Relics

by Shaun Hutson

  ‘Thirty minutes,’ said Kendall, checking his watch.

  Wallace nodded.

  They began to descend.

  It was 11:32.

  Sixty-Five

  The torch beam was swallowed up by the murky blackness, unable to penetrate the tenebrous depths for more than a few feet.

  Wallace finally switched it off, jamming it into his belt, leaving two hands free to grip the rope ladder. He shivered as he climbed down, the icy air searing his throat, filling his chest so that it was difficult to breathe. He moved with agonizing slowness, as if unable to coax any more speed out of his legs. Already he felt as if he’d run twenty miles. His muscles were throbbing with the effort of the climb although, he guessed, they couldn’t have been on the ladder more than a couple of minutes.

  Above him, moving just as cautiously, Kim and Buchanan clambered downward.

  The inspector gritted his teeth. Trying to push through the darkness was like fighting against a solid object. He grunted loudly, the sound bouncing back off the walls of the shaft. He pulled the torch from his belt and shone it down into the depths.

  The beam glinted off something metallic and he realized that they had almost reached the bottom.

  He tried to move quicker but the effort was beyond him.

  The air itself seemed thick and oppressive. Unclean, he thought.

  As he reached the bottom a particularly noxious odour reached him for the first time, a dank, cloying stench which seemed to float about like invisible tendrils, filling his nostrils and lungs until he thought he was going to be sick.

  Kim jumped down beside him. Then the two of them were joined by Buchanan who also coughed as he drew breath and smelled the rank scent.

  ‘What the hell is that?’ he croaked, dragging a handkerchief from his pocket to cover his face. But even the fabric couldn’t mask the fetor, such was its intensity.

  Wallace shone his torch over the floor of the shaft, the beam picking out many relics left behind by the archaeologists. Spears, swords, torcs, the odd piece of pottery.

  But there was something which didn’t belong.

  On the tall pointed stake which formed the centrepiece of the pit was a piece of fabric. Clean and new.

  Wallace pulled it free and turned it over in his palm.

  It was brushed cotton.

  The sort of fabric that might be used to make a child’s dressing gown or similar garment.

  Kim took the fragment from him, her hand shaking slightly.

  She said nothing, merely followed Wallace as he advanced towards the first tunnel entrance, his torch cutting a path through the blackness.

  The smell remained as strong as ever.

  They moved quickly, sure-footedly through the tunnel until they came to a fork.

  The two tunnels yawned like hungry mouths and Wallace exhaled deeply, his breath forming a white fog in the freezing air.

  ‘We should split up,’ said Kim.

  ‘No,’ Wallace whispered. ‘If the murderer is down here we’re better off together.’

  ‘But it could take all night to search these tunnels. We haven’t got all night,’ Kim reminded him, clutching the piece of fabric. ‘I know these tunnels. Let me search that one.’ She pointed to the stone corridor on the right.

  Wallace shook his head.

  ‘Buchanan. You search it. If you find anything, shout. If you hear me, then come running. Meet us back here in twenty minutes.’

  The young constable swallowed hard, his face, already drained of colour, looked sickly yellow in the reflected beam of the torch. He hesitated a moment, then nodded uncertainly and headed for the opening. Wallace watched as his torch beam slowly disappeared, consumed by the darkness.

  ‘Come on,’ he whispered to Kim, and they too pressed on, down the left-hand tunnel.

  Wallace had his right hand outstretched, feeling his way along the walls. He suddenly recoiled as his fingers slipped into something wet and slimy. The putrescent moss stuck to the policeman’s fingers like noxious porridge. The stench was unbelievable. They moved on, treading carefully now over piles of bones and more relics.

  There was another tunnel immediately to the left.

  An icy breeze was blowing from it, further lowering the already sub-zero temperatures in the tunnels. Wallace was convinced, anyway, that it must be below freezing. His hands and face felt numb and he only forced himself to continue walking by a supreme effort of will.

  He passed the tunnel entrance, the torch flickering as he reached the other side.

  ‘Shit,’ he murmured, shaking the light, cursing when the bulb failed completely, plunging them into total blackness.

  ‘Kim,’ he whispered. ‘Give me your torch.’

  No answer.

  ‘Kim.’

  The silence was as total as the gloom.

  He reached out a hand behind him, trying to touch her.

  His fingers clutched only empty air.

  The policeman banged his torch on the tunnel wall, and to his surprise it came back on, flooding the narrow stone passageway with light, momentarily driving back the dark. He turned and shone the torch behind him.

  Kim had gone.

  He was alone in the tunnel.

  It was then that he heard the sound ahead of him.

  Sixty-Six

  For interminable seconds Wallace froze, unsure of what to do.

  Should he go back and look for Kim?

  The muffled sound from ahead came again, distracting him once more.

  He frowned, trying to make out what the sound was. It was muted. A soft, almost asthmatic wheezing punctuated by low moans.

  ‘Kim,’ he whispered again, shining the torch into the secondary tunnel. She must have stepped down there. She’d told him she knew the network of underground walkways. Perhaps she knew a quicker route.

  But to where?

  The children?

  The murderer?

  Wallace shuddered and moved on, the sound ahead of him growing louder, then suddenly dying away. Only the silence remained. He paused again, his heart thudding just that little bit faster, then, gripping the heavy torch like a weapon, he moved on.

  Constable Mark Buchanan pressed himself close to the wall of the tunnel and advanced slowly, ears and eyes alert for the slightest sound or movement. Despite the numbing cold below ground he could feel a thin film of perspiration forming on his forehead. His breath was coming in short gasps even though he struggled to control it. The smell which had filled the tunnels from the outset seemed to be growing worse, if that was possible. Buchanan slowed his pace even more, also trying to breathe through his mouth to lessen the effect of the noxious air.

  He heard movement behind him.

  Buchanan turned quickly, shining the torch in the direction of the sound.

  The beam quivered from the shaking of his hand as he tried to pick out the source of the noise.

  The silence was thunderous, the rushing of blood in his ears like a tidal wave.

  He could see nothing.

  For what seemed an age he stood there, and then, very slowly, he moved on. Every few paces he would turn and point the torch over his shoulder. Just in case someone was following him. He tried to tell himself that his imagination was playing tricks but the thought did not ease his mind. Fear continued to grip him, steadily squeezing tighter.

  There was movement behind him again.

  This time he spun round in time to see some small rocks toppling from a ledge in the side of the tunnel. They fell to the ground with a sharp crack and Buchanan breathed a sigh of relief as he realized he must have dislodged them himself.

  Or had he?

  He still wasn’t completely satisfied with his own explanation. It did little to calm his already tattered nerves. However, it was all he had and he clung to it as a drowning man would cling to a piece of driftwood. He wanted to believe that the falling stones were all he’d heard if only his mind would let him.

  As he moved on he found that the tunnel was
beginning to curve to the left.

  He stopped and glanced over his shoulder again, then walked on.

  He heard another noise.

  This one came from ahead of him.

  An almost imperceptible mewling sound. A stealthy murmur.

  Buchanan frowned.

  The sound came again.

  He moved on.

  Whatever was making the noise, Wallace decided, was closer than he’d first thought. What he couldn’t figure out was why it was so muffled.

  He shone the torch ahead of him, watching as the beam bounced off the rough stonework. Bones crunched beneath his feet, causing him to wince. If anyone was up ahead, they would hear him coming. He stood still for a moment. Listening.

  The noise ahead continued. Low, beckoning.

  His flesh was crawling.

  The atmosphere inside the tunnel had also changed. Almost impossibly, it had become still more oppressive until he felt as if he were literally pushing against the darkness and the cold as he walked. They sucked the strength from him as surely as invisible parasites. But he fought it, battled the urge to lean back against the wall and rest. He forced himself to continue, the sound ahead acting as a guide.

  Or was it bait?

  Wallace suddenly had the uncomfortable feeling that he was walking into a trap, but he rapidly shook the thought away, more intent on finding the source of the strange sound.

  Beneath him he heard, and felt, a low rumble.

  The ground vibrated for long seconds and the policeman shot out a hand to steady himself, only to find that the walls of the tunnel were also shuddering slightly. Several fragments of stone fell from the tunnel roof and Wallace tried to shield his head as they rained down around him.

  ‘He struggled to retain his balance as the ground beneath him throbbed menacingly.

  The tremor stopped as suddenly as it had started.

  Wallace stood motionless, stunned by the unexpected event, waiting to see if there were any more earth movements. The tunnels were stable as far as he knew. There had been no mention of subsidence. But if the whole network should collapse . . .He let the thought trail off, not allowing himself to dwell on the idea of being buried beneath tons of rock and earth.

  He wondered where Kim and Buchanan had got to.

  They must have felt the tremor too.

  Perhaps both had left the labyrinthine tunnels at the threat of collapse.

  Perhaps they were waiting at the bottom of the shaft for him to emerge.

  Perhaps the killer had found them first.

  He swallowed hard and pressed on more cautiously, his torch beam picking out something ahead.

  The disembodied moaning sound came again, louder. Wallace realized that he was close to its source. Very close.

  He saw the stone slab.

  He saw the piles of skulls inside the chamber.

  He felt the cold breeze from another secondary tunnel, this time to his right, as he drew nearer the chamber, shining his torch inside, allowing the beam to move over the mounds of skulls.

  Wallace took a step inside. It was clear now that the muffled sound was within the chamber.

  He didn’t think to look over his shoulder.

  Had he done so, he would have seen the figure approaching him.

  Sixty-Seven

  PC Kendall rubbed his hands together in an effort to restore some warmth to the freezing extremities. He blew on them, but to little effect.

  The headlamps of the police car were still aimed at the entrance to the shaft, but he had heard nothing from Wallace and the others since they descended almost twenty minutes earlier. Leaning on the bonnet of the car, he glanced at his watch and shook his head, deciding that it would be warmer inside the car.

  As he slid into the driver’s seat the two-way crackled.

  ‘Unit three, come in,’ the metallic voice rasped and the constable frowned. It wasn’t Sergeant Dayton’s voice. The harsh tones belonged to Chief Inspector Macready.

  ‘Unit three, come in,’ the voice repeated.

  Kendall reached for the radio, his hand shaking slightly. He told himself it was because of the cold.

  ‘Unit three. Go ahead.’

  ‘Where the hell are you?’ Macready snapped.

  ‘I’m at the archaeological dig, sir . . . ’

  Macready cut him short.

  ‘Did Wallace order you there?’ he demanded, already knowing the answer.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  There was an angry silence, then Macready came on again.

  ‘Let me speak to Wallace. Quickly.’

  ‘He’s not with me, sir. He and PC Buchanan and a woman…’

  ‘What woman?’ the older man demanded.

  ‘She’s one of the archaeologists, I think. The three of them climbed down into the tunnels. The inspector said he knew where the missing children were.’

  ‘Jesus Christ’ snarled Macready, angrily. ‘Listen to me. Don’t move from there. I’ll be over as quickly as I can. Wallace has some explaining to do.’

  The radio went dead in his hand and Kendall replaced the handset. He groaned as he thought of Macready’s reaction. What the hell, thought the constable, he was only doing what he’d been told. If Wallace got his head chewed off that was tough shit. Kendall knew that he hadn’t done anything to merit a bollocking.

  He glanced down at the dashboard clock and checked it off against his own watch.

  11:51.

  He wondered if they’d found anything yet.

  Kendall was still wondering when he felt the ground begin to tremble.

  He sat bolt upright in the car, looking out of the windows as the vehicle slid back a foot or so, shaken from its stable position by the minor tremor.

  He heard an ominous rumbling which seemed to come from deep within the earth. The vibrations rapidly spread through the car until the whole vehicle seemed to be shuddering. The rumbling continued for no more than ten seconds, then ceased abruptly.

  Kendall didn’t move at first, Then, cautiously, he stepped out of the car, treading gently on the ground.

  There was no more movement.

  He sucked in a worried breath.

  What the hell was going on?

  Sixty-Eight

  A rough estimate indicated that there were up to three hundred skulls in the chamber. For long moments, Wallace stood looking at them, their sightless sockets seeming to stare back at him. Then he raised his torch, allowing the beam to trace a pattern over the walls, across the ancient writings which covered the stone.

  He never heard a sound from behind him.

  He only felt the hand as it closed on his shoulder.

  The inspector almost shouted aloud in fear, twisting around, pulling away from the hand, swinging the torch up like a club. He ducked down, ready to face the intruder, the heavy torch poised to strike.

  PC Buchanan seemed as startled as his superior.

  He stepped back, avoiding the impending swing of the torch, his face pale.

  ‘It’s me, guv,’ he gasped.

  Wallace let out a long breath and glared at the constable.

  ‘Sorry if I startled you,’ the constable said, apologetically.

  ‘Startled me?’ Wallace gasped. ‘I nearly had a fucking heart attack. Why the hell couldn’t you have warned me? Jesus.’

  ‘I didn’t find anything in that other tunnel,’ Buchanan explained. ‘But I heard a noise, like . . .well . . .like an animal. Like something trapped.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Wallace said. ‘It’s coming from in here.’ He motioned around the chamber, trying to locate the exact point from which the sound was emanating.

  ‘There,’ the inspector said, pointing to a place beneath a pile of skulls.

  The two men began removing them, throwing them aside in their haste.

  The sound grew louder.

  The last of the skulls was flung aside and Wallace saw that they had covered an oblong stone set into the ground.

  ‘Help me lift this,’ he said, di
gging his fingers under the rim.

  Both of them strained for a moment, then the stone slab began to lift with surprising ease, rising like the lid of a coffin until they pushed it back against the wall and peered down into the hole below.

  ‘My God,’ murmured Buchanan.

  Lying in the hole, which was roughly six feet long and four feet wide, were four children.

  Each one was tightly bound. Gags had been stuffed into their mouths. Wallace studied the faces, their eyes bulging wide in fear.

  Jonathan Ashton. Julie Craig. Carl Taylor.

  And Clare Nichols.

  The missing children.

  Wallace and Buchanan lifted the children from their tomb-like prison and laid them on the ground next to the hole. Clare and one of the boys were crying, making a soft, muted mewling sound.

  The two policemen untied the children, pulling the gags from their mouths. Immediately, Clare embraced the inspector, who kissed her on the cheek, pulling her close to him.

  ‘It’s all right now, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘All of you, it’s going to be all right. We’re policemen. We’re going to get you out of here.’ He felt another minor rumble from beneath them. His breath was now coming in gasps. ‘You’re going to leave now. I want you to go with the constable. Will you do that for me?’

  The children agreed in a pitiful chorus of whines and sobs.

  ‘Take them out now,’ Wallace said to the other man.

  ‘I’ve got to stay and find Kim.’

  Buchanan hesitated.

  ‘Go, for Christ’s sake,’ the inspector urged. There isn’t much time. This whole place could come down around our ears in a minute.’

  Buchanan, carrying Clare, nodded and gathered the other children around him. He felt one of them clutching the leg of his trousers as he tried to walk. He struggled on, out of the chamber.

  The constable caught only a glimpse of his attacker as the shape emerged from the blackness.

  He heard the air part as something heavy was swung at him, then suddenly he felt a bone-cracking impact against his right temple.