Relics

by Shaun Hutson

  He sucked in a deep breath, surprised at how taxing the walk along the stone corridor was proving to be. His body felt heavy, as if weights had been attached to his legs, slowing him to a snail’s pace, preventing him reaching his goal.

  His torch beam dimmed momentarily but he banged the fight and it glowed more brightly again.

  Perry pressed on, knowing that he must be close to the chamber of skulls. Up ahead, dimly illuminated in the light of the torch, he saw the entrance. He immediately quickened his step although the feeling of heaviness was growing almost intolerably strong now. He gritted his teeth and forged ahead, the icy chill seeping into his flesh, into the bones themselves.

  George Perry was a fit man, but by the time he reached the chamber entrance he was puffing and panting as if he’d just run a marathon. He sagged against the stone portal, sucking in lungfuls of the stagnant air, waiting for his strength to return. After what seemed hours but was only minutes, he stepped inside and pulled his notebook from the pocket of his jacket. His torch beam played back and forth over the Celtic script which covered the walls of the chamber. He looked all around the small area but could see nothing that Cooper should want to protect. There didn’t seem to be any secrets worth hiding.

  Then he saw the words.

  A large portion of one wall had been cleaned by Cooper, exposing the ancient letters and symbols carved into the stone. Perry now moved closer, a frown already beginning to crease his forehead. He read the words to himself, faltering in places, but the gist of them came through. He went back to the beginning and started again, the full impact hitting him this time.

  ‘Jesus’ he exclaimed, his voice amplified by the subterranean tomb. It echoed off the walls and died away slowly to a low whisper.

  He spun round, listening to the soft, sibilant hiss, realizing after a second or two that it was his own voice he was hearing. Bouncing off the cold stone and reverberating around him.

  Jamming the torch into the crook of one arm, Perry began to scribble down what he saw on the walls before him. He wrote quickly, anxious to be out and away from this place. Simultaneously, he was frightened to go back through the tunnel, but he finished writing and pocketed his notepad. He read the words from the wall again, mouthing them silently this time, his skin prickling.

  He had wondered what Cooper had found in this underground tomb but nothing could have prepared him for this.

  Perry read the words once more, as if to reassure himself that he had got the sense of them right, then turned and hurried, almost fled, from the chamber. The notebook nestled safely in his pocket.

  He would re-read the words when he got home.

  Then he would decide what to do.

  Thirty-Four

  At first she thought she was dreaming.

  Kim heard the low whispering but merely sighed, rolled over and settled herself again, her eyelids growing heavier. Yes, that was it, she told herself, she was dreaming. She wasn’t really hearing the soft, but insistent, whispering. The sound continued and she finally sat upright, realizing that the noises she heard were not the product of her imagination. She could hear them clearly now, beyond the door of her own room, drifting through the darkness.

  The sound stopped for a few moments. Kim thought about sliding back beneath the covers, but then it began once more, slightly louder if anything. She swung herself out of bed, pulling on her dressing gown, now drawn irresistibly towards the low whispering.

  She paused at her bedroom door, listening, trying to detect the source of the sound. There didn’t seem to be any movement, only the noise. Low and conspiratorial, occasionally rising in volume, then dying away completely for a moment or two.

  Kim eased her door open, cursing as it creaked on its hinges.

  The whispering stopped.

  She took a step onto the landing, wishing that the light switch was beside her room instead of being on the far side of the landing. It was dark and she squinted hard in an effort to distinguish shapes in the gloom. She reached out with one hand and touched the balustrade, which felt icy cold. Kim took two more tentative steps forward, hoping that the floorboards wouldn’t creak beneath her, wondering why she felt so uneasy.

  She heard the hissing once more.

  Close to her.

  Her heart thudded harder against her ribs as she turned, realizing that the low whispering was coming from her daughter’s room.

  Kim crossed to the door and put one hand on the cold handle.

  ‘Clare,’ she called softly. ‘Are you awake?’

  No answer.

  The whispering stopped again.

  Kim hesitated a moment longer, then pushed the door open and stepped into the darkened room, her hand hovering over the light switch.

  She heard the sound once more and a slight frown creased her forehead as she realized that it was indeed Clare who was making it. Even in the gloom she could see her daughter’s lips moving as she mouthed the words. Whatever they were. The girl was obviously dreaming. She’d thrown her blankets off and lay completely uncovered. Kim stepped to the bed and pulled the blankets up around her once more, afraid that she might catch a chill.

  As she bent low over her daughter she heard the words which escaped her fluttering lips and she froze.

  They came only sporadically but a few of them were recognizable.

  Kim crouched beside the bed, looking at Clare’s face and listening.

  ‘Help me,’ the girl whispered. ‘Tune is coming . . . He is coming . . . Sa . . .’

  Kim listened more closely.

  ‘He knows . . . can’t stop . . . too late now . . . He’s coming...’

  The words trailed off as Clare rolled onto her side.

  For what seemed an age Kim remained crouched beside her daughter’s bed, waiting to see if the girl continued whispering, but she did not. After ten minutes, Kim got to her feet and padded towards her own room, taking one last look at her daughter before closing the door behind her.

  She climbed into bed, aware of how cold it had become inside the house.

  Her daughter had only been dreaming, she told herself. It was nothing to be alarmed about.

  But, for some reason, Kim found it difficult to drift off to sleep again. The hands of the alarm clock showed three a.m. by the time she fell into welcome oblivion.

  She was still asleep an hour later when Clare pushed open the bedroom door and looked in.

  The girl stood gazing almost mesmerized at her mother for a full five minutes, her eyes wide and staring. Then she turned and walked slowly back to her own room.

  However, she did not sleep again that night.

  Thirty-Five

  Dew lay over the ground like a gossamer sheet and dripped from the roadside bushes like liquid crystal. Spiders’ webs looked as if they’d been constructed from spun glass as they glistened in the first rays of dawn light.

  Mick Ferguson lit up a cigarette and sucked hard on it, coughing throatily before propelling a lump of mucus into the field behind him. He dug his hands into the pockets of his jacket and leant against the wooden fence behind him, his eyes darting up and down the road which led into Longfield, although he doubted there would be much traffic about at such an unholy hour of the morning. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was not yet six-thirty a.m. He’d already been waiting for fifteen minutes, freezing his balls off. Another five minutes and he was bloody well going.

  Now he saw the figure striding purposefully towards him, apparently oblivious to the early morning chill.

  Ferguson waited until the newcomer was within three or four yards of him, then hawked loudly and spat into the roadside grass.

  ‘About fucking time,’ he said. ‘I’ve been standing here like a right prick for the last twenty minutes.’

  ‘It’s not my fault you got here early,’ Henry Dexter told him, regarding the other man with ill-disguised contempt.

  ‘Have you got the money?’

  ‘If you’ve got the stuff.’

  ‘Yeah
, I’ve got it. You must have used quite a bit at your little party last night,’ Ferguson said, sarcastically. ‘You’ll have to invite me sometime.’

  Dexter didn’t answer. He followed the other man over to the van which was parked by a clump of leafless trees. Ferguson unlocked it and reached inside, pulling out two small bags. He held the heroin before Dexter.

  ‘Two hundred a bag,’ he announced.

  ‘That’s fifty more than last time,’ Dexter protested.

  ‘Where else are you going to get it?’ Ferguson snapped. ‘Now either pay up or piss off. I’m the one who runs the fucking risks. I’m the one who takes the chances. I have to pay the dealers I get it from. When they put their prices up, so do I.’ He chuckled. ‘Just put it down to inflation.’

  Dexter hesitated a moment then dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out a thick wad of notes. He counted out four hundred pounds in twenty-pound notes and pocketed the remainder, taking the heroin from Ferguson.

  ‘How pure is it?’ he asked, brandishing one of the bags before him.

  Ferguson shrugged.

  ‘I got it from a different dealer this time. I don’t know.’ He smiled. ‘You’ll just have to take a chance.’

  Dexter slipped the bags into his pocket.

  ‘What do you care, anyway?’ Ferguson asked. ‘You don’t use it yourself, do you? You only give it to the kids.’

  ‘That’s my business, Ferguson, I’ve told you before.’

  ‘I know that. It makes no difference to me what you do with it. But when the builders get around to flattening that wood where you hold your little parties, what are you going to do then? It looks like you might have to find something else to occupy your time.’ He chuckled.

  ‘I don’t know why you think it’s so funny. If I stop holding the ceremonies then those who attend will go elsewhere. You’ll lose business as well. It’s in both our interests to see that the wood stays untouched.’

  The two men locked stares for a moment, then Dexter turned and walked away.

  Ferguson stood by the van for a moment longer, watching him disappear around a bend in the road, before he started the engine, jammed the vehicle into gear and drove back into Longfield.

  Thirty-Six

  The light burning in the sitting room was a welcoming sight to John Kirkland as he swung his Metro into the short drive alongside his house. He clambered out of the vehicle and opened the garage door, making a mental note to oil the hinges as he heard them squealing. Then he walked back to the car, got in and drove into the dark garage.

  The dashboard clock showed 8:22 p.m.

  Kirkland switched off the engine and sat in the gloomy silence, stretching in his seat, feeling the stiffness in the muscles.

  Christ, what a day he’d had. Checking every single piece of machinery at the building site to ensure that there were no more accidents like those of the previous day. He and Frank King had been over every one of the vehicles with a fine-tooth comb but had found nothing out of the ordinary. No electrical or mechanical faults of any kind. Just as they had found nothing wrong with the bulldozer the day before to account for it starting up and tearing Bob Richardson’s hand off.

  They had found no apparent fault with the handbrake of the Scania, either, but it had still managed to roll down that incline and crush Mike Spencer to death.

  Kirkland rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and exhaled wearily. He was thankful that he hadn’t been the one chosen to tell Spencer’s wife what had happened. The constable who’d turned up at the scene of the accident had taken it upon himself to perform the task. All part of the job, thought Kirkland, clambering out of the car. He locked it and made his way to the door which led into the kitchen.

  His stomach rumbled loudly as the smell of food reached him.

  He winced for a moment as he stepped into the well-lit kitchen, the fluorescents presenting a glaring contrast to the darkness of the garage. As his eyes became accustomed to the brightness he noticed a couple of saucepans simmering on the stove. Steam was rising in a white cloud from the bubbling pans, creating a film of condensation on the windows and walls.

  On the worktop close by there was a half-finished glass of orange juice.

  Kirkland frowned and turned down the heat under the saucepans.

  ‘Jaqui,’ he called, wondering if his wife was on the phone in the hall. Yes, he decided that must be the answer. Why else would she leave the kitchen unattended so long while the meal was cooking?

  He wandered through to the sitting room, glancing at the television set. The sound was turned right down, but as he approached the hall he could hear no voices. No phone conversation.

  ‘Jaqui,’ he called again.

  No answer.

  Only the low murmurings from the television set.

  A thought struck him. One which should have been so obvious.

  One which sent him bounding up the stairs two at a time.

  He found her in the bedroom.

  She was lying on her back, one arm resting across her forehead, her skin as white as milk.

  Kirkland crossed to her, taking one of her hands in his, feeling the clamminess of her skin.

  ‘Jaqui,’ he whispered, watching as her eyes flickered open. ‘Are you all right, love?’

  She managed a smile, then nodded almost imperceptibly.

  ‘I felt faint,’ she said, answering his unasked question. She reached for the packet of Dextrosol tablets on the bedside table and popped one into her mouth. In moments Kirkland saw some of the colour coming back into her cheeks. She sat up and kissed him lightly on the lips.

  Jaqui Kirkland had been diabetic every since she was nine, and in the twenty years since that discovery she had been forced to inject herself with insulin twice every day. The problem had been well under control until she became pregnant. Now, six months after discovering that she was carrying a child, she had undergone a series of hypoglycaemic attacks due to the fluctuation of her blood sugar level. The doctors had warned her that the level would rise because of the pregnancy but none had told her of the discomfort she would experience when the level dropped. However, the Dextrosol seemed to work for her and so far she had only been admitted to hospital once in those six months. Only occasionally did she succumb to the full fury of an attack.

  ‘I left the saucepans on,’ she said apologetically.

  Kirkland brushed a strand of dark hair from her face.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘We’ve got our own Turkish bath in the kitchen but there’s no harm done.

  They both giggled.

  ‘I’m all right now, John,’ she assured him, trying to swing her legs off the bed, but he restrained her.

  ‘Stay here,’ Kirkland instructed. ‘You rest for a while. I’ll see to the dinner.’

  ‘I’m all right, honestly.’

  ‘Don’t argue with me, woman,’ he said with mock sternness. ‘Don’t you dare move off this bed until I get back. I’ve got to go and shut the garage door anyway.’

  She nodded and squeezed his hand as he got to his feet, turning towards the bedroom door. He made his way down the stairs, through the sitting room and into the kitchen. The steam had not yet dissipated, so Kirkland opened two of the kitchen windows, watching for a moment as the condensation was sucked out into the dark night.

  He fumbled in his trouser pocket for the key which would lock the garage door, then stepped into the gloom, closing the kitchen door behind him.

  There was a light switch close to his left hand and he flicked it on.

  Nothing happened.

  The garage remained in darkness.

  He muttered something about having to change the bulb, then walked cautiously towards the door which was still letting in some faint light from the streetlamps outside. He cracked his shin on the frame of a baby’s pushchair, an early present from Jaqui’s parents. Cursing the object, he rubbed his leg and hobbled the remaining few feet to the garage door. Once there he reached up and pulled i
t down, plunging the garage into impenetrable blackness. There was another light switch nearby and he tried that one too.

  For a split second the bulb flickered.

  In that instant of twilight Kirkland saw a dark shape close by his car.

  He stood still, his heart suddenly beating faster.

  The light flickered once more, then went out.

  Kirkland snapped the switch up and down frantically, and again the bulb burst into brief life.

  The dark shape was gone.

  He let out a long sigh and made his way back across the garage, careful to avoid the pushchair this time. He found himself putting out a hand to prevent himself tumbling over any other obstacle that might be blocking his path.

  Close by him, something moved.

  Kirkland spun round, trying to see in the gloom, screwing his eyes up in an effort to penetrate the darkness that surrounded him.

  He heard a metallic scraping sound, then a loud crash, the sound amplified by the silence inside the garage.

  For a moment he leant back against the car, his heart pounding. He fumbled in his pocket for his lighter and flicked it on, holding it high above him.

  He breathed an audible sigh of relief when he saw the rake lying a few feet away. It had been that which he’d dislodged, and its handle had struck some other garden tools which leaned against one wall and had toppled them like over-sized skittles.

  Kirkland closed the fighter, plunging himself back into the gloom. He was now almost to the door which led through to the kitchen.

  Strong hands closed suddenly round his throat, jerking upward so powerfully that he was momentarily lifted off his feet.

  Eyes bulging in their sockets, blind in the blackness, he could only flail his arms uselessly against his invisible attacker.

  Kirkland grunted helplessly as the incredibly powerful hands lifted him fully off the ground before hurling him towards the car.