by Rob Campbell
“Maybe,” Dylan replied cryptically. He looked at Monkey and then back to me, probably considering his next move. “Look, if you need help with something, I might be your man. I’ve told you before: don’t put all your trust in Lester Hawkstone.”
“Lorna, we need to tell him about what happened back there,” Monkey said, pointing back up the alley and out towards the crash site. I wasn’t close enough to jab an elbow in his ribs or stamp on his foot, but I was annoyed all the same. I gave him a harsh look. What did he think he was doing, spilling secrets to a stranger?
“Monkey—”
“Lorna, we need help with this. You know it, and I know it. Things are getting weird around here! He is the man in the long black coat.”
“Weird?” Dylan had the look of a cold man who’d stumbled across an open door to a warm house. His eyes were alive with a hunger, hunger for some nugget of information, and Monkey had now provided him with his way in.
Monkey proceeded to tell Dylan about our climb, the crash site and the burnt grass in the shape of a black heart. “What does it mean?” Monkey almost pleaded.
A look of solemnity crossed Dylan’s face. He paced in a slow circle before spying a low wall at the side of the alley and then slumped down onto it with a huge sigh. “I don’t have all the answers,” he admitted. “But this thing you say about the crash site: the black heart. And this Goofy, screaming before turning into a vegetable. I’ve heard about such things…” he said cryptically.
I stared open-mouthed at Monkey, both of us at a loss for words.
“You're probably asking yourself a hundred times a day: what's going on?” Dylan continued. “Why here? Why now? Is this all a coincidence, these things that keep happening…”
I found myself amazed at the accuracy with which Dylan described how I was feeling.
“I am asking myself those questions,” Monkey admitted. “So, this idea that there's a supernatural force at play – it's true, isn't it?”
Dylan gave him a long, hard stare. “I didn't say that. But… it’s complicated.”
“We know it’s complicated, Dylan. We just want answers,” I said.
“Things are going to get pretty weird around here,” he continued, ignoring my comment, “and if you can't understand what's happening or make sense of certain things that happen—”
“Like the vicar's letter?” I cut in.
“Like the crash site?” Monkey added
Dylan nodded. “That's exactly the kind of thing that I mean. Anyway, at least you are in a better position to understand it than most.”
At that moment, I felt an incredible sense of foreboding rise from my feet, through my legs and into the pit of my stomach. There were times where, despite evidence to the contrary, I’d comforted myself with the thought that maybe Lester and the Reverend were two crazy old men who’d invited us along for the ride. This mad chase for the pieces of heaven, trying to ensure that we kept The Frenchman and other objects out of the clutches of the Wardens of the Black Heart, had been a balm to soothe my emotions after my dad’s death. At some point, I had to decide whether this was all real.
But here was a man who seemed to be telling us that it was all real. That there were bad things happening and that things were about to get weirder!
“So, what is this all about?” I asked.
“I can't explain,” Dylan admitted, “but I intend to find out. It's what I've spent years training for.”
“Training?” I said incredulously. “Dylan, you’re not making any sense!”
“I can’t tell you more, at least not yet.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“A bit of both. At some point, you’re going to have to decide whether you’re with Lester or you’re prepared to share what you know with me. I can tell you’re holding something back, and I’m not prepared to reveal my darkest secrets to a pair of kids who I’m not sure I can trust.”
I looked away from him then, ashamed at what Monkey and I knew but hadn’t yet told him. Still, I was determined that we’d follow up on what we’d found out about Abram’s painting before deciding whether to throw our lot in with Dylan Fogg.
“Isn’t there anything more you can tell us?” I pleaded.
“Don’t trust Lester Hawkstone or anybody with snake tattoos.” He sounded flippant, but I wondered whether he was trying to get a reaction from us.
“Snake tattoo?” The bad feeling in my gut intensified.
“Yeah. One thing I’ve learned about the black hearts over the years. For some reason, they always have a tattoo of a snake somewhere on their body, like it’s a badge or something.”
“What kind of snake?”
“It’s just a snake. I don’t know what kind, but it’s wrapped around a cross.”
“Ramón Blanco,” Monkey and I both said at the same time.
Ramón had claimed that the tattoo was in tribute to his favourite band whilst growing up, but this was a coincidence too far.
“Anja! She might be in trouble!” I gasped.
Chapter 26
Charles Gooch was not a happy man. He stormed back to his apartment, his feet moving at twice their normal speed, irrational thoughts bouncing around his head at an even faster rate.
Who was the interloper in black? Seeing the Arkwright boy and his girlfriend in the alley had presented an opportunity to corner them unobserved, maybe extract some information. He sure as hell wasn’t getting any help from his contact, and the time had come to force the issue. Then that idiot in the black leather coat had turned up and, not for the first time, thrown his plans into chaos.
To make matters worse, Arkwright had teased him with some supposed message from the Bookkeeper. Not that he’d had much chance to press the matter further – the damn fool of a boy had barely mentioned the message when the mystery man had appeared, forcing Gooch to flee the scene.
He reached his apartment, cursing as he fumbled the key, dropping it on the tiled corridor, where it bounced once with a ping. He cursed a second time as he bent to retrieve it, this time sliding it into the lock with more care before finally opening his front door and reaching the sanctuary of his temporary home.
He pushed the door shut with his back and let out a heavy sigh. There was no denying it – the boy had him rattled. He hadn’t expected to get some cryptic message. What the hell could either Arkwright or that clown George Muldoon know about the Bookkeeper?
He tried to calm his breathing. Panicking wasn’t going to help him, but it was a hard train of thought to derail. Whenever the Bookkeeper reared his ugly head – and in his particular case, it was indeed a very ugly head – he didn’t normally bring good tidings with him. It was more akin to getting an unexpected visit from a tax inspector than it was having somebody from the lottery commission turning up on your doorstep.
Think, think. There must be some explanation!
And then it dawned on him: it was the Bookkeeper’s suggestion that Gooch come to Culverton Beck that had started all of this business. Of course! There was probably some link between the mission twenty years ago and what had come to the Wardens’ attention recently.
Gooch had vivid memories of the first time that he had met the Bookkeeper. It was just after his greatest triumph – the coup that had finally seen him welcomed into the Wardens’ inner sanctum.
--- Charles Gooch, 1986 ---
Gooch’s first impression of the new boardroom was that it was a cut above those that he was used to. The walnut finish of the table that dominated the room gleamed under the fluorescent strip lights that stretched across the ceiling. An expensive-looking drinks cabinet sat against the far wall, its glass door revealing it to be well-stocked with all manner of spirits. Several chairs were positioned around the table, the smell of real leather palpable in the air.
Most of the chairs were occupied by serious-looking men, a quick scan of their sombre faces suggesting that their ages ranged from early thirties to late seventies. Gooch closed the heavy door behind him an
d made his way to the table with minimal fuss. A young man in a grey suit turned his way, beady eyes tracking his progress. The man’s black hair was slicked back on his head, giving the impression that today was the day that he’d decided to use his entire remaining stock of styling gel. As Gooch took an empty seat, the man gave him a lop-sided half-smile before turning his attention to what looked like an accounts book that lay open on the desk in front of him.
“Gentlemen. Thank you for coming today,” Daniel Turnbull announced from the head of the table. He stood from his seat and smiled towards Gooch. “Before we get on with today's business, I’d like you to extend a warm welcome to a new member of the council of nine.”
All faces turned towards Gooch, and he felt his face flush a little at the sudden and undivided attention of everybody present. Despite Turnbull’s instruction, the looks on their faces didn’t exactly convey a welcome of any kind, let alone a warm one.
Turnbull moved around the room whilst continuing his speech. Gooch noticed that he’d picked up a newspaper from somewhere. “Some of you may have heard rumours about Mr Gooch’s recent mission to the Soviet Union. I’ve heard whispers of stolen military plans or some secret pact with a Russian politician. I’ve even heard it suggested that Mr Gooch was sent on a wild goose chase involving a series of lucky wooden Russian dolls!” That caused a couple of laughs.
Turnbull looked out across the table, running his fingers along the edge of the folded newspaper as he spoke, taking time to stare at each of the assembled members for a brief instant before settling his gaze back on Gooch. “Well, my friends, let me tell you this. Charles Gooch has achieved something that no other Warden has managed in over a century of our organisation!”
An excited murmur spread around the table.
“He not only managed to locate The Sun, but he then put it back into play. And this is the result!” He threw the newspaper down on the table.
The man sitting nearest the point where it landed picked the newspaper up and scanned the headlines. A look of shock crossed his face like an oil slick spreading through water. He looked up from the newspaper and stared at Gooch, his mouth in an ‘o’ shape.
“Chernobyl…” the man said incredulously, “that was you?”
Turnbull patted Gooch warmly on the shoulder before clapping his hands together. The man who’d picked up the newspaper slowly rose to his feet and joined in the applause. The applause rippled around the edge of the table like some invisible wave until a cacophony of noise reverberated around the room. The last to stand was the young man with too much hair gel. He favoured Gooch with a sickly smile before joining in the applause.
Gooch was the only man to remain seated. He felt a fierce glow of pride in his chest. All those missions that Turnbull had sent him on over the years had led to this point. Just for a moment, he almost felt that it might have been worth the sacrifice.
Almost.
When the noise began to subside, everybody took their seats.
“Charles Gooch has proved his worth and will be a valuable asset to the council,” Turnbull said. “Now, with the backslapping out of the way, we’ll get on with business.”
When he’d been invited here, Gooch hadn’t known what to expect. Turnbull had said that it would be a special day but had refused to elaborate. Now it seemed that Gooch would find out what really happened at these meetings of the Wardens’ council.
--- Charles Gooch, 18 months ago ---
Sitting here in this chair, the same chair that he’d sat in on that day over thirty years ago, when the other members of the council had risen to applaud his triumph, Gooch afforded himself a wry smile. He’d outlasted most of them – he was one of only four men who were in the room on that day. Some of the others had finally succumbed to old age, others were what Turnbull had described as missing in action: whereabouts unknown. A couple had been replaced over the years.
The turnover of regular Wardens was considerably higher. They must have a good supply of gold rings, he thought, idly twisting his own on the ring finger of his good hand, wondering whether somebody was responsible for melting down those of the Wardens who had died.
It was curious that apart from Turnbull, only he seemed impervious to the ravages of time. Other members of the council aged and died like any other man. Yet Gooch had not aged a day – not since he’d taken hold of the briefcase.
“Mr Boorman, please be so kind as to give your update on the search currently underway in Norway.”
Mr Boorman flipped the pages of his book, giving a bored sigh as he did so. His hair was grey now, and there was less of it, but what little remained was still slicked back with generous quantities of styling gel, much like it had been on that first day.
Gooch had never taken to Mr Boorman – or the Bookkeeper as he was generally known – and judging by his manner, the Bookkeeper wasn’t Gooch’s biggest fan either. It took a lot to unnerve Gooch, but the smell of that hair gel, the way the Bookkeeper turned the pages of his ledger, coupled with his rasping voice and sarcastic delivery, were usually enough to make Gooch feel that his day couldn’t get any worse.
The Bookkeeper ran his bony finger down one page before turning to the next and then repeating the process. The corner of his mouth was downturned in a sour expression throughout, an image not improved by the way he peered over the top of his spectacles as if struggling to make out the figures. “Johan de Wit hasn’t collected any worthwhile pieces since the turn of the year, and he hasn’t put any back in play for even longer.”
“Then we cut our losses?” one of the other men said.
The Bookkeeper’s response was to look at some figures on yet another page before shaking his head mournfully.
“Your suggestion?” Turnbull pressed.
The Bookkeeper removed his spectacles and gave a humourless laugh. “I just present the facts and figures. I don’t get involved in the consequences,” he said.
Gooch couldn’t help thinking that this was like loading a gun and handing it to the executioner. The Bookkeeper might not make the final decision, but the facts and figures in his book had almost certainly condemned this poor Johan de Wit, whoever he may be, to an early grave. At the very least, the damning report would have some influence on the decision.
It was one of the more surprising revelations of his time on the council. For a long time, he’d believed that his briefcase was unique and that Abernathy’s works of art were the sole prize that the Wardens of the Black Heart were shooting for. On several occasions, Turnbull had impressed on Gooch the importance of their primary mission, but the fact remained that there were quotas to fill around the world. Other Wardens might not be armed with his briefcase, but they had their own way of ‘processing’ lucky objects and turning fate against their own set of unwitting victims.
It seemed that just like coffee shops, burger joints and big tech companies, the business of manipulating fate was played out on a global scale. Having determined that the poor Mr de Wit wasn’t pulling his weight – a show of hands resulted in five votes to three, with one abstention – and lining up a replacement, the Wardens moved swiftly on to the next item on the agenda.
“Something has come to my attention. Something that we need to discuss urgently,” said Harry Winterhart. At forty-two, he was considered young to be on the council, but having made a name for himself here in England with a string of audacious manoeuvres involving a priceless collection of music memorabilia – four dead and twenty-five million pounds-worth of damage in the fires – he was widely tipped to be the next big thing.
Naturally, Gooch hated him.
“Go on, Harry,” Turnbull encouraged, taking a sip of coffee.
“Remember that spiritualist group in the Midlands?” Harry said, excitement lacing his words.
Not this again. But Gooch knew when to keep his thoughts to himself. There was a growing movement within the Wardens that placed considerable emphasis on communicating with the other side and placing a lot of stock in predictions
and prophecies. It wasn’t an area that Gooch specialised in.
“Turns out they managed to summon and trap a demon.”
There were gasps around the table.
“Using the Hardanger method?” Marco Rossini said incredulously. An Italian, he represented the Wardens in southern Europe.
“That’s right,” Harry confirmed. “Anyway, I’ll spare you the grisly details, but the point is, they got a message through.”
More gasps.
“The message is: the truth is in Culverton Beck,” Harry said, without waiting for any further encouragement to continue.
Whilst most of the members seated around the table began to babble excitedly, each turning to the man on their left and then right, Gooch noticed that the Bookkeeper had licked his thumb and forefinger – a disgusting habit – and was calmly turning the pages of his ledger.
Gooch kept one eye on the turning pages whilst listening in to the various conversations.
“The truth? Does he mean The Truth? The actual truth?” one man said.
“What is Culverton Beck? Is it a man or a place?” said another.
“It’s a place,” confirmed the Bookkeeper softly and with little fuss.
That stopped the various conversations stone dead.
“We dispatched one of our agents there twenty years ago after we got a report of some interesting channelling activity.”
“Who?” asked Turnbull, the calm voice of authority.
“Phil Duncan.”
“Phil Duncan? Who’s Phil Duncan?” said Harry, threatening to set off another round of unhelpful babble.
“One of ours,” Gooch said. He remembered Phil Duncan. A real Johnny-come-lately who had turned up thinking he had all the answers. Didn’t do him much good in the end.
“Whatever happened to Phil Duncan?” Harry asked.
“Disappeared on a mission to France six months later. Never seen again,” the Bookkeeper replied.