by G R Jordan
Havers had said everything would be okay, as the chopper had arrived in good time and Calandra had done a marvellous job of sealing up Austerley’s wound, stopping the rapid blood loss. Certainly the government man had been right about the cavalry arriving. From the moment that Eurofighter had passed overhead, it had seemed that Her Majesty’s Forces were viewing the island as the most important strategic location in the United Kingdom, surpassing even Buckingham Palace.
A Chinook helicopter had landed and taken Austerley, Calandra and himself off to the hospital on the mainland. They had rushed Kirkgordon into a room in the emergency ward where his arm had been assessed and promptly placed into a cast. Calandra had gone with Austerley who had been rushed into the operating theatre. Kirkgordon found her asleep on one of the metal benches, in the open air, just outside the waiting room. She didn’t feel the cold and it was stuffy inside, so he had curled up on the bench opposite and gone to sleep too.
When he awoke, Calandra brought Kirkgordon up to speed on the medical staff’s most recent report. All they would say was that Austerley had lost a lot of blood and they were doing everything possible. Smiles of sympathy were in full flow but no information followed.
“He’ll be okay,” said Calandra.
“Let’s hope so, eh.”
“Don’t beat yourself up. You saved him. You damn well saved him.”
“I tried to kill him. He might remember that.”
“He looked into the face of Dagon, Churchy. I’m just hoping he still has some semblance of a mind.”
“Thought you said he’d be all right?”
“Yeah, well, you gotta hope for the best.” She gave a tender but nervous smile and started to walk about in small circles. They varied in direction but she never got more than about five paces from Kirkgordon.
“Anything from Havers at all?”
“He called, looking for you, but as you were flat out I fielded it for you. Said he’ll be here soon. In fact, he was en route in a chopper when he called. Apparently there’s some tidying up to be done on the island, but he did say he had taken James to his mother. She’s good, well, as good as anyone could be after that freak show.”
“There’s bound to have been a few of the frog-men and fish-heads that got away. Havers will want all that tidied up. Surreal, all that stuff. Austerley played it so damn close. Clever though, he managed to take just about everything into that portal.”
“But you called it, Churchy. You said we would do it. You said that thing about Dagon toppling. You had faith.”
“I’m not so sure I did. Any word on Farthington?”
“None. I think he’s Havers’ number one priority. I really don’t get the change in him. He was always a typical dragon: gold, gold, gold. If it didn’t have money on it, he didn’t care. Maybe he was promised something.”
“Maybe, or maybe a master just pays well.”
Kirkgordon lay down again on the bench and soon drifted off. A combination of tiredness and painkillers were taking the edge off his usual alertness, and it took a good shake from Havers to bring him back out of the dream world.
“Mr Kirkgordon, how is the arm, sir? Damn fine job, damn fine job. Have you eaten? You’ll need to eat. On your feet and we’ll go down to the canteen for a bite.”
“Havers, easy man, just waking up. Anyway, Austerley’s still in theatre. Going to be here when he gets out.”
“That’ll be another hour minimum, so let’s get Miss Calandra and yourself fed.”
“An hour? How do you know?”
“You don’t think Mr Austerley has been entrusted solely to the services of this hospital? They’re good people, they work hard and deliver good care but they’re not so hot on the protection from hostile forces. My people are here and I am keeping a close eye on Mr Austerley’s progress.”
“Ah, whatever then. You owe me at least a coffee. More like steak dinner for twenty, actually!”
“Calandra, dear, join us. I’m going to take the hunger pangs off Mr Kirkgordon.” It was a standard hospital canteen, clean and bland in décor. The food, while not elaborate, was solid and wholesome. Having demolished haggis, neeps and tatties, Kirkgordon soon finished off a large bowl of spotted dick with ice cream. Due to the lack of a bar, his hankering for a beer was muted down to a fizzy apple drink.
“Were there many of them left, Havers?” asked Kirkgordon.
“We think up to twenty or thirty, but there’s a whole battalion of soldiers combing that island. We got most of them. Not quietly either, but with sub-machine guns. Totally different prospect than fighting hand to hand. I knew Calandra could handle herself but you did well too. Pretty decent with the bow. From about six years old, I believe.”
“Is there no level of research you don’t stoop to?”
“Frankly, Mr Kirkgordon, no. I don’t take risks and hence I rarely get caught out.” Havers’ mind drifted back to James. Rarely, he thought, but I would have been dead without the kid. Scarred him for life too, no doubt. Havers made a mental note to make sure the family was well looked after and to keep an eye on the kid as a potential recruit.
“What’s going to happen to the island? Are the locals going to settle back down again? That’s going to be damn hard.”
“No. They won’t.”
“Don’t blame them, not sure I’d want to go back.”
“Oh, some will want to. But they won’t be allowed to. That portal still has the potential to be exploited. So, as of an hour ago the island has become one of the new Scottish Danger Areas, suitable only for missile target practice. We’re going to blow that portal to smithereens and then dump so much rock on it Godzilla wouldn’t be able to make an exit. There’s a spiritual darkness there now that we can’t get rid of so easily.”
“Get a priest then,” laughed Calandra.
“What about you, Calandra? Where do you go from here? Back to Russia?” Kirkgordon inquired.
“Hardly. I showed my wings in the café, remember. FSB will want to talk to a woman who can do that, even an cold, old bird like me.”
“So what then?”
“Miss Calandra will be under my employ,” said Havers. “It’s not often I can bring in someone who knows the night so well.”
Kirkgordon raised his eyebrows at Cally. She dropped her head slightly then smiled. “It’s been invigorating, Churchy, why not? With no man to take care of me, I’d better take care of myself.” Kirkgordon smiled. He got the dig, gentle as it was. Different time, different circumstances, different era. He laughed to himself.
The three sat in silence with only the occasional message coming through on Havers’ phone. Kirkgordon kept mulling over the last few days but everything came back to him firing that arrow. He was able to get past the killing of the frog-men and fish-men, after all, they had been trying to kill him and plunge the world into eternal darkness. There was at least a decent self-defence plea to be made. But Austerley had been a colleague, if not a friend. Only good fortune, only the difficulty of the shot, had prevented his death. Kirkgordon had aimed to kill, and that was a feeling he had hoped to have buried along with his previous job.
“Mr Austerley has been taken from theatre and is recuperating in a side room. Let’s pop in,” said Havers.
Circling above him was that accursed dragon. And it had a foot in its mouth, dripping blood. The snow around him was a pinkish red, but the blood kept spreading to darken the outlying ground further. In the distance he could see Dagon, laughing wildly, with Calandra on his shoulders in a leather bikini and in chains. Then came the arrows. They came in from all directions, pinning him to the ground. Except the ground had changed into a board. Then suddenly above him was Kevin Bacon. A young Kevin Bacon. And a tune from a film he had watched in younger days. The actor was dancing, sliding at times to his knees. And the lyric that drove at his head. Everybody cut, everybody cut….
Waking with a start, Austerley’s eyes first fixed on Calandra. He just stared, disbelieving. Then he pulled himself up as
best he could to the head of the bed and started shouting.
“Is he here? Dagon, where’s Dagon? Is he here?”
“No, Mr Austerley, he’s gone. He’s just in your mind. Relax,” said Havers.
“Get her a blanket!” shouted Austerley, looking past Havers at Calandra. All three of his audience looked at him with puzzlement.
“It’s okay. I’m fine.”
“No, no, it’s him. At me again. You’re with him, trapped with him. Farthington. All Farthington.”
“Nurse!” shouted Kirkgordon. “Nurse, help required.” A nurse presently ran into the room and, singularly failing to calm Austerley down, resorted to sedating him.
“I fear it may be sometime before Mr Austerley is quite himself again.”
“He wasn’t too kosher in the first place,” said Kirkgordon. “It’s not too far back to his starting point.”
“The point is, Mr Kirkgordon, he’ll need constant attention, monitoring and protection. I can’t commit to that, no matter how valuable an asset he may be.”
“Hang on there, Havers. An asset, that’s what you see? The man was a happy camper in the loony bin until he got involved in this mess. Now look at him. You owe him. You owe him, big time.”
“Maybe, Mr Kirkgordon, but I haven’t the resources. Yes, the finances, but not the resources. For a man of such complex and dangerous tendencies, he’ll need someone special to protect him.”
“Don’t go there, I have a family to get back to.”
“You owe him too, Mr Kirkgordon, you did try to kill him.”
“On your instruction. No, no. There’s no way.” Not with hope blossoming with Alana.
“Fine, I’ll set him free. But when Farthington comes back and Mr Austerley’s body is in twenty pieces, you’ll not be able to live with yourself.”
“And you would, Havers. You damn well would.” Kirkgordon thought for a moment. “Havers, here’s the deal. I want an apartment, sea view, three bedrooms. I’ll look after Austerley part-time, fifty-fifty split. Two weeks on and two off. Your people cover my time off. And I’m on the payroll.”
“Naturally. A good compromise. Given all you have seen, if you didn’t join up, I’d have to kill you.”
“Don’t joke, Havers, just say yes.”
“Oh, it’s a yes. And, Mr Kirkgordon, when exactly was I joking? Although to be fair, I may have used one of my people to do the elimination.”
And he’s got me, right where he wanted, thought Kirkgordon. God, I hope you know what you’re doing.
THE END
II
The Darkness at Dillingham
The Drakness at Dillingham
Prologue
What the hell are they doing to her, thought Wilson. In all his experience, never had he seen such a transformation, such an impact on a person’s visage and such a draining of colour from someone’s cheeks. Many times he had read about weird and unusual things in his line of work but to see magic at first hand was totally different.
And magic it was, but not of the illusionist’s variety. No, this was old and deep, taught by dark forces in the bleakest of nights to desperate souls who had abandoned all science and all goodly gods. Clearing the island of those frog creatures had been nothing compared to this.
He glanced at his watch, making a mental note: 2 am. His boss liked detail so he knew this report was going to take a while. He’d be lucky to be in his bed by eight. Maybe nine. For six weeks he had been watching the place for the department but only this week had there been a slip-up. His cover story – a cleaner in the care home – had allowed him access to all the residents’ rooms and he had seen the little brooch by their beds.
The brooch was unremarkable, made from emerald but poor in quality. The fastenings had rusted and the clasp operated poorly. Framed by some false diamonds, the emerald had a small plaque above it with one word: “Huthnamac”. The common man would not have thought much about what meaning there was but Wilson was a graduate in older languages and had been trained to spot the out-of-place.
The first room he had seen the brooch in was Mr Melville’s. An austere gentleman from Derbyshire, slightly eccentric, he was in the home for his own comfort and protection. Life stressed him, and he constantly complained about the boys ruining the flowers. Of course, there were no boys and the flowers were flourishing quite well for the time of year. Despite his happy madness, Mr Melville was physically very well. At least he had been. The day after Wilson had seen the brooch, Mr Melville was dead.
Wilson had broken into the hospital to examine the body before the autopsy. Mr Melville was white but with a faded look, like cheap emulsion. The life had been drained from him. And yet, two days later, the autopsy report said he had died from natural causes. The coroner must be in on it, thought Wilson.
During his next cleaning round he had noticed the brooch again, in the room of Mrs Moor – vibrant, but once again quite mad. Wilson had notified his superior and prepared to stake out her room.
They had come for her at midnight when the home was in shut-down – doors locked and residents asleep. Watching closely, he saw them place her into a car. Mrs Moor was asleep, or more likely drugged, for she gave no resistance. He followed them up to the hill at the edge of town. There had been several people guarding the site, unseen to the untrained eye but for those in Wilson’s line of work they were quite obvious.
Mrs Moor had been taken up to the highest outlook of the bay, a place called “Gibbet Point”. Six people stood around her. She was sitting in a wheelchair. They laid hands upon her and chanted a language that even Wilson didn’t recognize.
The wind picked up and a chill blew right through him. Several crows took to the air and rabbits left their burrows, fleeing down the hill. As the chanting grew, Wilson watched Mrs Moor age drastically. Her skin lost its rosy glow and turned pale. Her hair greyed before his eyes. Lines spread out across her face and her neck tightened. With a start, her eyes flicked open and shrunk back into their sockets. Can I stop this, thought Wilson, removing his gun from its holster. Any firing will bring the lookouts. The boss wouldn’t be happy if Mrs Moor was saved but the protagonists managed to flee. The greater good, he always said. His boss was the finest he’d known in their line of work, but he was also a cold, hard bastard when he needed to be. A consummate professional, they called him. Sorry dear, thought Wilson, you’re going to be sacrificed for the greater good.
Something, some… substance, left Mrs Moor’s body. Wilson didn’t understand what he was seeing. It displaced the light around her, as if her outline had dropped out of focus. The substance continued upwards and coagulated above her head before racing towards a large metal cage at the lookout point. Then… nothing. Wilson looked back at Mrs Moor. She was drained of all colour. It was as if she had aged another twenty years.
Time to go, thought Wilson. He turned quietly, scanning for the poorly hidden guards. But there was a figure just five feet away. At least, he thought it was a figure. There was that same displacement of the light, like looking through watery eyes. This time, it had a shape. It was human and nearly seven feet tall. Was it wearing a tri-cornered hat? Wilson saw an arm pull something from its side. Then there was a slash with a blurred sword. Wilson threw his hands up to block the attack but felt the invisible blade cut into him.
With the dark setting in, Wilson’s last sight was a blurred, colourless face, almost transparent, but with eyes that burned with hunger and passion. And hatred. With his last act, Wilson reached inside his pocket, pressed a secret button, and murmured “Havers”.
Mind the Gap
Kirkgordon pulled his bow case from the top rack of the carriage and sat down briefly, waiting for the train to stop at the platform. Tired from an early start, he had taken three trains to arrive at Dillingham-on-sea, some six hundred miles from his starting point on the east coast of Scotland. What had possessed Havers to send Austerley all the way down here? At the last minute, too. Surely there were equally good care homes in Scotlan
d in which to prepare someone for a prosthetic foot? Especially as the work to fit the new appendage would take place in Glasgow. Madness!
With his bow case and small rucksack slung over either shoulder, Kirkgordon stepped off the train and took in the platform sheltered under a Victorian roof of corrugated form. There were few travellers about, no doubt something that would be remedied in the commuter rush of the evening. A small coffee cart stood at one side with a lacklustre teenager lounging behind it, fizzy pop in hand. Oh well, I’ll guess I’ll wait ’til the town for a decent cup, thought Kirkgordon.
Once clear of the station, Kirkgordon walked up a tree-lined road and stood at the summit of a small hill, looking down on the town by the bay that was to be his home for the next two weeks. At the shoreline there was a wide beach with the occasional walker enjoying the sunshine. There was a bottleneck of slow-moving cars leading into the town and a tight inner section of buildings with extremely narrow streets. Rising from the centre of this inner section was a church spire, and Kirkgordon resolved to see what time the services were on. Since the events on the island he had started seeking out a place to worship, a rekindling of his dormant faith.
The island. He shuddered at the recollection of the demon from the deep, not to mention the dragon who had ripped off Austerley’s foot. A pissed-off, three-headed dragon that was still on the loose. And trying to kill Austerley.
For the last two weeks, Kirkgordon had been staying with his estranged wife, Alana, trying to mend relationships with his family. In fairness, there had been a lot of love, even sexual love, but also a lot of resentment, nightmares and rage. Alana had tried to be compassionate but, in reality, he wasn’t ready to live with anyone full-time yet. And neither was Austerley. So for two weeks at a time, Kirkgordon had a babysitting job. Babysitting Austerley. Two weeks on, two weeks off. At least I don’t have to share with him this week, thought Kirkgordon. Normally, the odd couple shared a flat at the expense of their employer, SETAA, the Supernatural and Elder Threat Assessment Agency, a hushed-up government body.