Chapter Eighteen
From the dark velvet of the winter’s night sky, the full moon cast its reflected light down onto the countryside below. It was a land which starkly contrasted to the tower blocks and concrete of Ben Santiago's native Manhattan. Yet he knew this place! It was the deep countryside of rural England. Below him the fields and pastures, the ancient oak and birch woods and twisting silver streams were illuminated by the light of the rising full moon.
Santiago swept over this land aware of his
destination and the man who had summoned him to this place in his dreams. For the last nine months, each and every night, it had been the same dream, the same journey, but tonight he felt a difference; he felt a presence.
Now his summoner was here and the dream would no longer fade, he would continue, drawn to the man whose shockingly familiar face haunted him each night as it rose like a dark cloud on the dream horizon and threatened to devour the moonlight.
Tonight the massive cloud face did not rise above the horizon as it usually did. Instead Santiago found himself approaching a diffused dome of neon light that cocooned a sleepy Staffordshire market town. Santiago was sped toward it. He knew this was more than a dream, although he had little control over these nocturnal journeys. Tonight his spirit had been freed and he now viewed that which was real, not a fragmentary construction of the imagination. This town was a real place. As if on cue, Santiago found himself being guided around the identifying landmarks of the small town, being given all the information he would require finding this place and, so that he could, he realised, soon journey here in the flesh.
He paused by the great tower and spire of the town's large church and then spiralled down into the maze of streets and alleys which surrounded the market square. He moved swiftly up narrow street which was lined by three and four storey Tudor buildings that seemed to menacingly inwards over the street. His attention was drawn to a sign swinging idly in the breeze, squeaking softly on its rusty hinges.
Two gold keys, heavily faded and flaking paint were crossed in the centre of the dilapidated sign. Given time to register what he had seen, Santiago was now guided into the courtyard of the inn and toward a second storey window. Behind the dark glass a shadow lurked, the moon painted the contours of the face of this shadow of a man. A strong, square jaw and large dark mouth were all he could presently make out, a mouth slightly open and into which, or so it seemed to Santiago, the moonlight which illuminated the man's face, streamed into. Then, abruptly, the moon was obscured by the mass of huge banks of rumbling storm clouds which seemed to raise themselves out of nowhere. His summoner’s face disappeared as the light faded quickly, until a single flash of sheet lightening revealed his face fully to Santiago.
Ben stared in horrified fascination at the face with abyssal eyes and the huge hooked nose that pressed against the glass. There was something familiar about this man, but he failed to make any connection. Perhaps he was a client from long ago he thought. A swarthy pock marked Arab, some failed revolutionary from the middle east, a South American dictator, some tyrant, some megalomaniac, he had done business with in the past; he seemed to be all of them, but then none one of them at all.
The man at the window did not speak, did not look at him, yet a language more powerful than speech emanated from his being - a deep yearning, a desire, something so powerful Santiago feared he was about to be consumed by him. The man needed Santiago's talents and had drawn him here. Now the arm's dealer soul had been touched by him and been made promises, promises of rewards which he could not resist. A loud roar of thunder followed the sheet lightening which tore open a rift into core Ben Santiago's being. The face at the window disappeared sinking into the darkness leaving only a silhouette etched on the arms dealer's soul.
Santiago jerked awake with a moan in a sweat soaked bed at home in his Manhattan apartment, his boxer shorts sticky with semen. His whole body trembled, alive with energies loosed from his penetrated psyche. He gasped for air in the cool of the air conditioned atmosphere, his desire to find his summoner stronger and more irresistible than ever. He desired this man, if he were a man at all, with an inhuman compulsion. He could never rest until he found him, until his soul was touched by him again. It was not about guns, but something deeper....
He slept for the rest of the morning until, early in the afternoon, a knock on his door wakened him from an uneasy sleep. He rose stiffly from his bed and donned a dressing gown before answering the door. A small, bald and bespectacled man entered the room with a look of triumph in his eyes and waving a photocopied photograph in front of him.
“We’re close Mr. Santiago!" he shrieked. “Look here, I'm sure that one of these is the place." he handed three copied photographs to his employer who them in detail. His eyes widened with his smile, two of the photographs fell from his hands to the floor.
The photographs were just one of many his researcher had brought to him in an effort to satisfy Santiago's curiosity about the dreams which had occurred nightly for the past nine months. His researcher spoke. “The terrain you have described in the dream point to an area in rural north Staffordshire, England. Given that you feel you are being drawn to a town there are only a few possibilities - it has to be one of these - is that it?"
Santiago studied the remaining photograph in his hands and nodded. It was. Last night was the first time he had seen it and it was fresh in his memory. All the elements where there. The photograph had been taken from a vantage point above the market square which showed the church, its spire and tower, and the retreat of alleyways around it. Santiago's aide smiled broadly. “There are more here." he said, pulling a dozen more photographs from his briefcase, other views of this particular town his employer had identified. Santiago took them and flicked through the photos.
They showed tourist attractions and local industry. One grabbed his attention immediately, a shot of a back street lined with Tudor buildings. Santiago's jaw fell open.
The inn was there on the right, its hanging sign clearly displaying the symbol of the crossed keys. He thought he heard the squeak of rusty hinges, felt buffeted by the raw air of an English winter gale around him, felt himself being drawn into the cold reality of the monochrome. He gasped. Santiago stared excitedly at the picture.
“Get me there Aldus! Get me there as soon as is humanly possible." He instructed his researcher and personal aide. “Alone. Economy flight Incognito. Ben Santiago is not a popular man there remember Aldus." he smiled.
Aldus nodded obediently and left the room. Santiago moved to the window and looked out across the Manhattan skyline towards the east.
Far out there, across the North Atlantic something drew him to it, communicated with part of him that did not think. It did not calculate, but only yearned for something he could not, as a conscious rational being, identify. Santiago had seen a man at a window, a strangely familiar man, if it were a man. But soon he would find out and did not care whether it was human or not. It had touched Santiago deeply and darkly, setting something primal loose within his soul. Now he yearned for a full caress in that boiling, mindless darkness and he knew this shadow of a man would give it willingly in exchange for Santiago's expertise.
The arms dealer reached for the phone and rang an international number. After a few moments conversation he put down the phone and smiled to himself. Nothing could be easier, he thought and life would never be the same again. Then he made one final phone call, to the man who had introduced Santiago to the world of gun running, his mentor, an enigmatic and elusive individual, whom he had met only once in his lifetime. Santiago could never remember his face, but today something stirred in his memory. For a moment the face at the window in his dream haunted him. Santiago shook his head - no it couldn't be true, he thought mouth slowly opening. No, it was impossible surely?
Chapter Nineteen
Pinky Makepeace returned to the Cross keys public house at around five thirty. His investigations into the culture and power structure of the world he
now found himself had taken up most of a dull winter's day and now the winter's evening had crept into darkness.
He walked quickly along the wet pavements which reflected the light of the neon street lamps and illuminated shop signs, oblivious to the natives of this town who walked heads down, their minds turned to their stomachs
and tonight's television. The Scholar was in awe of the volume of brightly lit machines which roared past him on the central carriageway. The noise was tremendous to his ears, nearly as deafening as the Halls of machines he had visited on the odd occasions. If a technology could produce such machines in such profusion, then what could they produce in terms of military weaponry he thought idly to himself.
He waited in the market square for nearly an hour, his bundle of crumpled papers clutched under his arm. It was cold now and the rain which had fallen for most of the day had ceased. The air seemed to be turning solid, his exhaled breath turning into clouds of vapour as it condensed in the freezing air.
Pinky waited for a gap in the traffic, amusing himself while he waited by attempting to blow rings of frosty breath into the evening air. Eventually the volume of the rush hour traffic diminished and Pinky took his chance to run quickly across the market square to the alleyway where the sign of the Cross Keys hung silent on its hinges in the stillness which had now enveloped the town.
He entered the yard stealthily, his eyes seeking out the bakery for signs of the foul baker, and was relieved to see its lights out and the bakery silent. Pinky entered the inn by the side door, expecting to find the place in darkness and silence, but was shocked to find the bar room lit by bright electric light and inhabited by strangers, or so they seemed.
After he had cleared his spectacles of condensation and his eyes had adjusted to the unfamiliar illumination, he realised that the diners here were not strangers at all, but merely familiar faces in strange clothes. Mrs. Lovenberry sat at the head of the table and to either side sat Flax and Scoggins. Pinky's master's attire of a green woolly jumper and brown baggy trousers had lessened, to some extent, his usually menacing appearance. But when Flax's eyes met his own he felt that familiar and malevolent, ever hungry soul, seeking out his.
Pinky shivered. Something had happened to his High Hat master. Today he seemed more intense, more malign than he had ever been before. Beside him Scoggins sat demolishing the mashed potatoes and beef stew Mrs. Lovenberry had prepared for them, with great enthusiasm and did not bother to look up. He now wore a bright, baggy tee shirt emblazoned with a strange design and the word 'Motorhead' in huge letters which, along with his tight, heavily patched, blue jeans made him look as normal as the noisy students, who had called the Scholar a ‘Mosher Fossil' in the library.
From the head of the table Mrs. Lovenberry looked up and smiled. There was a motherly look in her eyes, Pinky thought. She seemed to have adopted them he realised and stifled a snigger at the absurdity of the idea.
The old woman was seeking some purpose in her life, she was revelling in the 'family meal' around her old dining table and this seemed to inject something meaningful into her lonely life again, either that - or the ten gold sovereigns that stood in a pile in front of her.
Flax smiled at Pinky and the astonished
Scholar nearly collapsed in shock. His master's smile was the portal to a hive of malignancy and evil he thought, the forerunner of some terrible atrocity. Pinky shuddered as he hung his coat on the rack and took his place tentatively alongside Scoggins.
“Good evening my man, have a fruitful day?" Flax asked, grinning at him.
Yes Sir." the Scholar croaked, totally unprepared for his master's benign greeting. Flax nodded and smiled again.
“Mrs. Lovenberry has found these clothes for us as our others require washing." he informed the Scholar. There are some for you too." He added. Pinky nodded as Flax grinned amusedly. His master had assumed a character so amenable that anyone who did not know him could not be threatened by him, but Pinky was alarmed by it. He tore his eyes way from Flax's dark gaze and began to eat from the plate Mrs. Lovenberry had placed before him.
Flax continued his strange discourse. “The weather is a little cool for the time of year, is it not Mrs Lovenberry” he droned almost threateningly.
“Yes, I won't be surprised if we have some snow." the old woman rattled back automatically.
None of the three strangers actually knew what she meant by snow, but all nodded their heads in agreement. Flax then looked questioningly towards the Scholar who merely shrugged his shoulders ignorantly while Mrs. Lovenberry's mind, triggered by the mention of snow, drifted into the past.
“Yes." she sighed. “1947 that was a terrible Winter, so cold, so much snow. I hope we’re not in for another like that one, God forbid" she said as her eyes became unfocused and began to recount to her dinner guests, the much narrated and legendary tale of the winter of '47. She had told the tale so many times that she was hardly conscious of what she was saying or perhaps even conscious when reliving it, even though the stories were highly detailed, if not subjected to a little factual embellishment here and there.
She remembered the red faced men with frosted white beards, the tunnels beneath the snow dug out by displaced persons and Italian prisoners of war. So much snow! But things didn't grind to a halt at the slightest sprinkling like they did today, oh no! People were made of sterner stuff in the olden days. Agnes Lovenberry chuckled often and sighed much throughout her monologue, mentioning her late husband, Ernest, many times.
The three men sitting around the table listened intently at first, the stories of the extreme weather at first strange and fascinating, but gradually grew bored and began to fidget uncomfortably. Scoggins produced his favourite stiletto and began to manicure his fingernails. The Scholar, after rapidly and noisily finishing his dinner, shuffled the notes he had assembled that day in preparation for his briefing that evening with Flax.
Only Silus himself sat as if entranced by Mrs. Lovenberry's recollections, his dark eyes fixed on the ancient freak of a woman, but in reality he too had his mind on other things.
The old woman continued for nearly an hour then, with a final self-satisfied chuckle, her tired eyes closed and she entered a dream world filled with the good old, bad old days; the memories of a early post-war England.
As she nodded off in her chair head slowly lowering onto her chest, Flax turned to the Scholar.
“You have some useful information for me then?" he queried the old menace returning to his voice. His servant nodded excitedly.
"Indeed I do your Eminence."
Silus rose from his chair and glanced disgustedly at the old woman, checked that she was asleep by blowingon her head and motioned that Pinky follow him. At the foot of the stairs he stopped and spoke again.
“Let us compare notes then, my man. The old bitch has filled us in on a few details about this place. She now thinks of us as foreigners, 'Albanians' in fact. Whoever they are." he laughed without any hint of humour in his voice. "There are, a few things us 'Albanians', us 'foreigners', should know and she has informed us of them." he smiled horrifically. “Let us see if her grasp of reality corresponds with your hard and scholarly facts shall we?" His smile fell away, leaving his pock marked mien expressionless and he led a now nervous Pinky Makepeace up the stairs.
Seeing his companions depart, Ivor Scoggins left the table and donned the blue denim jacket Mrs. Lovenberry had acquired for him from the huge pile of 'jumble' that the Women's Institute stored in an unused room on her premises. He looked curiously at the old woman sleeping peacefully at the table. How had she ever been able to get so old he mused? Whatever world lay out there he was about to find out. With a final glance at the now softly snoring Mrs. Lovenberry and disgusted shake of the head, he slipped quietly out of the door and into the night.
The rain which had persisted during the day had now ceased and an icy breeze caused him to shiver. He stood for a while and looked up and stared open-mouthed for a while at the dark, star studded
alien sky and then sniggered to himself.
This world was undoubtedly beautiful he thought, so different to the one to in which he had been born. Yet he felt no different here. His desires, his needs remained the same, yet the prospect of fulfilling them here excited him intensely. It was a challenge and the rewards would be so much greater.
Flax had told him in bed that there was an abundance purity, innocence here that he himself had only ever experienced in one individual amongst the millions in Dubh. To desecrate and destroy it would drive him to an ecstasy Scoggins had never experienced before. Flax had told him of how he had been deprived of that experience in their home world and had now licensed his playmate to experience it for him, by proxy. His only warning had been to leave no trace and no trail back to the Cross Keys. Ivor Scoggins stepped out of the yard and instinctively sought welcome embrace of the shadows. Moving with the fluid grace of a feline predator, he slipped along the alleyway and out into the market square.
The street lights lit up the area here with a light almost as bright as day. Scoggins cursed softly to himself. Here the stalking of his victims would be difficult, no deep pools of shadow in which to become invisible, no protective cloak of darkness from which to surprise his prey. But there would be other alleyways and other places, like the one he had just emerged from, where the artificial light did not reach.
The Chronicles of Jonathon Postlethwaite: The Seed of Corruption Page 19