INCARNATION

by Daniel Easterman

  She’d rung him straight away, vented her feelings, and demanded he find her something at once.

  ‘I don’t have anything, dearest. Why don’t you just ring Hertz or one of those people? You only need something to tide you over. A little runabout.’

  ‘I don’t want a fucking Ford Sierra. I need a car, Anthony, a real car. Something with a bit of spunk in it. I’ve got to drive Laurence to the Lakes and back. We’re entertaining major clients at the Sharrow Bay. We’ve taken over the hotel. I can’t turn up at the Sharrow Bay in a Vauxhall, can I?’

  ‘Well … do you have to drive?’

  ‘That journey’s hell by train, and it’s even worse since privatization. Pooley Bridge is miles from anywhere, you should know that. It’s why people go there. And there’s that narrow road along the lake. Come on, now, you must have something in that bloody pool of yours.’

  ‘Oh, all right. I’ll have something sent round. But it’s strictly irregular. You do know that?’

  'I’ll feed it some All Bran, dear - that should clear it up. How’s the kid, by the way?’

  ‘Your daughter? Wondered when you’d ask. She’s fine. Rather better on cocaine than she was on the stuff Rose was giving her. At the moment she’s a bit shaken by what happened up here. She’d grown quite fond of our young thug. She needs to take it easy. I’ll stay here with her as long as I can. We’ve got plenty of provisions, if you like sausages and bacon and baked beans. And I’m treating myself to an introductory course in something called line dancing.’

  ‘It sounds perfectly vile. You’ll have to wear a stetson and high heels. Not your sort of thing at all. Now, when should I ring for the car?’

  ‘No need, I’ll have someone drive it round. Just give them a couple of hours. And, darling …’

  ‘Mmmm?’

  ‘Lighten up, do. life can be great fun if you put your mind to it. Buy some records to take to the Sharrow Bay. Patsy Cline - that should loosen you up. Not to mention the staff.’

  ‘Tony, do you love me?’

  ‘Of course I do, why on earth should you ask?’

  ‘No, I mean, really love me. You wouldn’t just use me, would you?’

  ‘Of course not. Darling, what is all this about?’

  ‘Promise you won’t leave me down here on my own much longer. I just have such a bad feeling about things.’

  1 promise, really I do. Once Maddie’s on the mend.’

  ‘Can’t I come up to visit?’

  ‘Absolutely not. For both your sakes. But once this is over, we’ll all go on a big holiday together. A cruise, maybe. Something worthwhile. Greece, possibly, with Swan Hellenic. We could have lectures on line dancing on Knossos.’

  ‘Very droll. I’d sooner Disneyworld. Now, be sure it’s a decent motor, dear. A Jag if they have one.’

  'I’ll do my best.’

  And he did.

  Lizzie enjoyed driving with automatic transmission. The racing green Jaguar responded to her touch like a dream, much to Laurence’s alarm. He was a cautious driver who thought the speed limit far too high, and seldom drove above third gear.

  They’d reached Pooley Bridge two hours early. Inordinately pleased with herself - she hadn’t had a drink since just before leaving - Lizzie had insisted on taking her brother into Windermere to do some sightseeing before they drove back to the hotel. She thought she’d buy Laurence one of those sheep made from wool and wood that they sold in little gift shops; but she didn’t think he’d see the joke, not even if she called the bloody thing Laurence.

  In fact, she couldn’t have cared less about Windermere. What she was after was the drive down this wonderfully steep, twisting road, and the sight of Windermere at the end, the lake and the town together, and the sun burning on glass and painted metal. And the chance of scaring the socks off Laurence.

  ‘I wish you’d slow down a bit, Lizzie. We’ve got plenty of time. And Windermere’s really a bit dull.’

  ‘Don’t be such a wimp, Laurie. Sit back and enjoy the scenery.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Lizzie, there are other cars on the road.’

  ‘I’m perfectly well aware of that.’

  ‘You don’t seem it.’

  She shaved past a Reliant Robin and pulled back in to her side to the sound of enraged honking. Seconds later, the local bus came in sight on the other side, huffing and puffing its weary way up the steep incline.

  ‘Laurence, whose idea was it to hold this ruddy dinner up here? I didn’t think you liked the Sharrow Bay.’

  ‘I don’t, if I’m to be honest. Too much chintz for my taste. If anything moves, they put a tassel on it.’

  ‘But the food’s first class. Even you have to admit that. And as for the view from the lounge ...'

  ‘Oh, yes, I know all that. Personally, I find the food a bit on the rich side. All those sauces.’

  ‘So why on earth did you choose to entertain such important guests there?’

  He squirmed, then winced as they flew through a double bend, barely holding the road as Lizzie pushed down hard on the accelerator pedal.

  ‘Well, they’re Japanese, you know. The Japs like this sort of thing. A couple of days in the Lakes, some guff about Wordsworth and daffodils, a few award-winning meals, one of those extraordinary afternoon teas in the lounge, and they’re anybody’s. Thought you’d know that.’

  ‘Was this your idea, Laurence?’

  ‘What do you mean? Oh, for God’s sake, be careful.’

  ‘I mean that it doesn’t sound like you.’

  Laurence hesitated, then nodded.

  ‘No, you’re perfectly right. It was Anthony’s idea, actually.’

  ‘Really? I don’t remember him ever mentioning the place.’

  ‘Oh, yes, he comes up here quite often. He knows the owners, gets them to put on special dishes for when he’s up.’

  ‘Did he know I was going to drive you up?’

  ‘Yes, he was very keen on that. Said the trains were dreadful - which they are - and that you and I could have a long chat about things, which we’ve done. Jesus! Lizzie, go easy. Have you been drinking?’

  ‘Not a lot, why?’

  She twisted the wheel on a left-hand bend, scraping the mudguard heavily along some rocks until the road straightened.

  ‘For God’s sake, Lizzie, slow down. You’re going to kill both of us.’

  ‘Actually, dear, I can’t. My foot’s right off the pedal, but the machine’s got too much speed up.’

  ‘Well, use the brake, then! Oh, God!’

  They careered at great speed into a right-hand bend. An oncoming car swerved widely to avoid them.

  ‘The brake’s not responding. I don’t know what’s wrong.’

  A sharper turn to the right took them all the way across the road, and the car scraped hard down the rock wall until Lizzie managed to get it back to the left.

  ‘Blow the horn, Lizzie! Warn people to get out of the way. Come on!’

  ‘I can’t steer and blow the fucking horn at the same time! Just let me get on with it.’

  Suddenly, the road opened out in a straight stretch, flanked by steep rock-strewn banks. Sheep grazed above them, looking down detachedly on the fast-moving cars below. Their backs were painted with red dye, marking them for slaughter.

  The straight stretch seemed to tilt, and suddenly they found themselves on a steep downward run, and the car was picking up more and more speed, completely out of control now, despite Lizzie’s frantic efforts to steer it into submission.

  It was just then that something clicked in the steering column. Lizzie looked down in horror as the wheel froze in her hands, locked in a single, immovable position.

  The car went rushing on towards another, sharper bend. On the other side, climbing with great difficulty out of Windermere, chugged a whisky lorry. By an immense coincidence, the driver was a distant relation of Calum Kilbride. He’d come down that morning on the M6. He was only doing ten miles an hour when the collision occurred. The Jaguar was clo
cking over ninety.

  In Bonnie Scotland, Maddie Laing slept and slept. Out on the silver loch. Sir Anthony Farrar drifted in a small boat. He wondered if Lizzie was dead yet. It might have been simpler, he thought, to have kept her up here, taken her out on the lake, and got her drunk. But that would have messed other things up, and at the moment all he cared about was simplifying his life. His recent experience with the Hui Hou had frightened and galvanized him.

  He’d found a rod in the house, and he’d come out to fish for ferox trout. There was scarcely a ripple to mar the surface of the lake. A bird called far away, across an expanse of dim and sparkling water.

  He looked across the loch at Charlene’s chalet. Maddie was sleeping in one of the upstairs bedrooms. The mess downstairs had been cleared away, and a few repairs made. What was left of Calum had been wrapped in burlap, weighted, and deposited in a deep bog ten miles away.

  He’d go in soon to check that Maddie hadn’t woken. The moment she showed signs of consciousness, he’d send her to sleep again. Later, she could get up for food. Then back to bed.

  He’d watched her just now as if for the first time, sat beside the bed and watched the rise and fall of her breasts. The image of her naked had not left him, nor the image of her skin splashed with blood. For some reason, she had made him think of Meihua, the girl in the Lotus House, the beautiful girl he’d loved and pleasured and killed.

  Maddie was not as beautiful, or as light in her frame, or as sensual. But that was no more than anyone could expect - few women met the exacting standards of the Hui Hou. On the other hand, Maddie did have a quality of innocence and expectancy that drew him to her. And he suspected that, if she were properly taught, she could become as sensual as Meihua and more.

  The boat swung a little as a breeze passed over the water. Anthony shifted in his seat and pulled on the line. Ripples ran from the little boat to the shore.

  He wondered if David Laing was still alive. It hardly seemed possible. The last he’d heard from Chang Zhangyi, there’d been no sighting. But that could just as well mean that he’d died in the desert. In fact, it was the most likely outcome.

  None of this, he thought, need have happened had that self-righteous idiot Matthew Hyde not poked about in matters that did not concern him and passed on that dangerous message through the boy. Laing was the last person left alive who could alert the right people to the fact that there was a traitor in MI6. Assuming Tursun or Potter had warned him. What then? If Laing did, by some fluke, return, Farrar settled back comfortably, secure in the knowledge that, if he did so, he had the means of silencing him to hand.

  Part VII

  SMOKE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  It was as if the lid of a stone sarcophagus had slammed shut, leaving them sightless and breathless, without hope of ever returning to the world above. One minute, the world had been at their backs, and sunset, and the night sky filling with stars, then it had all been cut off as if it had never existed.

  “What is this place?’ asked Nabila.

  ‘A house. Part of the city of Ts’ang Mi, if I’m right.’

  'That can’t be right. It feels too large, too grand for a house in a desert town. Where did they bring so much stone from, for one thing? And that slab crashing down like that. I can’t believe they had fixtures like that in the average home.’

  ‘Yes, that is a point. Maybe they built them like that, maybe that was the last section of wall waiting to be slid into place.’

  ‘In that case, there should be a door somewhere. Or windows.’

  ‘Of course. But they’re probably buried under several tons of sand. Darling, I think we really are trapped in here.’

  It had begun to sink in on them both that there really might be no way out. Their food and water would last them another few days at most, the food longer than the water. After that, it would be the slowest of deaths, and possibly madness before unconsciousness set in. Perhaps they would end by hunting one another down in the dark, or beating their heads against dumb stone.

  ‘At least we took one of them with us,’ said David.

  ‘That’s not really very helpful, is it?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I was just trying to think of something to say.’

  ‘On the other hand, we can’t be sure there isn’t an entrance near the surface, something further in, perhaps.’

  ‘Given what I can remember of the relative dimensions of the dune and what we saw of this place, I wouldn’t hold out much hope, would you?’

  ‘Not much, no.’ Nabila felt her heart sink. ‘But that’s no excuse for not trying. I’d like to know what this place is in any case.’

  ‘We don’t have that much battery power left. The big torch burns it up very quickly. We didn’t bring any extra batteries. Once these have been used up ...’

  ‘I brought a couple. I wasn’t really thinking that clearly when I packed. Let’s see just what we’ve discovered.’

  David dug deep into his bergen and came up with a large ‘million-candle-power’ torch, the type used by coal miners in some of the northern provinces, and very effective as long as the batteries held out.

  He switched it on. For a moment, they were dazzled by the brightness, then confused by what the light started to pick out.

  High above their heads, a curved and painted ceiling twisted and turned, its beams carved into the most fabulous shapes. Staring down at them were the starkly carved faces of gods and demons, men and hovering angels, some benign, others malevolent, one or two the very embodiment of evil.

  David played the light back and forth, picking out more and more features with every sweep, faces with red eyes and lolling tongues, dragons with unsheathed claws, birds with rapacious beaks, skulls, daggers, black-faced devils, yellow-faced heroes.

  ‘I don’t think this was ever somebody’s little hideaway,’ he whispered, slowly swinging the beam down to the walls. Nabila came up beside him and took his free hand in hers.

  The walls were faded, the result of centuries of erosion as wind and sand, heat and cold worked on them. But they could make out the traces of paint, while everywhere carvings of men and gods created a theatre of shadows and light as the torch beam picked them out and passed on.

  ‘It must have been a temple, or a…’ Nabila paused, shivering in the cold that clung permanently to this place.

  ‘Not a temple,’ said David. ‘Look.’

  He had dropped the beam to ground level. Right in front of them was a carved block of stone.

  ‘That looks like a sarcophagus.’ Nabila switched on her own torch and walked up to the stone. David followed her.

  ‘That’s exactly what it is,’ he said.

  He swung the torch round, and there, next to the first, stood a second sarcophagus, and beyond it a third, and others running back into the pall of shadows where the torch’s beam ended.

  Together, they went to the first sarcophagus. It was about four feet high, carved with animal and human figures along the sides, with finely chiselled writing on its flat lid.

  ‘Let me see if I can read this.’

  He bent right over, straining to decipher the lettering. Brushing aside a veil of sand, he read the text in Chinese.

  'Zhou Huangdi, vassal of Han Wudi, heaven-designated Emperor of North and South. Lord of Pan Tang, Governor of Chie Kiang and Ts’ang Mi, ruler of Yuzhou, master of Gaochang, guardian of the roads from Bast to West, protector of the temples throughout Yangshuo District, patron of the Seven Poets of Changma, benefactor of the schools of music and philosophy …'

  ‘We seem to have stumbled on somebody important,’ grunted Nabila. ‘But I can’t say I’ve ever heard of him.’

  ‘Nor have I. But I imagine you’ll find dozens like him in here. These tombs weren’t exactly built for hoi polloi. Let’s see how far they go on.’

  He started to walk forward, but his half-blind feet stumbled over an object in the floor. Nabila caught him by the arm, just in t
ime to stop him falling face forward. They turned their lights on the floor. At David’s feet lay what looked at first like a heap of rusted metal. But when he bent down and examined it more closely, he sprang back in revulsion.

  ‘It’s armour,’ he said. ‘And its owner’s still in it.’

  Nabila swept her torch across the floor. She could make out the separate pieces of armour - plates of metal that had once been sewn to leather leggings, a breastplate that had slipped from its leather straps, a helmet with an empty fitting once graced by an elegant plume. And inside, the hard white bones of their long-dead occupant.

  ‘This place is full of them,’ said David, pointing with his torch to further heaps of old metal and unclaimed bone. There were several by every tomb, and others in the wide passages between them, and yet others by the walls, where they must have sat a while before Zhou Huangdi’s executioner or some other executioner came to dispatch them, strictly in turn.

  ‘When did Han Wudi reign?’ asked Nabila. ‘Do you know?’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘Well, only vaguely. History was never my subject.’

  ‘He was the top notch Han emperor. Ruled for ages; I don’t know the exact dates. Somewhere round about the second century BC to the beginning of the first. Pretty well a record for an emperor.’

  ‘So some of these tombs have been here - what? - over two thousand years.’

  ‘And the rest may be even older.’

  They passed slowly between the tombs, avoiding the remains of the dead warriors and palace servants whose blood sacrifice had sealed the tombs and ensured the immortality and liberty of their masters and mistresses.

  ‘So many ghosts,’ whispered Nabila. The tombs seemed to go on for ever, back and further back into the dark sand. In the end she stopped and told David she was too tired to go on.

  They took food from their packs and made themselves a small meal. It was bitterly cold among the grey stone tombs, and they missed a fire to warm them and heat their food.