The crucifix was magnificent. It was obviously made of gold, and the priest had spent enough time in great cathedrals to judge its gold of the highest purity. What's more, the cross was inset with gemstones. The red ones, he figured, were more probably garnets than rubies, but the blues ones might well have been sapphires.
There is enough wealth in this one cross to buy the whole island, he thought. Or at least build a truly splendid new church.
He reached down to take the crucifix out of the sack, and recoiled slightly. The metal was covered with a thin layer of slime. Patrick realized that it must have been recovered from the sea floor. He could not imagine how. No man could have dived down by the treacherous reef to plunder the wreck of the galleon.
The legend. Pagan superstition!
The clergyman hesitated, torn between a desire to glorify the church and horror at the implications of the find. Then he began to wonder why it had been left outside his door. The answer came almost at once.
A bribe that is also a message. Keep quiet about their ways. Make no trouble.
The following morning Patrick walked down to the village carrying the bag. He found One-Eye Angus jawing with the other oldsters, all sitting outside the tavern, making a show of mending nets. The locals looked up at the diminutive priest when they saw him approach. They smiled, passed quiet remarks, laughed low.
“Angus!” said Patrick, trying to keep his voice steady. “I trust I have you to thank for this?”
The one-eyed man watched as the priest took the crucifix out and held it up in the morning sunlight. There were gasps, exclamations from some of the men, and a couple of passing fishwives. Angus himself looked genuinely surprised, confusing Patrick for a moment.
No, he mocks me, the priest thought. Mere acting.
“You give me gold to stop my mouth!” he went on. “You want me to turn a blind eye to your heathenish practices. Well, no longer!”
Angus began to get to his feet, but the old man was slow and clumsy. Before the other could stand upright, Patrick hurled the cross down onto the cobbles. He felt a sense of satisfaction when one of the red stones jumped free.
“Mere Mammon cannot silence a man of God!” he shouted, looking around at his rapidly growing audience. “No bribe can deter me from denouncing the sins of this place.”
“Father,” said Angus, and his tone surprised the priest. It was not angry, still less sarcastic, but instead seemed concerned. “Father, this is not wise. I did not bring that thing to your door, but the one who did will not take kindly–”
Patrick held up a hand for silence.
“I don't care which of you heathens offered me a share of your ill-gotten gains!” he declared, and before Angus could respond, he turned in a swirl of robes and began to stalk back up the hill to the church.
“Father, think again,” Angus called after him. “You are fooling with things you do not understand.”
The rest of the day passed without incident. Evening prayers were even more poorly attended than usual, and the handful of true Christians seemed eager to hurry off as soon as possible after Mass. One young woman seemed unable to decide whether to speak to the priest, however. Patrick approached her as she lingered near the door.
“What is it, my child?”
The woman glanced over her shoulder, then reached under her tartan shawl and pressed something into the priest's hand. Patrick looked down, and saw a shapeless lump of soft, pinkish-gray stuff.
“Father, you have been kind. You must know, before darkness falls–”
But before she could say any more, the woman's father called her.
“Mary! Come on!”
With a distraught look, Mary pulled her shawl over her head and set out for the village. Patrick stood watching his small flock until they were lost in the glare of a lurid sunset. Then he stepped back inside the church, closed the door, and examined Mary's strange gift.
“Wax,” he said, in puzzlement.
A near-memory, a hint of knowledge he had learned in his days at university, hovered on the edge of his mind. Shrugging, Patrick proceeded to close up the church and then went back to his home. He was halfway through his frugal evening meal when the knowledge finally surfaced.
Ulysses, he thought. The Greek legends. The wax!
He seized a spoon and put the blob of wax onto it, then began to heat it over a candle. Patrick cast a fearful glance at the window. The last glow of sunset had faded. The wax seemed to be frozen solid. Patrick poked the lump with his forefinger. It was barely warm, but it would have to do. He tipped the wax onto the tabletop and tore it into two, then started to stuff one lump into his ear.
What is that?
Patrick stopped, tilted his head, unsure if he had heard anything but the wind playing around the stubby church tower. Then the strange, high sound came again, louder this time, and there was no doubt. It was a song, but one too beautiful to emanate from any human singer. It was wordless, and yet it spoke more eloquently than anything in the human language. It sent a thrill through his small, spare body.
The work of the Devil! A snare of the Deceiver!
True religious devotion battled with mortal weakness within Patrick. He tried to lift the second lump of wax to his unstopped ear. His hand moved slowly, and as he stared at it, the song brought images that banished the interior of his candlelit house. Instead he saw a green vista of rocks and rippling waters, a stone roof with pale stalactites. He forgot the wax, fascinated by the vision in his mind's eye.
The water swirled, and a face appeared. It was perfect, the face of an angel he might have said, had he been able to form clear thoughts. Pale shoulders appeared, then shapely breasts. The figure lay back, arms moving gently, and he saw her whole body. She smiled at him, raising a languid hand in a gesture of invitation.
Patrick had known the pleasures of the flesh as a student, but had managed to remain celibate since ordination, unlike many of his fellow priests. Now, however, all the desire he had suppressed surged up, volcanic, irresistible. He stood, vaguely aware that he had struck his shins against the table. He walked across the room, opened the door, and set off down the road, stumbling and falling several times. Soon he had passed through the silent village and reached the shingle beach, passed the row of upturned boats, and was wading into the night-surf. Soon he was waist deep, and the incoming tide was now strong enough to knock him off his feet.
He could not swim, and swallowed a mouthful of salt water. The shock brought him to his senses. The vision faltered for a moment. Patrick groped for the bottom with his feet, thrashed with his arms, tried to propel himself back to land. He turned to face the beach, and saw a row of small yellow lights.
Torches. They're watching me. Watching the show, the ritual.
“Help!” he cried. “Help me! God will judge you if–”
Another wave crashed over him and he emerged spluttering. But he had managed to get a grip on the bottom and was now able to propel himself inshore. He began to thrash again, the flood tide helping him now. Just as he began to hope that he might make it, a cold, rough hand gripped his ankle. He turned around, looking back at the creature emerging from the shallow water.
At first, in the poor light provided by the moon, he thought his captor might be the lovely being of his vision. The dark eyes, the snub nose, were vaguely human. But then it opened its mouth wide, and he saw two rows of shark-like teeth. Screaming, he kicked at the monster with his free leg. His foot struck it in the face, but seemed to have no effect. Instead, the creature surged up out of the water and crashed down upon the priest. As he was driven under the surface, Patrick felt teeth close in on his throat.
The icy water suddenly grew warm.
Chapter 1: Outsiders
Dan Fox saw his colleague Tim Burdus on the opposite platform of South Woodford Tube station. He was already raising his hand to wave when Dan remembered that Tim was on holiday in Egypt. Yet the man in the crowd opposite looked so like Tim it was uncanny. He lowered his
hand, unsure of himself. In his mind, he tried to recall when Tim had said he was coming back.
Why would he be heading out of London first thing? Why would he be here at all? He lives in Chelsea, doesn't he?
Dan stared at the young man for a few more moments, but all he could make out was a pale, thin face with rather sad eyes. Tim normally looked tanned and healthy, and had a cheerful disposition. One of Dan's female colleagues had likened him to a Border collie. Tim was a typical upper-class Brit, full of confidence and treated work like a hobby. But the young man standing opposite seemed listless, unhappy, perhaps unwell.
Okay, he thought. So Tim got sick in Egypt, maybe dysentery, something like that. Poor guy, maybe he's taken some time off.
Dan began to raise his hand again, but before he could wave, an outbound train hurtled into the station, blocking his view. When it moved off a few moments later the platform opposite had emptied and Tim was gone. Dan shrugged off the minor mystery and checked his phone. There was a message from Lisa, the company secretary. Dan had to smile at Lisa's typically overheated prose. To Lisa everything was either amazing or horrendous, in this case the latter. It took him a second to realize what the message was about.
Tim Burdus was dead.
When he arrived at the office, Dan went straight to the reception desk. A few other staff were already gathered around, talking in low voices. Lisa looked as if she had been crying. It did not take long to establish that Tim had died during some kind of venture into the desert, west of the Nile.
“He told me he was going off the beaten track,” Lisa said, sniffing. “They say he might have been murdered.”
Dan wanted to ask more but his boss called him into his office. It was clear that James Nisbet did not want to discuss Tim's death, but a 'little problem' with one of Dan's sales.
“We do have a certain reputation in the art world,” Nisbet said, pompously. “Nisbet's is a very old, established family firm.”
I know, Dan thought, that's why you're in charge instead of me.
“What exactly is the problem, James?” he asked, sitting down without being asked.
Nisbet looked like an angry piglet. He always did when Dan showed him minimal respect, which was very often. The Englishman leaned forward over his desk and jabbed a plump finger at Dan.
“Mister Korochenko is worried that his Magliore may not be authentic. He thinks he may have overpaid.”
“Balls,” Dan snapped back. “He got a solid provenance for that crappy daub, documents and photos tracing it all the way back to the studio where it was painted – to use the term loosely. Plus my expert opinion, of course, that it's a late period Magliore, after he hit the bottle pretty hard. Poor stuff, I admit, but when an artist is in fashion, people like Korochenko can expect to pay silly money.”
“But is it really authentic, Dan?” whined Nisbet. “What if he raises a stink?”
“He won't,” he said simply. “Because a rich man like Korochenko does not want the world to know he is woefully ignorant about art. Rich philistines buy any old crap that's in fashion to impress other rich philistines. Maybe one in a hundred of them know something about style, composition, the basics. Korochenko and the oligarch buddies are about as sophisticated as a can of Heinz vegetable soup. But a lot less tasteful.”
Nisbet jumped up and began pacing, waving his arms around in agitation.
“You should not say things like that, even in private! You can never be sure who might overhear!” Nisbet gestured at his desk phone. “People like that use bugs, spies–”
“It's not a state secret, James,” Dan sighed. “The art market is a big fat scam. Anyone with half a brain knows about the art world, it's a classic example of an open conspiracy. The whole thing is driven by greed and bullshit. We sell fakes at least as often as the genuine article–”
Nisbet began to splutter, but Dan held up a hand and stared at him until he lowered his eyes and fell silent.
“At least as often,” he continued, “but it just so happens that in this case the painting is genuine, so far as I can tell. So maybe his latest girlfriend doesn't like it, in which case the guy should just put the damn thing in storage. Or hang it in a guest bedroom, or maybe the john.”
“One day you'll go too far!” said Nisbet, his voice almost breaking. “Nobody is indispensable!”
“Two words, James,” Dan said, lowering his voice and leaning closer to him. “Money. Laundering. Korochenko is obviously buying art to launder dirty money. Most of our other clients do the same. You think he got rich by honest work? Nobody wearing that much gold on his body has an honest trade. So we're ripping off villains, if we're ripping off anyone. Stealing from thieves.”
Nisbet had turned puce, but said nothing.
“You know I'm the best valuer you've got,” Dan went on, getting up to go. “And as such I've made more money for this sketchy outfit of yours than anyone else. Wanna fire me? Fine, I could go back to the States. Or to Paris, or Berlin, maybe. But I happen to like it here. So I'll continue to keep you in Savile Row suits and gambling money, if that's okay.”
The last jibe made Nisbet turn bright red. It was an open secret at the dealership that he was a terrible poker player and an even worse judge of horseflesh. Without Dan's acumen, he would probably bankrupt himself in a couple of months. The fact that they both knew it, he assumed, would only make him hate Dan more.
“By the way,” he said, remembering his odd experience that morning. “Are we sure that Tim Burdus is dead? It couldn't be someone else, maybe a thief who stole his credit cards – something like that?”
“I don't know anything about that,” Nisbet said sulkily. “Someone from the Foreign Office called and said his body was found in the desert sometime yesterday. He hadn't been seen at his hotel for a couple of days.”
“So he went out into the desert?” said Dan. “No idea what he was looking for?”
Nisbet looked up sharply.
“Of course not! What are you implying?”
“Nothing, nothing,” Dan held up his hands in a placatory gesture. “Just wondering if it was a working holiday, you know? Kind of a touchy subject, Egyptian relics. But that's out of my wheelhouse. Forget it.”
Dan closed the chairman's door and went back to the reception desk. The small crowd had dispersed. Lisa was fixing her make-up.
“Tim didn't tell you why he chose Egypt for a vacation?” Dan asked. “I mean, it was a weird choice for a guy who hated the heat. His last holiday was in Sweden, for God's sake! And he specialized in modern art, so why go to the land of the pharaohs? Snorkeling in the Red Sea, something like that?”
“No idea,” Lisa replied. “He just seemed really preoccupied before he went, you know? He wasn't his usual self.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” said Dan, frowning. “I never got the chance to ask him if anything was wrong.”
He cast his mind back to the last time he had really talked with Tim. It had been at the office Christmas party, three months earlier. They had both been fairly drunk, but he recalled asking Tim about his long-term plans. Tim, who had made it clear he wanted to run his own dealership, had resented his father's refusal to set him up in business. He had then blurted out something about 'making new connections'. But when Dan had pressed him, he had clammed up, simply tapping the side of his nose in a rather silly attempt to look mysterious.
Dan's hectic work schedule had kept them apart after that, and they had only exchanged a few words in recent months. But now that Lisa had mentioned it, Tim had seemed distracted, even worried. And then had come his sudden decision to go to Egypt for a fortnight. And now he was dead. But Dan had apparently seen his double just moments before learning the grim fact.
“Lisa,” he said, lowering his voice a tad, “this may sound crazy, but I thought I saw Tim this morning.”
As Dan went on to describe the strange incident Lisa's eyes grew wide.
“Oh,” she said, “my Irish granny used to tell me about this sort of thing!”
Oh Jesus, Dan thought. That's all I need, the folklore of Ould Oireland.
Lisa's Irish granny had apparently had a saying, folk remedy, or weird superstition for every conceivable occasion.
“No, seriously,” Lisa went on, seeing Dan's expression, “listen to this! Apparently there's this thing where somebody is seen around the time they die, miles away from where they really are.”
“Like a ghost?” Dan said, trying not to sound condescending.
“A specter, yes,” Lisa confirmed. “Sometimes it's of a person who's just died, sometimes it's a person who's about to die – a specter of the living, that's called.”
Dan snorted at that.
“Why would Tim appear to me? Why not his mom, for instance? Or you, for that matter.”
Lisa folded her arms, put her head on one side.
“Really? He was into you in a big way. You just never notice, do you?”
Dan sighed.
“Okay, Tim was a nice guy, so I let him down gently whenever he tried to hit on me. I don't think that makes it one of the great romances of history. Anyway, I gotta get to work.”
Dan went through into the main office and tried to spend the rest of the morning focused on his work. But his eyes kept straying to Tim's desk. He wondered if its contents should be left alone in case the police wanted to examine it. But he reasoned that Tim might have left some important documents, perhaps even some artifacts. And as chief valuer, he should look at his client list and determine what to do about it.
And if I happen to find out why the poor bastard went to Egypt, well, that's a bonus. Could be money in it. Or useful information, which is as good as hard cash.
***
Father Michael Malahide looked around the church and tried to look enthusiastic. He had not wanted to be transferred to this remote island from his inner-city parish in Glasgow. Malahide relished a challenge, and was still young and idealistic enough to believe the world could be changed. Now he had been sent to Soray, a place with such a tiny population that the chances of fighting drugs, or homelessness, seemed virtually zero.
Dark Waters (Mephisto Club Series Book 1) Page 2