by Sarah Rayne
Elinor thought she was not especially religious, but Grendel’s glib obedient catechism of that travesty of biblical lore stung. I am the son of the Divine One of the Bubasti, who feast at the Burning Altar . . . Timur had sold him some kind of divine Messiah tale.
‘Again, very good. And now you must eat.’
‘Yes, I must eat,’ said Grendel. He cupped the slab of flesh protectively, and crawled into the corner, half crouching, half kneeling.
Timur nodded to Iwane, who went across to the trap door and lifting the flap, went back down into the tunnels.
Timur watched him go and then turned to look at Elinor.
As his eyes met hers the gas jets sank lower, stirring the swelling shadows into eerie life and creating movement where no movement actually existed. It began to seem as if the whole cavern were alive with creeping shadows.
Timur’s eyes were glittering with cold cruel lust, and there was a dreadful moment when Elinor felt his mind brush hers with sexual hunger. Oh God, he’s going to rape me. I’m going to lose my virginity at last, but I’m going to lose it in this nightmare place with rotting bodies stuffed into a drain and a chained madman eating raw flesh within yards of us . . .
She said, as coldly and as disdainfully as she could manage, ‘Has your jackal gone out to get more victims?’ Her voice was cracked and dry because of not having spoken for so long, but it sounded fairly contemptuous.
‘He’s not a jackal, Miss Craven, but he has certainly gone out to find sacrifices. I see you understand something of what we are doing.’
‘I understand that you’re deliberately feeding Grendel’s madness,’ said Elinor. ‘And that you’re keeping me prisoner. You do know that I’ll have been missed by now? And that people will be searching for me?’ This all came out much angrier and much braver than she had dared hope.
‘No one will search for you,’ said Timur. ‘Lewis Chance is in Bath, and the centre is closed. And if anyone should start asking difficult questions – that meddlesome Raffael, or your pretty niece – we shall deal with them, as we have always done.’
Elinor stared at him in mute horror. Ginevra. Then she is here! But he knows she’s here! And Raffael was meddling somehow! But her mind was unable to grapple with this, and after a moment, she said, ‘What does – “deal with them” – mean?’
‘If they try to find you or stop us they will die on the Burning Altar. As you will die tomorrow night,’ said Timur. ‘It was a pity you pried, Miss Craven, because we seldom use females in our sacrifices. But sometimes it is necessary, and unfortunately you saw too much. I’m sorry about it, but we can’t risk letting you live. You will not die the sacrificial death, but that of a spy.’
‘Is there a difference?’
‘To die as a sacrifice to Touaris is honourable,’ said Timur. ‘To die as a spy is not.’
His voice held faint amusement and Elinor felt reality begin to blur again. Only I don’t think I’m in reality; I think I must have slid back into the nightmare. Please let me have slid back into the nightmare. I’m going to die the dishonourable death of a spy.
The room tilted and whirled about her, and she fought to stay conscious, and then heard her voice say coldly, ‘You’ll be caught, of course. You really won’t get away with this.’ God, how conventional I’m sounding! But it’s better than grovelling and pleading for mercy. Or is it?
Timur said, ‘We shan’t be caught. After tomorrow night my people and I will leave England and Grendel will go with us. You – assuming your body is identifiable – will probably be written off as one more of Grendel’s victims. We shall leave a few clues pointing to that, of course, and people will say, How very sad: but Lewis Chance was a great fool to think he could control that boy. And there will certainly be people to vouch for Grendel’s mental state.’
As Timur spoke Elinor caught, on the rim of her vision, a slight movement, and realised that Grendel had turned his head to listen.
‘The Burning Altar,’ Timur was saying, ‘is one of the oldest rituals in the world.’
By a supreme effort Elinor managed not to look in Grendel’s direction. She kept her eyes fixed on Timur and pushed down the monstrous images his words were conjuring up, and said, ‘I still don’t understand what you’re doing to Grendel. Or why you need him.’
‘You don’t need to understand. But I will tell you that our task has been made harder than we expected because Grendel is not quite as mad as we thought him. There are periods of almost complete normality.’
‘Which doesn’t suit your purpose,’ said Elinor venomously. And look at me, Timur, look at me and keep looking, because Grendel’s standing up, and he’s listening very intently to what you’re saying. And oh God, don’t let me lose consciousness again!
‘It does not suit it at all,’ said Timur. ‘We want Grendel very mad indeed, and we believe that tomorrow night will tip him once and for all into real insanity.’
‘He seems helplessly insane to me,’ said Elinor coldly. ‘But perhaps our standards are different.’ Anger flared in Timur’s eyes, and despite her fear Elinor felt a spurt of triumph.
Timur said, ‘As you saw just now, Grendel craves the taste of human flesh, but part of him is still desperately struggling for—’
‘Normality? If you want Grendel for some kind of figurehead you must be a very strange crowd,’ said Elinor. But keep talking, Timur, keep boasting about your mad plans, you horrible vain thing, keep your attention on me, because it’s going to be your undoing . . . Only don’t look round, because Grendel’s creeping towards you . . .
Timur said, ‘The madder Grendel is, the easier it will be for us to put him on the ancient throne of Touaris.’ He paused, and then said, ‘Mad, really mad, he will be easy to control. He thinks he will rule, but he will not, of course.’
‘Who will?’ This had to be the most fantastic conversation anyone had ever had. Ancient thrones and mad pretenders controlled by evil eminences grises. I’m in something out of Dumas or Anthony Hope, thought Elinor, The Prisoner of Zenda or The Man in the Iron Mask. Timur’s probably as mad as Grendel, if the truth’s known – no, that would mean I’m down here with two madmen, and I won’t think it.
‘The League of which I am leader will rule. Of course.’
‘League?’
‘The League of Tamerlane.’
‘I’ve never heard of it,’ said Elinor contemptuously.
‘It is named for a leader of Tashkara who ruled a hundred years ago, and was known as Tamerlane the Avenger. And it consists of a group of activists who will sweep away the old superstitions and the narrow minds of Tashkara,’ said Timur. ‘And make a new enlightened people under a new leader.’
For a moment his tone was the unmistakable one of the fanatic pledging a better world, and Elinor stared at him and felt a sudden sensuous pull. A Redeemer, a Golden Race, a New Age . . . And then the fleeting evocative images vanished, and she remembered all those people vainly awaiting Redeemers who never came, and all those promises made by fanatics that turned out to be hollow. And Golden Races were only born out of the death agonies of slaughtered millions, and the only New Age that had dawned in the West this century was of half-gypsy travellers, most of whom worshipped nothing better than rock music and drugs . . .
‘Grendel will serve the League’s purpose – and therefore my own – very well,’ said Timur. He made a brief dismissive gesture in the direction of Grendel’s corner, and Grendel froze into immobility at once. ‘You have seen what he is,’ said Timur, looking down at Elinor with amusement and cruelty in his expression. ‘You see how near to the surface is the hunger. He can barely control it.’
‘He’s sick,’ said Elinor bitterly. ‘His mind’s sick and you’re deliberately making it sicker. You’re forcing him down into madness.’ And little though you know it, Timur, you’re condemning yourself with every word now.
‘Believe me, Elinor,’ said Timur softly, ‘Grendel needs very little forcing.’
Grendel was inchin
g forward again. He had scooped up his chains in both hands, and he was paying them out as he went. But the steel linkage gave the chains a horrid life of their own and Elinor was excruciatingly aware that at any second there might be a telltale chink of sound. He’s a madman creeping up on another madman and if he fails, either of them or both of them will almost certainly kill me and they might do any number of appalling things to me first. Don’t think about it. Concentrate on keeping Timur talking. Grendel’s only got about another dozen more steps. What will he do? Strangle Timur with the chains? Knock him out? But supposing the chains aren’t long enough? Oh God, what then?
There was no time even to think this, because Grendel moved then, bounding forward, his lips drawn back in a snarl, the teeth gleaming wetly. Like a huge cat, thought Elinor, flinching as far back as her own chains would allow. There was a brief vivid glimpse of a face scarcely human and then Grendel had sprung on to Timur’s back and looped the chains around his neck, jerking them tight. Timur gave an anguished grunt and his eyes bulged, and with his other hand, Grendel brought the bunched chains – looped, steel knuckle-dusters – smashing down on his skull over and over again. There was a sickening crunch of bone splintering, and there was an appalling moment when Timur was still struggling to get free, flailing at the air. He half broke away, and stumbled a few feet, but he was almost blinded and barely conscious. Grendel pounced again, dealing a final crashing blow, and Timur crumpled to the floor.
Grendel stared down at him, the bunched chains still held in his hands. ‘You promised me the throne of Touaris, Timur,’ he said. ‘You promised. But you were going to cheat – I heard you say it.’ He looked about him, scanning the dim warehouse, and Elinor pressed as far back into the shadows as she could. But when Grendel looked at her there was a vivid flash of sanity: a brief glimpse of a mind that was perfectly logical and perfectly normal. He has periods of almost complete normality, Timur had said. Yes, but how long do they last?
But when Grendel said, ‘We must search his pockets for keys to the padlocks,’ his voice was perfectly logical and normal, and when he said, ‘And we must do it quickly!’ it was almost Lewis’s voice and Lewis’s quick impatience. ‘Iwane might come back at any minute!’ said Grendel, and plunged his hands into Timur’s pockets. Elinor waited, scarcely daring to breathe, and after a moment Grendel straightened up, frowning. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘He was too wily to have kept them on him and brought them down here.’
‘The trap door’s not locked,’ volunteered Elinor, forcing herself to speak in an ordinary voice. ‘But we can’t reach it. We can’t escape that way.’
‘No.’ Grendel looked about him, and his eyes shone suddenly. ‘But there is another way that we can escape,’ he said softly. ‘In a few hours Timur’s people will assemble for the ritual of the Burning Altar.’ He looked down at Timur. ‘If they believe me to be Timur, they will do what I tell them. And that means—’
‘What—’
‘I must become Timur,’ said Grendel. His eyes met Elinor’s, and he lifted the glinting knife.
Chapter Nineteen
The knife caught the light as Grendel bent over Timur’s prone body, and as he brought it slicing across Timur’s scalp, blood welled up, thin, watery.
He was completely absorbed. After the first cut, he had taken up a position astride Timur, blocking him from Elinor’s line of sight. But although she could not see what he was doing, she could hear. There was a wet squelch of skin tearing and once there was the indescribably sickening scrape of steel against bone.
After what seemed a very long time, Grendel moved back and stood looking down as if considering his handiwork, and for a moment Elinor was unable to make sense of what she was seeing, because there was only that wet mess of blood and the thread of white bone and teeth just beneath . . .
And then dreadful comprehension rushed in, and despite her resolve and despite thrusting a fist into her mouth again, a gasp of sick horror broke from her. I must become Timur, Grendel had said.
Where Timur’s face had been was a huge bleeding wound. Like raw meat, thought Elinor. Like a shapeless lump of skinless meat. Skinless, oh God . . . If it had not been for the eyes – bulging pale globes no longer surrounded by their cushion of flesh and skin – and the unmistakable nose bone – white and jutting, like cuttlefish – the livid mass would not have been identifiable. Far worse than all else was the leathery flap of skin hanging from the scalp. He’s removed his face! thought Elinor, appalled and sickened. He’s peeled back the skin of his face, and it’s hanging loose!
Grendel bent to his grisly task again, and as he did so, a dreadful moan broke from the man on the ground. Horror scudded across Elinor’s skin, and Grendel recoiled at once, his hand frozen in the act of cutting the final shreds of skin away.
He’s not dead! thought Elinor. Oh dear God, Grendel’s taking his face off and he’s not dead. This is the worst nightmare anyone could imagine. The coppery taint of stale blood gusted into her face as if something had breathed it and sweat broke out on her forehead. Concentrate. Don’t throw up because you’ll feel worse afterwards, never mind making a mess on the floor. And don’t succumb to hysterics like some stupid Victorian heroine either.
She forced herself to remain seated upright, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. Grendel was bending over Timur again, and there was a look of snarling satisfaction on his face, as if he were saying, Now you’re definitely dead. I don’t know what he’s done, thought Elinor: I can’t see, and I don’t want to see! I suppose he’s stabbed him through the heart or the base of the skull or something. And how mad is he really? Will he turn on me next? He can’t reach me – I know he can’t! – but supposing there was a key after all? Supposing he found it and he’s about to unlock his chains and pounce on me? Would he jab the knife into my neck and then peel off my face? I wouldn’t know he was doing it, but that’s hardly the point. What if it’s his obsession – like that horror film with Anthony Hopkins – where a mad serial killer cut off somebody’s face and used it as a disguise.
Grendel straightened up again and there was an air of finality about him. Between his hands was something thin, and smeary and dripping with blood and mucus, which he held with extreme care. Grendel looked to where Elinor was hunched into a tiny fearful huddle, and nodded. Was he saying: The plan’s going to work? Or was he saying: It’s your turn next?
With the same immense care, Grendel lifted the grisly fragment of skin between his hands, and stood for a moment looking down at it. For the first time since Elinor had seen him, he appeared reluctant.
And then he seemed to take a deep breath and to square his shoulders. Moving slowly, he raised the torn-off skin and clapped it over his own face.
It stayed in place at once, but Grendel padded across to the wavery green mirror and stood before it, considering his reflection, pushing the grisly mask this way and that. He’s forcing it into position, thought Elinor, unable to look away. I was right about it being like that film. He’s wearing his victim’s face.
Grendel did not look towards her again. He pulled the body of Timur into the shadows cast by the piles of packing cases, and began to strip his clothes off. Finally there was the scrape of the barred grille being pulled aside. Down among the dead men, thought Elinor. He’s tipping Timur into the corpse drain. She heard the grille pulled back into place, and then Grendel reappeared. He had donned Timur’s clothes, and the dreadful mask was in place. It clung to his skin and although it was ragged and bloody, in the dim uncertain light it gave him an astonishing resemblance to the dead Timur. It was overwhelmingly sinister. He sat down on the floor, facing the room, cross-legged, apparently withdrawing into the strange dark rapt state of his own once more.
Sweat had formed and dried on Elinor’s spine. She had no idea how far Grendel could be trusted, or whether this might be part of some mad sick plan. Let’s sit down here together, my dear, with mutilated corpses scattered around us, wearing the faces I peel off my victims . .
. And which one would you like to wear, Elinor . . .? You always said you were unhappy with the face God gave you, now’s a chance to choose somebody else’s . . .
It was oppressively quiet. The gas jets hissed and spat, and once Elinor caught the scuttering of rats in the tunnels again. Once Grendel seemed to sigh and Elinor braced herself for an attack. But he remained where he was, the grisly visor drying on his face.
Waiting for Timur’s people to enter the dim warehouse and begin the ritual of the Burning Altar.
Georgie and Baz had suggested the Anchor as the starting point for the night’s venture, Georgie explaining that the pub was their usual Friday-night venue. He pronounced it veen-yew and was frowned at by Baz, who thought they ought to try to live up to Top Floor’s company, never mind Ginevra Craven who was a very class act indeed.
Ginevra’s classiness had worried them quite a bit, because as Baz pointed out, if she walked in to the Anchor looking all silk-knickered and Sloane she was going to stand out like a spare prick at a gang bang and that would finish everybody’s chances of catching the villains! It was not, somehow, a question of clothes – Ginevra was wearing the most ordinary jeans and T-shirt and sweater – it was simply that she had an air of quality.
Ginevra, however, had already thought this one out. She had not brought many things with her because of it only being a weekend stay, and most of what she had brought was inside Chance House. But she plundered the boys’ wardrobe and ended up borrowing the black leather bomber jacket which Baz had bought during his motorbike phase and not worn for six months, and a scarlet silk vest acquired by Georgie in a moment of rash self-indulgence. Baz pointed out that the jacket was not precisely leather and Ginevra grinned and said, ‘All the better.’ Georgie, never at a loss, said there was no knowing what might be in the pockets, and better let him turn them out first.