The Trespass

by Scott Hunter

  “Yep. Quite a place, by my reckoning.”

  “You saw what happened?”

  “Pretty much.” Carey nodded and cracked his beer can, sending it into the waste bin with a deft flick. “I got myself inside just as the flamin’ door rumbled shut – nearly took my hand off. Then I saw you and the boy – and the others, so I kept myself hidden at the back to see what was going down.”

  Dracup listened with fascination. He wiped sweat away from his forehead and flinched at the contact with his sunburnt skin. “Go on.”

  “Anyways, when it all got a bit heavy I tuckered down pretty low. I figured there wasn’t much I could do while you were still inside. I waited till they moved you out through the tunnel and sidled up to the altar. I figured I could do you a favour with the old metalwork.”

  Dracup leaned forward, heart racing. It was too good to be true... but maybe...

  Carey was shaking his head. “No, sorry mate. I know what you’re thinking. This is where it gets a bit hazy for me. I’d just reached the step by the altar when something whacked me on the bonce and I was on the deck.”

  “And then –?”

  “Not a lot. When I woke up I could see daylight through the tunnel, so I took a stroll along there until I heard you shouting.”

  “Shouting?” Dracup frowned.

  “Yeah. At the lion.”

  Dracup shook his head. “I don’t remember –”

  “Don’t worry about it – sunstroke does things to you. Anyhow, you seemed to have Simba all sorted out. Guess he thought you were just too weird to eat, right?”

  Dracup tried to laugh through the pain of his headache and failed. Then he remembered the sceptre. “Wait – in the church. Omega –”

  “No chance.” Carey pursed his lips and scratched his chin through several days’ growth of reddish stubble. “Whoever clocked me one made off with the goods.”

  Despair grabbed at Dracup’s guts. He had rescued the diary but without the sceptre – he had to find it. “Who was it? Did you get a look?”

  “Nope. Only thing I can tell you is it wasn’t one of them priests.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “He was wearing trousers. With turn-ups. I got a look just before the lights went out.”

  A thought occurred to Dracup. “The priests. That’s why they didn’t come back to check on me. They were –”

  “Distracted. Yeah.” Carey smiled. “There was a bit of a rumpus going on when we drove through the town earlier. I’ll bet that’s what it was about.”

  “But if it wasn’t the priests who clobbered you, then who the – ?”

  “Good question.” Carey arched his eyebrows. “But there were two people in that light aircraft. It was the passenger who gave us a lead hosing.”

  “Mukannishum.” Dracup shuddered as he remembered the zealot’s demise.

  “Sounds like it. But that leaves the pilot.” Carey rattled his knuckles on the chair.

  “But the pilot was probably a hired flier.” Dracup frowned.

  Carey shrugged. “Maybe he was. Maybe not.” He finished the dregs of his beer and looked wistfully at the empty glass. “Question is, what now?”

  Dracup poured himself a fresh drink. “That’s a no-brainer. I go back to the church.”

  Carey spun round. “Are you totally crazy?” He looked at Dracup in amazement. “You’ve just avoided ending your days as a lion’s dinner and you want to go back? You know what you should do? You should get the police in from Addis.”

  Dracup studied his fingernails. They were chipped and ragged. “No police.” He shook his head emphatically. “I have no choice, Dan. I need to find the sceptre.”

  “Ah, but do you?” Carey smiled. He went to the door, opened it a fraction and whistled. Enjoying Dracup’s bemusement he stood to one side and watched his reaction. Footsteps rattled on the threshold and Bek walked into the room.

  “Boss, I didn’t know. I really didn’t. I’m very sorry. Bek will make it all right.” The boy was obviously frightened. He was clutching a tattered canvas bag to his chest as if his life depended on protecting it.

  Dracup felt a mixture of emotions. Overriding the more negative of these was a strong sympathy for Bek’s situation. “Let me guess. The long man got to you before I did. Made you an offer you couldn’t turn down?”

  Bek’s eyes were downcast. “I never thought anything bad would happen, boss. No way.”

  “You don’t know the half of it, lad,” Dracup said. He pondered in silence for a few moments, then extended his hand. “Tell you what. Let’s start again.”

  Bek grinned as if an enormous weight had been lifted from his thin shoulders. He flashed Dracup a wide smile.

  Carey watched approvingly. “And I think you have something to show Professor Dracup, young man. Am I right?”

  Bek nodded eagerly. His hand went into the bag like a cobra striking at its prey. When the hand came out it was holding Dracup’s camera.

  Dracup’s mouth dropped open. “I’ll be damned.”

  “Wait till you see some of the holiday snaps,” Carey advised.

  A small beam of hope began to percolate in Dracup’s head. Bek handed him the camera with a barely concealed look of pride. Dracup took it and flicked the selector switch to ‘display’. The images appeared obediently, lined up in their digital grid. Each shot was crystal clear, the cuneiform clearly visible. Dracup’s fingers were trembling as he hit the zoom button. He looked at Bek as if the boy had just presented him with a cheque for a million pounds. Carey’s face was creased into a lopsided perma-grin.

  “Are they okay, boss? I got all the writing for you, like you wanted.”

  “How –?” Dracup couldn’t find the words.

  “They weren’t looking at me, boss – when the long man got the real deal out of the box.”

  “You stole my camera,” Dracup said at last. He went up to Bek and embraced him, ruffling the wiry hair vigorously. “You marvellous child.” He laughed in sheer amazement. “You stole my wretched camera!”

  Red Earth

  Chapter 29

  The cool air hit Dracup’s cheeks like a balm. The sky was a horizon-hugging grey, and as he descended the airliner steps to board the courtesy bus it began to rain. He hailed a taxi and was soon crawling through the evening rush hour exodus from London towards Junction 10 of the M4. He was debating whether to go straight to Charles’ house or phone ahead when the minicab driver turned around and said, “Sorry to bother you, sir, but I thought you’d like to know we’re being followed.”

  “Are you sure? This is a motorway.” Dracup turned and peered through the back window.

  “Quite sure, sir. He pulled out just as we left the airport. Nearly shunted another car, he was so keen to get on our tail.”

  Dracup wasn’t surprised. He’d been expecting trouble. Another no-brainer. One of three possibilities: Moran, Potzner, or Kadesh. Of these, Dracup favoured Moran. Potzner would have been more direct, and representatives of the Korumak more subtle.

  “Okay. Just keep going.” Dracup had no intention of leading Moran to Charles, although a nagging intuition told him that the DCI would probably have paid his friend a visit already. The campus was a small place and his circle of friends even smaller. They would have to lose the tail.

  The traffic began to thin and soon they were speeding along the A329M towards Reading town centre. “He’s still with us, sir.”

  Dracup sat back and closed his eyes. “Well, then. Time to earn your money.”

  “Right you are, sir,” the driver said, and floored the accelerator.

  A few minutes later Dracup asked: “Any sign?”

  “No sir. I’ve lost him for now.”

  They were close to Dracup’s road. He didn’t want to waste any time at his flat, but a change of clothes was a necessity. “Okay – next left and stop just under the first street lamp.”

  “Right you are, sir.”

  Dracup fumbled for his house keys. “Just up here o
n the –” Dracup’s words dried up. His front door was a heavy replacement blank, the stained glass a missing image on his retina. The building was in total darkness. As they drew up he saw the signs. Dangerous structure. Keep out.

  “Don’t stop,” Dracup told the driver. “You know the University?”

  “Course I do,” the driver chirped brightly.

  Dracup sighed. “Let’s go.” He grabbed the seat belt as the car accelerated. “Take it steady.” He twisted and looked out of the back window. A green BMW was doing its best to replicate their Le Mans-style departure. Dracup rapped on the seat in front of him. “Our friend is back.”

  “Just hold tight, sir.”

  The car careered around the next corner. Better let Charles know that trouble was on the way. He fished out his mobile and keyed the ‘on’ button. The car lurched into another turn and he nearly dropped the phone as the LED lit up with the familiar network logo. Dracup thumbed ‘contacts’ but was interrupted by a beep. You have a new message. The car straightened and hurtled on down the inner distribution road.

  “Hey – be careful! You’ll have the entire Thames Valley force on our tail,” Dracup yelled at the driver.

  “Don’t worry, sir. I’ll lose ’em all.”

  Dracup turned his attention back to the mobile. He pressed ‘view media message’ and fell back in shock. It was Natasha. She was standing by a river, or pool. There was a waterfall and... sirens began wailing somewhere behind; blue lights were flicking against the cream upholstery of the taxi. They were heading up to the University, negotiating the narrow roads circling the campus. Natasha’s face looked out at him from the mobile. She was alive. She looked all right. His heart was thudding in his ribcage as he opened the accompanying text message. And then it almost stopped altogether. He read and reread the text, with its final, mocking statement.

  Up to now you have shown creditable resourcefulness. Please don’t disappoint me

  He thumbed at the phone’s buttons and found one of Bek’s images he’d backed up from the camera. His fingers moved urgently over the keypad. Create message. He wrote: I’ll be with you shortly. Directions helpful. He pressed the ‘send’ key with as much vehemence as he could muster. Forty-eight hours? But when had the text been sent? Presumably at dawn on the twenty-sixth. Today was the twenty-sixth. Less than thirty-six hours, then. Dracup pocketed the phone and leaned forward.

  “Next corner – it’s a tight one. Pull into the side and let me out. Then keep going.” He pressed a twenty-pound note into the driver’s raised hand. “Don’t get caught.”

  “No problem, sir. Thank you kindly.”

  The cab screeched to a halt. Dracup grabbed his bag and flung himself out. With a melodramatic whirl of rubber the minicab disappeared around the bend. Dracup sank into the shadows. Thirty seconds later the BMW hurtled into view, this time accompanied by a squad car, siren blaring like a demented operatic. Dracup hopped over the campus perimeter fence. It was dusk and the grounds were quiet. He leaned against the fence and wondered what to do. Images of Sara came back to him, the night they had fled from the assassin. The dead man lying by the bridge, pale-faced in the moonlight. Dracup took a deep breath and strode on. The gatehouse was only a minute or so away. He fretted that Moran would appear before they had a chance to examine Bek’s photos. He skirted the lake and crunched up the few metres of gravel before Charles’ gatehouse came into view. It, too was in darkness. Dracup was unperturbed. His friend could be anywhere on campus – it was not unusual for Charles to be seen pottering around the various faculty buildings well into the evening. Dracup resolved to wait.

  He approached the door and stopped, shocked into indecision. The porch was protected by a blue-chequered ‘Police – keep out’ tape, and standing nonchalantly a few metres away by the road was a young, bored-looking constable. Dracup retreated into the bushes. Oh no, not Charles. He thought rapidly. Check the back, Dracup, you idiot. Risky with the police presence, but he had to see for himself. He cautiously circled the gatehouse and, when he was satisfied the rear was unguarded, walked quickly to the back entrance and tried the door handle. Locked. He moved stealthily along to the casement window. The small window at the top was open. He inserted a hand and slid the brass handle upwards. He paused and listened. A car rumbled past. He heard a faint whistling. The policeman, bored out of his mind. Quietly, Dracup, quietly... He inserted the tips of his fingers and pulled slowly. The window opened. He went in.

  The house felt cold. Dracup picked his way through the bedroom and into the hall. Charles’ study door lay before him. He peered through the hall window and checked the policeman’s position. He was sitting on the wall with a notebook balanced on his lap, writing or doodling; it was hard to say. Dracup tiptoed into the study. He waited until his eyes had become accustomed to the gloom. He ran a finger along the desk. It came away covered in a powdery substance, like talcum powder. Forensics. Oh Charles, Charles. What happened to you? What happened here?

  He slid his hands across the bare desk. Nothing. All of Charles’ chaotic correspondence had gone. Probably in a polythene bag in Moran’s office. Dracup staggered out of the office and back to the window he had left ajar. The cool air helped, but it was several minutes before he was able to climb out and retrieve his bag. He walked along the familiar path and found a bench. He heard Charles’ voice in his head, as clear as a bell: I’ll pop something in the old electro-post if I think it’s worthwhile. Dracup got to his feet and strode resolutely towards the main University buildings.

  His office was another world, one he had left behind. There was his inkstand. There was the pile of unmarked essays, the old jacket draped across his chair. And his PC – an ancient machine he’d constantly berated IT resources to replace. He sat heavily in the chair and switched it on. He emptied his pockets onto the desk as the PC booted. Mobile, airline ticket, passport. Camera. Dracup slid the memory card out and placed it carefully in his top pocket. The PC presented his desktop and he logged into hotmail. Dracup groaned. You have 507 new messages. He scrolled impatiently through the junk mail, deleting offers of Viagra and hot dates in his area with resolute clicks of the mouse. And then he found it. Sturrock, Charles. Received: 4 Oct. Subject: As discussed. Dracup hesitated, fingers hovering over the keys. Was that a noise in the corridor? He went to the door and looked out. There was no one. He sat down and opened the email.

  My dear Simon

  I hardly know where to start this communication. I would recommend you make yourself comfortable, pour a stiff drink and prepare for my unusual, but I have to say logical, conclusions.

  Dracup shook his head. Charles was Charles, even via email; abbreviation would never have occurred to him. His smile faded as he remembered the dark gatehouse, the emptiness. He could be just visiting friends. Dracup ran a trembling hand through his hair. He caught himself in the mirror and groaned at the sight. Sunburned, haggard. He took a deep breath and read on.

  I took the liberty of examining British Museum manuscripts from several ancient sources. The first of these is a manuscript I mentioned to you before we parted – my dear Simon – how remiss of me. I quite forgot to ask how you were, and if your adventure in Africa is parting the clouds of confusion for you. No doubt you will furnish me with all your news on your return.

  Now, this manuscript, the ‘Cave of Treasures’, is a compendium of early Biblical history although it also strays into New Testament territory. It is an embellished book, in that it was written to promote a sense of wonder and awe concerning the early dealings of God with man. It is also, I should say, considered apocryphal. I’m quite sure I don’t have to explain the term, but for the sake of clarity I shall remind you. The scriptures considered to be the very word of God – i.e. recorded by man under divine inspiration – and known to us as the canonical scriptures were approved to be such by common agreement at around the time of the council of Nicaea, although some argument and debate continued for several years after the council over theological issues such as
the nature of Christ’s divinity and his human nature. The canonical scriptures were deemed authoritative because they had been considered authoritative from the times of the original apostles who had walked with Jesus. That, I trust, will serve as a brief reminder. The point I am making is that one has to take great care when dealing with the apocrypha and not get too carried away by some of the more fanciful illustrations.

  Come on, Charles. Get to the point. Dracup scanned down the email.

  Now, bearing all this in mind, Simon, please indulge me by reading the following extracts from the ‘Cave Of Treasures’:

  ‘But command thy sons, and order them to embalm thy body after thy death with myrrh, cassia and stakty’ [God speaking to Adam]

  ‘And when Adam was dead his son Seth embalmed him, according to Adam’s command, and they took Adam’s body and buried it in the Cave of Treasures’

  ‘And God said unto Noah, Take thy wife, and thy sons, and the wives of thy sons, and get down from this holy mountain. And take with thee the body of your father Adam and set his body in the centre of the Ark, and lay these offerings upon him. He is to be revered unto all generations and I will set apart a people for his care and preservation until the end times.’

  Dracup frowned. Adam? Care and preservation...?

  My dear Simon, I can only imagine how you are feeling having read these small excerpts. Let me first tell you, should you be inclined to write them off as speculative, that other ancient writings lend support to the ‘Cave Of Treasures’ text. ‘The book of Adam’, for example, states that Noah was entombed beneath a mountain, that the Ark was closed during these latter days of Noah but that Noah went into it each night to light the lamp he had made, and which burned before the body of Adam. He carried in his hand a staff of unparalleled workmanship, fashioned from Eden’s Tree of Life and surmounted by a beautiful interlocking crest, the two halves of which form the recognisable Christian symbol of – a cross.