by Sarah Rayne
‘What’s exophagism? I mean what is it exactly?’
‘Frazer interprets it as the eating of those outside of the tribe,’ said Raffael.
‘Oh.’ Ginevra supposed she ought to have guessed that Raffael would have read up the background on his peculiar task. She said, ‘What do we do? Do we tell the police?’
‘We could.’ Raffael cut a wedge of cheese absently. ‘But I don’t think those threats Timur made were idle ones.’
‘Death on the Burning Altar.’ Ginevra shivered.
‘Yes. And if Timur really has got your aunt or Lewis Chance, or both of them—’ He made a quick impatient gesture. ‘I think we have to go on that premise, Ginevra.’
Ginevra leaned forward. ‘Listen, if this were an ordinary case of kidnapping, what would we do? Wait for the demand, wouldn’t we? It’s usually money, although sometimes it’s State secrets, or a contract to supply arms to somewhere outrageous, or even—’
‘Stick to the point, child.’
‘Well look, we’ve got until tomorrow night before the ritual starts – Timur said so. Can’t we try to find the kidnappers’ lair by ourselves? We’ve got one or two things to go on, and we could— Well, we could be a bit more unconventional than the police.’
Raffael looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Half a day’s acquaintance with you tells me that you’ve thought of a plan. And I suspect it’s the plan I’ve thought of as well.’
Ginevra said, ‘Shoot an arrow of the self-same flight.’
‘Send out a decoy?’
‘Exactly.’
The two young men who occupied the floor below Raffael’s ramshackle rooms were wide-eyed with curiosity at finding themselves approached by their rather peculiar neighbour and his unexpected companion, but delighted to invite them in. It was only half-past eight anyhow, at least an hour before either of them would be going out, and they were both intrigued. Georgie said, and Baz agreed, that the very last thing either of them had expected was to see the top-floor tenant turn up with a cracker of a tart on his arm, although the word tart was a colloquialism as you might say, because both of them knew class when they met it. Ginevra Craven was class, always supposing you were that way inclined, which Baz was not, although Georgie had been known to experiment a bit.
They proffered coffee (Georgie had bought a new jar of Kenco only yesterday which was fortunate, and there was a packet of biscuits as well), and listened with round-eyed astonishment to the story that Top Floor had to tell. They had never heard anything like it, although Baz, who read the occasional paperback, said you wouldn’t believe some of the things people dreamed up by way of a story, and this was exactly like something out of a book.
They knew about the disappearance of some of the laddies, of course, and they’d read the articles as well, which were a bit over the top, but pretty much accurate. One of the boys mentioned used to go into the Anchor which was where Georgie and Baz generally began their night, and they’d known him. No, not to say well, but enough to speak to, or have the odd drink with, which meant they had felt a bit peevy about Ralphie’s possible fate, well, they’d felt very upset if the truth was told.
Despite the mounting fear for Elinor and for herself as well, Ginevra found herself enjoying the casual hospitality and the combined shrewdness and naïveté of these two. Their rooms were very much like a good many student flats, in fact the whole house was exactly like some of the split-up properties near the university, which had become a kind of student ghetto and which the stolider citizens of Durham said were little better than slums.
Raffael seemed to be pitching it about right. He had said nothing about the Decalogue or the Vatican – Ginevra was ready to bet their reception would have been a whole lot more guarded if he had – and he was laying all the emphasis on Grendel’s kidnapping, and on the disappearance of Lewis Chance and Elinor. A cult, he said, stressing the word. They would know about these things, of course?
Well, of course.
‘And,’ said Raffael, ‘you understand what we’re asking you to do?’ He saw them exchange glances, and said swiftly, ‘The danger would be minimal. I won’t cheat by saying it would be nonexistent, but you’ll be followed and kept tabs on.’
The wariness surfaced instantly. ‘Police?’
‘No,’ said Raffael, and saw them relax. ‘I will follow you.’
Ginevra took a deep breath. ‘And so will I,’ she said.
It was not something to make a hasty decision about, but Baz said, and Georgie agreed, that they should do it. There was poor Ralphie to think about – well, there was themselves, too, if this cult thing was really rampaging through the district. Quite like Jack the Ripper it was, exactly as the newspaper had said. Georgie made a joke about kidneys for breakfast and then felt a bit sick remembering Ralphie.
Top Floor was quite honest about the danger. Minimal but not quite nonexistent, he said. They rather respected this frankness, because you got enough po-faced tossers telling you lies in this game. Come home with me and see what I can give you. Let me take you to the Riviera. The tossers who haunted Canning Town weren’t the sort to take you to the Riviera; what they usually took you to was a seedy boarding house or the back seat of the car for a hand-job. You didn’t get Riviera offers if you worked Piccadilly for heaven’s sake, in fact you were more likely to get beaten up, especially on a Saturday night.
Georgie boiled the kettle for refills of coffee all round because it was only half-past nine, and they could set off a bit later than usual tonight. And although what Top Floor was asking was pretty risky – well, it was bloody suicidal in fact! – they began to think they would have a go. The plan was to do the rounds of the pubs and bars in their normal fashion, and try to get themselves noticed by these cult people. Raffael used the expression ‘picked up’, which made them laugh because ‘picked up’ wasn’t a term anyone had used since – well, since Jack the Ripper was a boy, probably! In Canning Town you went bumming, blowing or wanking. They suspected they could have said this to Ginevra, but they jibbed at saying it to Raffael although neither of them could quite have said why.
‘What we want you to do,’ said Raffael, who was perfectly aware of all the expressions fashionable in Baz and Georgie’s demi-world, ‘is to ensure that you get – approached by this League of Tamerlane.’
Georgie wanted to know how they would recognise these people, on account of there being a good many foreigners in Canning Town, what with it being so near to the old docks and all. There were no working docks these days, but you still got the foreigners. He started to tell a joke about discharged seamen, remembered his company and trailed into abashed silence.
‘You’ll recognise them,’ said Raffael. ‘I’ll be around to give you the nod, just in case.’
‘And I’ll follow you,’ said Ginevra eagerly, leaning forward. ‘Yes, I will, Raffael – these people can only have caught a glimpse of me, and I’ll rig up a disguise so it’ll be quite safe – and I’ll see where you’re taken. And we’ll be in to rescue you before you can say—’ Several apropos expressions occurred to her, but she said temperately, ‘Well, before you can count to ten.’
‘And when do we do it?’
‘Right away,’ said Raffael, looking across at Ginevra. They shared a thought: we’ve got to find the hideaway before the ritual starts tomorrow night . . . ‘Yes, immediately.’
‘Like – tonight?’
‘Like tonight.’
Chapter Eighteen
As the gaslight burned lower, Elinor’s warehouse prison sank slowly into an eerie gloom, and a faint stench of corruption wafted from the culvert beyond the packing cases.
She had lost track of the hours. Her watch had been smashed when the cat-headed man, Timur, had knocked the candlestick from her hand, and she had no idea what time it was. But Timur had said that the Burning Altar ritual would start one hour before midnight on Sunday. Was it Sunday yet? Was it even Saturday?
The room was very quiet and although the gas jets were still f
lickering, a sickly green and purple twilight was creeping in. Elinor began to feel light-headed with fear and hunger, and several times she sank into a half-stupor in which the shadowy prison became alive with prowling nightmare beings, and reality and fantasy became indistinguishable. Once or twice a faint scrabbling beneath the trap door jerked her to full awareness, and she half started to her feet. Timur returning? No, too light and quick. Rats? If a rat gets in here I’ll die of fright, thought Elinor, and then immediately: no, of course I won’t, I’ll be too busy worrying about Timur.
Grendel had prowled restlessly around his corner for a time, the chains slithering gratingly across the concrete floor, and then had seated himself cross-legged on the floor, apparently falling into some dark absorption of his own. From time to time Elinor glanced covertly at him, but as the hours slid away she began to be less frightened. She had no idea whether this was because she had reached saturation point for horrors, or whether it was simply familiarity, or even whether she was catching a little of Grendel’s own madness. This last began to seem entirely possible.
She had thought she was prepared for Timur’s return, but when footsteps suddenly echoed along the tunnels, scalding fear rushed in again. There was the scrape of the trap door lifting and he was there, stepping up into the warehouse, a second man following him. As they lowered the flap Elinor huddled as far back in her shadowy corner as possible, praying to escape notice.
Neither of the men were wearing the cat heads, but she was fairly certain that the taller one was Timur. The build was right and the walk. They both looked to be twenty-eight or -nine and they were markedly alike: pale-skinned and with black straight hair and dark eyes and slanting cheekbones. Brothers? Whatever they were they went straight to Grendel, ignoring Elinor completely.
Grendel had curled into a small defensive huddle, his arms about his bent knees, his head down. The men exchanged glances, and then Timur bent down so that he was on a level with Grendel.
‘Only a few more hours now, Grendel,’ he said. ‘Only a few hours before you join us in the ritual.’
Grendel raised his head at last and stared at Timur. ‘The Burning Altar—’
‘Yes. The way to Touaris,’ said Timur. ‘The thing you have been waiting for.’
‘The thing we have been preparing you for,’ said the second man.
Grendel lowered his head again, half covering it with his arms like a child frightened of the dark or of a blow. In a muffled voice so low that Elinor had to strain to catch it, he said, ‘But not when I am me! It’s only when he comes— He’s the one who enjoys it!’
Elinor felt as if she had been plunged neck-deep into black icy water. Schizophrenia. Wasn’t it? Yes, surely the classic symptom was to refer to the alter ego as a separate individual.
‘There is no he,’ said Timur, and a note of cold implacability entered his voice. ‘There is only you.’ He exchanged a glance with the other man and Elinor saw his expression. They’ve miscalculated, she thought suddenly. Whatever they want of Grendel, he’s jibbing. Because he’s crossed the line back into sanity? And if he has, will it help me?
Timur turned back to Grendel. ‘Remember all the things Iwane and I promised you, Grendel?’ he said, and now his tone was that of someone taking infinite patience with a recalcitrant child. ‘All the things waiting for you in Tashkara?’
‘Your people waiting for you,’ said Iwane.
‘You have to lead them, Grendel. And the feasts – you will preside over the feasts at the Burning Altar.’
‘You enjoy the feasts,’ said Iwane. ‘We showed you about the feasts. We taught you to enjoy them.’
‘I did enjoy them—’ But it was the half-ashamed admission of a child confessing a misdemeanour.
Iwane stood up and jerked his head towards the dead boy in the velvet jacket, and Elinor saw Timur smile and nod.
‘Do we force him?’ said Iwane softly.
‘Only if we have to. But,’ said Timur, in a low voice, ‘we won’t have to.’
Grendel had lifted his head and as his eyes fell on the body he flinched visibly. ‘Don’t make me do it again,’ he said in a whisper, and pity spiked across Elinor’s mind.
He’s mad, of course. But he knows he’s mad. She found herself wanting to bound across the room, knock the two men aside and comfort the poor mad creature who was so like Lewis that it hurt.
‘You must do it,’ said Timur. ‘Just as you have done it before. You must be ready for the initiation at the Altar.’
‘But when I am me,’ whispered Grendel, ‘I know how bad it is—’ But the red glint was already waking in his eyes, and his tongue came out to lick his lips.
‘But it’s exciting,’ said Timur very softly. ‘Remember how exciting it is? Grendel, look at me. Remember the dancers? Remember the ceremonial cat-mask dance of the Bubasti?’
‘The cat dance—’ Grendel was staring at the body, half propped against the wall. His eyes narrowed and slanted, and the face that was so eerily Lewis’s seemed to grow momentarily thinner. Excitement, raw and fierce, blazed up in his eyes. But he’s fighting it, thought Elinor, in appalled fascination. I can feel him fighting it.
‘Do it,’ said Timur in a half-whisper. ‘Do it, Grendel. Feel the flesh open under the knife, taste the rich soft taste—’
‘There is nothing like it in the whole world,’ said Iwane.
‘There is nothing like it in the whole world,’ repeated Grendel obediently.
‘It’s the way to Touaris, Grendel – it’s the way to lead her people.’
‘Yes, I remember now. I remember that it paints the blood pictures for me. In my head.’
‘Then do it,’ whispered Timur. ‘Paint the blood pictures. But paint them slowly. Take all the time you want.’
‘The blood pictures.’ His eyes were blurred and inward-looking now, but when he looked up again, for a disconcerting moment, shrewd cold sanity showed. ‘It’s for Touaris,’ said Grendel, staring at Timur. ‘I shall lead her people. You promised.’
‘I promised.’ Timur reached out and took Grendel’s hand, bringing him gently to his feet. But he’s wary all the same, thought Elinor. He’s braced for Grendel to do something unexpected. ‘I promised and you shall have it,’ said Timur. ‘But first there is this. You must be worthy, you know.’
‘I must be worthy.’ There it was again, the heart-breaking humility.
Taking Grendel’s hand, Timur led him forward to the prone body, moving with deliberate slowness as if fearing that an abrupt movement might shatter the dark spell he was throwing about Grendel. He bent down and pulled back the dead boy’s cheap velvet jacket and then tore aside the thin shirt. The poor dead flesh was pale and flaccid, but here and there it was mottled with livid bruises where the blood had coagulated after death.
Grendel crouched down, his eyes on the boy, and after what seemed to be a very long time, he reached out, his hands crooked into claws. He raked both hands down the boy’s chest, his fingernails gouging deep wounds and tearing away ribbons of skin.
Timur and Iwane smiled at one another over his head, and Grendel sat back, regarding his victim. Shreds of flesh clung to his fingers and there was a faint slick of not-quite-colourless fluid.
To Elinor’s horror he lifted both hands to his mouth, licking them like an animal cleaning its paws. She shuddered, and then thought: but at least the boy was dead. Should that make me feel better? Is this what they’ll do to me tomorrow night? But it won’t hurt, my dear, because you’ll be dead before we start . . . Oh God, am I back in the nightmare? If I’m not, I think I’m keeping hold of sanity, but it’s getting to be a near thing.
Timur said in a low urgent voice, ‘More, Grendel. Go on. You know what you have to do,’ and Iwane said, ‘The pictures, Grendel. The blood pictures. Make them come in your head.’
Grendel bent over the boy, burying his face in the gaping wound. There was a wet sucking sound, and then he lifted his head and looked up at the two men. His mouth and face were smeared
with the leaking body-juices of the corpse, and his lips stretched in a crazed smile.
‘Like this?’ he cried. ‘Like this?’ and Elinor shuddered, because at last it was the dreadful gloating voice of the dark demented creature. ‘This is what you want, isn’t it?’ cried Grendel. ‘The dark hunger of Tashkara! The feast of the flesh and the juice and the marrow of humans!’
Shreds of skin clung to his teeth and dribbles of glutinous fluid ran over his chin and it was impossible to escape the image of a feral; feeding beast, its jowls gore-soaked, looking up from its grisly banquet. Grendel held Timur’s eyes and said, in a greed-laden whisper that sent prickles of revulsion scudding across Elinor’s skin, ‘I have the pictures. I have the cataracts of blood and the fields of bloodied bones, all pouring through my mind. I see them all. I feel them all. Bones squelching between my hands . . .’ He held out his hands, opening and closing them. ‘And blood dripping down my throat . . .’ He drew in a deep breath, and then fixed his eyes on Timur. In a voice filled with thick purring menace, he said, ‘And now give me the knife.’
Elinor had thought that nothing could possibly be worse than what had already happened, but when Grendel began to slice into the poor torn corpse with Timur’s thin-bladed knife, she had to swallow very hard indeed to stop herself from being sick. There was an expression of intense concentration on Grendel’s face, and although he was breathing harshly and droplets of sweat clung to his hair, the mad exultation had vanished and he appeared to be wholly absorbed in what he was doing. But when he finally held up a lump of flaccid flesh, his eyes were glittering with triumph, and he looked to the two men as if waiting for approval.
‘It is very well done indeed,’ said Timur. ‘And now say it, Grendel. Say it as I taught you.’
Grendel said, ‘I am the seed of the lost tribe who came out of the land of Egypt and into the land of freedom. I am the son of the Divine One of the Bubasti, who feast at the Burning Altar, and they shall take me for their leader, they shall forsake all false gods and fall down and worship me—’ He broke off, bending over the repulsive lump of flesh, cradling it in his cupped hands, crooning over it.