VINCENT, JUST TO LET YOU KNOW SARAH IS FINE AND THE POLICE ARE TAKING GOOD CARE OF US. VIJAY.
Without warning Blake’s shoulder was shoved from behind. A party reveller who had had far too much to drink slumped forward into the lady directly behind Blake. The force of the shunt sent Blake’s phone flying from his hand like a sling shot. With a gaping mouth, all Blake could do was watch the object’s downward trajectory. It bounced several times off the metal barrier dividing the up and down escalators before finally hitting the ground in an explosion of broken plastic and electronic components. His neck turned rigid with anger. Making a fist, his teeth bit into the side of his hand.
He could feel the grains of sand running out of the hourglass. If he didn’t get to Rosalind soon, she would be dead. Taking on long breaths of air, he waited for the escalator to complete its agonising journey downwards. As soon as Blake’s feet hit firm ground, he was like a racehorse out of the stalls. Storming past the sign directing commuters to the Central Line, his pace increased to an out-and-out sprint, the plans in his hand whipping the air.
Up ahead, he heard the sounds of passengers disembarking from a train. He flattened himself against the wall of the platform and piled past the line of commuters coming his way. With his heart driving fast, he heard the rattle of the train doors start to move together. He was closing in, body-swerving commuters like a rugby forward on a lone run towards the try line. No matter what, he was getting onto that train. Throwing his body against the side of the closest carriage, he rammed his free hand into the space between the uniting doors and, through clenched teeth, grappled them open again. Reclaiming his composure, he coolly stepped into the carriage as the doors closed behind him. Despite the carriage being full, a small perimeter of free space quickly appeared around him.
Bank Station was the third stop on the Central Line heading east from Holborn. First Chancery Lane and then St Paul’s. Blake used the time to scan the Bank Station plans. By the time the train’s on-board loudspeaker announced their arrival at Bank, Blake had a pretty good idea of where to head for. With his thumb firmly fixed on the area of the plans circled in red pen, he exited the train before most of the passengers had even got out of their seats. Whilst most commuters headed for the escalators, Blake ran in the opposite direction searching for the stairwell. Skidding around the base of the stairs, he grabbed hold of the handrail and started bounding up the corkscrew staircase two steps at a time. Just before the top and with his heart pounding, he slowed his ascent and checked the plans. He peered around the next corner and the door appeared in his view, just as predicted in the drawings. It looked like some kind of service access door. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he eyed the sign warning of no unauthorised access. He ignored it and tried the handle. It opened with a creak and Blake stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
Chapter 58
DCI Milton turned his flapping coat collar against the wind and strolled back to his patrol car parked on the corner of Lombard Street. Settling into the driver’s seat, he reached over and retrieved his coffee standing upright in the passenger footwell. Taking a sip of the brew, he looked out onto the strange profile of St Mary Woolnoth. To his mind, it looked like a castle, the building’s imposing tower facade capped with a pair of squat balustrade turrets blackened by years of traffic exhaust.
All the other churches he had seen in his life, stretching back from his Sunday school days in his native Jamaica to the grand European cathedrals he had visited during his travels, shared a common theme. They were designed to elevate the senses upwards towards heaven. St Mary’s was different. Its squat foreboding exterior seemed to drag the senses downward into the building’s foundations.
And then there was its strange name: Woolnoth. It almost jolted the senses. According to Blake, the name ‘Woolnoth’ came from a wealthy benefactor, one Wulnoth de Walebrok who was known to have made financial contributions in the twelfth century for the church’s upkeep. Money is usually behind things, as true today as it was back then, he mused to himself.
Milton retrieved his phone from his pocket and speed-dialed Blake’s number. As before, there was no answer. An uneasy feeling swept through him. According to the officer at Ricard’s Belgravia residence, Blake had sent word that Ricard and his sister were heading their way. From then on, Blake appeared to have slipped off the grid. No contact, no further instructions. Milton didn’t like it; he didn’t like it one bit. Where the hell was he? Since the announcement of the mayor’s victory march, things had gotten a whole lot more complicated. People were streaming out of Bank Tube Station hoping to join the march eastwards.
Swapping his phone for a handheld police radio, Milton requested a status update from his team stationed around the perimeter of the church. The building had been completely sealed by padlocks. No one was getting in or out of that church; not on Milton’s watch. He ticked off the names of his tactical response team in his head as they reported in over the radio. The last to give a status check were the two sharpshooters hunkered down on the third floor of the office building opposite.
Chapter 59
Blake emerged from the passageway with his senses on red alert. The door marked on Ricard’s plans had led to a tight spiral staircase that continued upwards through the fabric of Bank Station to what he now took to be part of the church of St Mary Woolnoth directly above the station. He took on a deep breath and slowly eased the door open. It took a second for his eyes to grow accustomed to the poorly lit surroundings. His confusion evaporated as he realised that the large metal tubes in front of him were in fact a section of organ pipes. Scanning to his left, he found another door. He slowly twisted its handle and stepped into the open space of the church.
His face almost cracked at the sight of Rosalind prostrate on the altar. He rushed over to her. She was parchment white, her skin shining with sweat. Blake’s eyes travelled around her face; the flesh looked collapsed and empty. Dark shadows filled the craters of her cheeks. He bit back a gasp of emotion, and then he noticed the faint rise and fall of her chest. Thank God, she was still alive. He pulled at her shoulder, trying to raise her out of her stupor. Then he noticed the syringe lying at his feet. He tapped it to one side with his foot, and readied himself to haul his sister onto his shoulder.
Forcing his hands under Rosalind’s armpits, he strained to get her torso upright. A sound like scraping metal came from underneath Rosalind’s listless body. Wedging her steady with his hand against the back wall, Blake looked down to the altar where the sound had come from. Originally concealed by her body, what he saw laid out on the altar sent terror twisting inside him. There, resting on the surface of the altar cloth was a Tyrian shekel and a knife, its blade six inches long, razor sharp and pointed at the end.
Just at that moment Blake heard the distinctive click of a bullet being chambered behind his head. Then came the jab of a muzzle against his neck.
‘Dr Blake, you really are becoming a thorn in my side,’ said Ricard. ‘Turn around slowly and don’t even think about moving that knife.’
He did as he was instructed and came face to face with Angelo Ricard, the Hawksmoor serial killer. Blake stood with his hands behind his head as Ricard patted him down for weapons. The only object of interest that Ricard could find on him was a brown plastic tablet bottle, not even a phone. With a sinister grin, he returned the bottle to Blake’s jacket pocket.
‘Painkillers? You’re going to need a lot more than painkillers when I’m through with you.’
Motioning with his gun, Ricard directed Blake to sit down in the first pew on the left-hand side. With the barrel pressed firmly into his temple, Ricard handcuffed Blake’s hand to one of the thick loops of cast-iron ornamentation that adorned the end of each pew. Blake railed against the restraint, trying to gauge the strength of the cast-iron fixing. It was rock solid.
Ricard turned the pistol over in his hand. As he did so, he looked up at the enormous disc of the moon through the window. Silvery grey clouds sped
across its face like rolling tumbleweed.
‘It will soon be time,’ said Ricard, with a menacing smile curling up on his lips.
‘Wait, you don’t have to do this,’ pleaded Blake.
‘Don’t have to? You have no idea how long I’ve waited.’ He checked his watch. ‘The New Age is just minutes away.’
‘You think your killings are going to bring about a New Age?’
‘Can’t you feel it closing in on you, Dr Blake?’
Blake didn’t answer and pulled at the handcuff.
‘He has chosen me as His vessel,’ Ricard said darkly. ‘The war is just about to begin and all those who don’t submit will be cut down like weeds.’
‘I beg you, don’t kill her,’ said Blake, shaking his head.
Ricard was indifferent to Blake’s pleading. ‘Soon, she will be marked with the coin and her soul will be offered up as a sacrifice to Him.’
‘This makes no sense. Why all of this?’
Ricard turned around and stared back at Blake. ‘For a guardian of the Logos, Dr Blake, you seem pitifully uninformed.’
‘A guardian of what?’ exclaimed Blake.
‘I’ve seen the mark on your finger. I saw it on the first day we met at Boodle’s. You can’t get away from what you are becoming. The demons have seen it. Ema Mats should have finished you off. I did my homework on you, Blake. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake.’ His eyes widened. ‘When I heard that a physio had joined the shelter, I realised she might be useful to me. I searched her out and performed the ritual on her. Once the coin was inside her body, she was under my master’s control. Arranging her placement at your daughter’s hospital was relatively straightforward.’
‘But you had her shot.’
‘Somehow you repelled the Dark Lord’s spirit from her. Once the secret was uncovered, you both had to die.’
‘But why the coins?’
Ricard paused, mulling something over. ‘You really have no idea, do you? I suppose, considering your present circumstances and that we have some time to spare, you deserve a little further explanation.’ Ricard took a few steps closer, and Blake slipped his free hand into his coat pocket to search for the tablet bottle.
‘Once a demon is released into the world, it only has a short time to find a host before it dies. Normally, a mortal person would have no control over the demon’s choice, but with the coins and the right initiation, things can be somewhat more directed.’ Ricard gave a sadistic smile. ‘A cursed coin is like a beacon signalling to the dark forces that inhabit the void. Like a bright light attracting a moth. Once a host is subverted, its thoughts and actions can be manipulated and its soul harvested for the cause.’ Ricard paused. ‘Unless it is repelled by another form of ancient power,’ he said dismissively.
‘So where did these coins come from?’
‘Two thousand years ago in Jerusalem, a payment was made using them and they became cursed.’
‘What payment? The Temple Tax?’
‘Don’t you read your bible, Dr Blake? “Then one of the Twelve, the one called Judas Iscariot, went to the chief priests and asked, What are you willing to give me if I hand Him over to you? And they set out for him thirty pieces of silver.” Matthew 26 to be precise. The payment was thirty Tyrian shekels.’
Blake’s face dropped as confusion swirled in his mind.
‘The coins were kept by the Sanhedrin, the ruling council of the rabbinical courts for centuries afterwards, until they were acquired by St Helena, mother of Constantine the Great. Afraid of their power, Constantine ordered them to be sent away and kept safe in Britannia, a territory at the very edges of the Roman Empire. Years before, Constantine had campaigned here under his father to rid the province of the troublesome Picts and the Druids. So the coins were brought to Londinium and a mausoleum was built to house them.’
‘In the Minories,’ said Blake slowly. ‘Four Hawksmoor churches, all built to be aligned towards the Minories at the centre,’ said Blake. ‘But why the Minories? What’s there?’ he pressed.
‘My master,’ said Ricard, his face framed in an eerie gauze of silver moonlight. For a moment there was silence. ‘My master is there. It’s all in your bible, Dr Blake,’ he tutted. ‘Luke 10:18 I believe is the scripture. “I saw Satan fall like lightning from heaven.”’ Ricard raised his arm and slammed it down onto the altar, imitating a bolt of lightning.
It was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room.
‘You mean …’ Blake’s words stuck in his throat, ‘… the Minories is the place on earth where the devil hit the ground?’ Blake couldn’t quite believe what he was saying.
‘He sends his agents out into the world from there to do his bidding. Haven’t you ever thought why the area around the Minories has always had such a dark reputation? Jack the Ripper, The Radcliffe Highway Murders, the rotting slums, the seething vice. They were all part of His grand design.’
Ricard checked his watch again. ‘In two minutes, He will come from the earth and be reborn in my body. He will choose me. Great power will be bestowed upon me, through Him.’ Ricard’s eyes were alive with unyielding wickedness. ‘I will sacrifice countless souls in His name. The streets of London will run red with blood.’
Chapter 60
A shadow came alive between the two squat balustrade turrets that topped the church of St Mary Woolnoth. The lone figure of Enoch Hart moved out of thick shadows and threw a rope down the side. His form then melted back into the darkness. A second later, the ex-SAS soldier stepped out over the lip of the turret and performed a lightning quick carabineer rundown along the upper section of the tower. He landed expertly onto the flat-roofed extension of the church’s eastern flank. Once safely disconnected from the rope, he moved towards the row of large arched windows, keeping to the shadows of the wall.
Under the cover of darkness, he quickly un-shouldered the L118 sniper rifle from his back and laid it down at his feet. Next he removed a circular glasscutter from the utility pack clipped to his belt and set to work on the window. Moments later, a circle of three-hundred-year-old glass was eased out from the windowpane with the help of a small handheld suction cup. There was no time to ready himself. The oversized moon hanging heavy in the sky was already blood red, and a slither of blackness had started to blur its edge. The eclipse was beginning.
Hart picked up the weapon and quietly drew the bolt in and out. He dropped down into a one-legged kneeling position and eased the barrel of the weapon into the hole in the window. He could hear voices clearly below even though the wind gusted around him. Blinking through the telescopic sight, he saw Angelo Ricard. He was at the altar and carried a large knife. Something caught Ricard’s attention, and momentarily he stepped away from the altar. Suddenly the crosshairs of the telescopic sight picked up the body of a woman lying prostrate on the altar. With his eye still trained on the woman, Hart made a small adjustment to the sight’s magnification ring. His scope eye flicked erratically from side to side as he tried to detect evidence of blood on the woman. He couldn’t see any.
While Hart waited for Ricard to return, his finger slowly tightened on the trigger. He started reciting words to himself. ‘Demon, know the power and strength of Jesus Christ, who defeated Satan in the desert, overcame you in the garden and vanquished you on the cross.’ The words were taken up on the breeze into the cold night air.
* * *
Blake followed Ricard’s gaze up to the blood red moon looming menacingly through the window. An edge of darkness had already invaded the corner of the moon’s discus. Seeing that the eclipse had begun, Ricard focused back onto Blake. They locked eyes. Ricard’s face had transformed into a sneering stare, and his irises had turned unnaturally large and black. In that moment, Blake knew he was looking straight into the presence of pure evil.
Ricard stepped closer towards Blake, his lips turning back into a snarl. ‘First it will be your sister and then you, Dr Blake.’ His teeth snapped at the air, sending spit out from his mouth. ‘And
I can assure you, you are going to die screaming.’
Blake was up on his feet, fighting to get free of the handcuffs. ‘I’ll kill you Ricard, I swear it.’
‘It’s time Blake, it’s time.’
Ricard approached the altar and picked up the long knife. Grabbing a fistful of hair from the back of Rosalind’s head, he raised her up. Licking his lips, he traced an imaginary line across Rosalind’s ash-white neck with the tip of the blade.
* * *
The police sharpshooter positioned in the office building overlooking the church repeated his radio call into DCI Milton. This time there was weighted tension in every one of his words.
‘He has a rifle and he is aiming it into the church, over.’
‘Understood,’ said Milton into his handheld radio. The circuits of his brain were working at full capacity to assess the unfolding situation on the roof of the church. It must be the killer, he said over and over in his mind.
‘Requesting authority to proceed?’ said the police marksman.
DCI Milton swallowed hard, his hand gripping the steering wheel of the patrol car.
‘Sir, I need a decision now. Can I have your authority to take the shot?’
A single bead of sweat slid down the side of Milton’s face.
‘Sir?’
The DCI pressed the talk button and gave the command.
‘Take the shot.’
Chapter 61
The flat retort of a rifle shot sounded from the office buildings opposite the church. A bullet droned past Hart’s ear and slammed into the masonry two feet away from his head, sending sharp fragments of stone into his face. As he recoiled from the impact, the barrel of his gun scraped against the sides of the glass hole in the window. Two more shots rang out. This time, both found their target. The first blew a hole in Hart’s shoulder, sending out a crimson mist into the air; the second tore into his ribcage in an explosion of cracking bone. The windows behind him blew out in a supernova of glass splinters.
The Devil’s Architect: Book Two of the Dark Horizon Trilogy Page 23