down there, men and fish and all manner of swimming and crawling things.

  SIX

  He lost track of time, lying wet and out of breath at the foot of the sea wall, as though cast up there by nauseated waves. Slowly the rain subsided and the thunder became a distant rumbling as the storm passed on into the Wicklow Hills. Aching to his bones, he picked himself up and clambered back over the wall onto the road.

  The car was still where he had left it, against the wall. Its engine had stalled. He had supposed someone would have heard the crash and come out to investigate or phoned for the Gardai, but the road was deserted. If any sleepers had been awakened, they must have imagined the crash a clap of thunder and gone back to sleep. He pulled the door open and slipped into the driver’s seat.

  He knew he should rush back to the house for a hot shower and a change of clothes, but first he had to search the car. His mind was in turmoil. He had seen the symbol on the watcher’s wrist twice before. Once on the pendant round Francesca’s neck, the pendant she had thrown angrily into the sea, almost as a portent of tonight’s events.

  The second time had been several years ago, during a mission in Egypt. To see it again here in Ireland filled him with the deepest foreboding. He had thought that episode buried forever: he should have known that sands shift and the buried past returns to life.

  He switched on the interior lights and looked round. The car was a small Citroen hatchback, tidy and quite new-looking, probably rented. There was nothing on the rear seat or the shelf behind it.

  Leaning across the passenger seat, he opened the glove compartment.

  Inside, he found a map and a small book bound in black leather. The book was a copy of the New Testament in Greek with an interlinear English translation based on the Revised Version. Its pages were well thumbed, and here and there in the margins someone had made textual notes in pencil. He put the volume down and turned to the map. It was a standard Geographia map of Dublin, from Ballymun and Santry in the north to Tallaght and Glenageary in the south.

  His own street, situated in the extreme bottom right-hand corner, had been ringed several times in red ink. There was a second set of rings round a spot in the Liberties, centred on Francis Street, about St Malachy’s parish church.

  He felt his heart go cold. The connection between the two circles was unambiguous.

  Taking the map and book, he got out into the rain. It was only a drizzle now, the storm’s rich anger spent or gone elsewhere. He only paused to check the boot, finding it empty as he had expected, then set off home.

  Ruth was waiting up for him. She was crouched over the table in the kitchen, cradling a mug of tea, more for the comfort of it than from a need to drink. He sat down facing her, wordless, shivering, afraid of her gentleness more than anything.

  ‘The storm woke me,’ she said. ‘You were gone again. I thought you might be in the study. I looked everywhere for you.’

  She did not ask where he had been, merely told her story and fell silent. In the half-light her shaded face seemed perhaps lovelier than a woman’s face had ever appeared to him. For that moment, in that place. He wanted to sit with her, hold her, talk with her. He thought he loved her after all: it was, at least, what he wanted. To love her, to be here with her. But there was no time tonight. The circles round St Malachy’s, like the circle on the stranger’s wrist, could mean only one thing: a man was in terrible danger. Patrick had no choice.

  ‘I have to go out again,’ he said.

  She looked at him intently, understanding beginning to dawn.

  What’s going on, Patrick? Whatever it is, it doesn’t concern you. You’re finished with that stuff.’

  ‘Come upstairs,’ he said, ‘I have to change.’

  She followed him, clutching her dressing-gown about her as though it could ward off the sudden terrors of the night. The world pressed against her, heavy and cold, its saturated breath dank in her nostrils.

  He made straight for the bedroom and picked up the telephone from the table by the bed. Ruth stood in the doorway, watching. It was bitterly cold.

  The phone in St Malachy’s presbytery began to ring. De Faoite’s hearing was poor, and he would be asleep, unless wakened by the storm. Patrick felt his heart beating, keeping time with the burring of the telephone. He waited two minutes, then hung up.

  ‘Okay, Patrick - so, suppose you cut this out and tell me exactly what’s going on here?’

  He tried to ignore her, starting to take off his wet clothes, but she grabbed him by the arm and forced him to look directly at her.

  ‘Don’t fuck about with me, Patrick! I have a right to know what’s happening. For Christ’s sake, you’re not even in the trade any longer.’

  ‘It has nothing to do with that.’

  ‘Oh no? Then why all the sudden mystery? Walks

  in the middle of the night, mysterious phone calls. Come on, Patrick - I’ve been through all this. If you’re in danger, I’m in danger, so don’t play games.’

  He held her clumsily, unable to respond, or perhaps afraid to do so. Outside, the sea still raged against the shore. Water lay against water, wave against wave, an unbroken ocean round the world, closing in on him, connecting him to his past. Beirut, Alexandria, Bandar Abbas - everywhere the sea, everywhere waves beating furiously against the land.

  ‘It has nothing to do with you, Ruth. Honestly. It’s something out of my own past. Something I have to handle myself.’

  Who were you ringing?’

  ‘Eamonn De Faoite. He’s the parish priest at St Malachy’s in town. Sometimes he teaches Semitic studies at University College and Trinity. He was my teacher back in the sixties when I studied here. I think he’s in danger. I wanted to warn him.’

  “Warn him? About what?’

  Patrick shook his head.

  ‘I don’t know. I...’ He paused. ‘Listen,’ he resumed. ‘About eight years ago, I was in Egypt. The Agency was looking for support among the Coptic Christian population, as a sort of balance against the Muslim Brothers. There’d been anti-Coptic riots back in the early eighties; Sadat had exiled Pope Shenuda to Wadi Natrun; Islamic fundamentalism was spreading.

  ‘I was in a small village in the Delta. Myself and a local agent. The people we were staying with were Copts. They woke us very early one morning. Something had frightened them. They asked if I would go to the next village, a place called Sidi Ya’qub. They kept saying that something terrible had happened, that they wanted me to go to see if what they had heard was true. When I asked them to tell me what

  it was, they just threw their hands up and shook their heads. Finally, I agreed. I took the jeep and drove over to Sidi Ya’qub.’

  He paused. Outside, the troubled sea gave its voice to the storm.

  ‘It was one of the stupidest things I ever did.
I very nearly got myself lynched. What had happened was this: Sidi Ya’qub had a school. The building was situated a short stretch outside the village proper, on a low ridge. Some men had come the previous afternoon and herded the children together, put them in a bus and driven them off. About thirty children altogether.

  ‘When I arrived, the village was frantic. They had been looking for the children all night. The police had been called in, the Muslim Brothers were there in force, everyone was acting crazy. Anyway, I stayed and gave a hand. I knew why the Copts in the next village were afraid: if anything had happened to the children, they would very likely be blamed. And if what had happened turned out to be unpleasant, they knew things could get very nasty.’

  He hesitated.

  ‘Yes?’ she asked.

  Well, it did turn out to be unpleasant. Very unpleasant indeed. They found the children shortly after noon, in an old temple about a mile from the village. It’s not much of a temple, not the sort of place that gets on the tourist trail. I went out there with everyone else after word came in that the children had been found.

  ‘There was a stone basin in the centre of the temple. Basalt, I think. And very large. It had been badly damaged, but it could still hold perhaps a hundred gallons or thereabouts.’

  He closed his eyes. The memory of the temple and what had been found there was sharp in his mind now.

  ‘The ... the children were lying in a circle round the basin. Their throats had been cut and the basin filled with the blood. The basin wasn’t full, but the blood in it was deep. Their teacher was there as well. He had been drowned in the basin. The children had been stripped and tied with thongs. And someone had marked their foreheads with a circle, a circle containing a candlestick topped by a cross. That was when I had to get out, when they saw the cross.’ He paused. ‘I heard later that there was very nearly a massacre at the village where I’d been staying. They left just in time, before their neighbours got there. They’ve never gone back.’

  Ruth stopped him.

  ‘I don’t understand what this has got to do with you and Eamonn De Faoite.’