The Express Diaries

by Nick Marsh

  ‘Indeed they do,’ said a deep voice from the darkness. ‘But I have learned a few tricks from them in my time.’

  A tall man with a closely trimmed black beard stepped out of the shadows. He wore a small cap and a dark waistcoat over his shirt, and his face was lined and grave. Milos pulled a revolver from his pocket and pointed it at the man’s forehead, whilst Neville wielded a pick.

  ‘As you can see,’ I said, as politely as I could, rubbing my poor shoulder, ‘we are hardly in the mood for surprises, sir. Why don’t you tell us who you are and exactly what is happening?’

  The man raised his arms. ‘My name is Aktar,’ he said. ‘I need your help. And you, I think, need mine also.’ He glanced down the hill. The lights were much closer now, and we could hear shouted voices on the wind.

  ‘Who are they?’ Milos asked.

  ‘The police. I called them before I came here myself.’

  ‘Why?’ Neville asked. ‘How did you know what was happening here?’

  ‘Because I was one of them,’ the man replied.

  ‘A member of the Brothers of the Skin?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Aktar nodded. ‘But no longer. There is little time to explain. I called the authorities because I did not wish to tackle the cult alone. I hoped it would scare them away. It appears to have worked.’

  ‘Then why don’t we just wait for them?’ Milos asked, his voice heavy with suspicion. The pistol was still aimed squarely at Aktar.

  ‘You are grave robbing, are you not?’ Aktar said. ‘I’m sure you can bribe your way out of it, but by then it will be too late. Surely you wish to retrieve the statue?’

  ‘Damn the statue,’ Milos said. ‘They have Grace.’

  ‘We want them both back,’ I said. At the mention of Grace, Aktar’s face fell.

  ‘They have taken your friend?’ he said. ‘Then we have even less time. Come with me, now!’

  ‘What do they want with her?’ I asked. ‘She doesn’t know anything! They have the statue already.’

  Aktar looked at me sadly, and said one word, a word that sent a chill down my spine.

  ‘Parts,’ he muttered.

  The wind whistled over the hill as we stood in silence. The voices were drawing near to our position now.

  ‘Please,’ Aktar said. ‘If I had wanted you dead, I could have simply stood and watched. I knew enough to call off their beast, but not enough to destroy it. We must move, now!’

  I looked at Neville.

  ‘Chap’s got a point,’ he said. ‘Don’t like trusting foreigners, but I don’t think we’ve got much choice here.’

  ‘You know where they have taken Grace?’ Milos said. Aktar nodded. Milos slowly lowered the pistol, and nodded to me. ‘He’s right. We have no choice.’

  Aktar led us down the hillside, towards the Bosphorus. Behind us, the lights converged on the grave of the scholar, and we heard shocked shouts and cries.

  ‘Hurry, hurry,’ Aktar muttered as we ran down the hill. He took us through a break in the cemetery wall concealed by a large fallen cypress, and within minutes we stood on a small sandy cove. A narrow rickety rowboat was tied to a thick pole buried in the sand.

  ‘Quickly,’ he said. ‘You must help me row.’

  We clambered into the small boat, and I am ashamed to admit that the combination of the chill night air, the shock of the attack, the near-asphyxiation and the frantic escape conspired against me. I can remember nothing more until I awoke, several hours later, in a tiny, dishevelled room, where Aktar was offering us some of the hot, sweet tea.

  For once, I was very grateful to accept it.

  * * * * *

  I was too tired to write more – although weary may be a better word. I am so weary of this whole business. But Aktar warns us that the time soon approaches, and I must try to finish the story, in case it is our last.

  Aktar let us sleep until dawn. Milos refused to rest at first, saying that he would guard us, still mistrusting the man, but it was quite clear neither he nor I would get much further without repose. Surprisingly, Neville didn’t seem very tired at all, and agreed to keep watch over the pair of us. Aktar told us there was nothing that we could do until the following evening anyway, and it would be better to be well rested for then.

  In the morning, he brought us bread and sweet cakes from a nearby bakery, which we devoured hungrily, whilst he told us his own tale of the Brothers of the Skin.

  Aktar claims that he was a spy for the police, and had worked for many years in and around the city. Several years ago, as their power began to grow, he infiltrated the Brothers to try and discover the cult’s secrets, and its plans.

  Over time, he discovered a little of both – he learned that the cult was looking for a statue, and that, thanks to an eminent British academic, they were close to finding it. He never uncovered what the ultimate plan for the Simulacrum was, but having, as he says ‘seen some terrible sights’ (which he refuses to elaborate on), he realised that there was more to the Brothers than a bunch of thugs playing at the occult.

  They have powers, so he claims, over skin, and over bodies. They are able to perform surgeries and prolong their own lives using the bodies of others. It is likely that this is why they took Grace. Their leader, Selim Makryat, is old and feeble now, and requires a constant supply of fresh flesh simply to stay alive. Aktar has, he says, learned some of the cult’s ‘tricks’. Enough to save us from the beast at the mausoleum, anyway.

  Once, we would have all laughed at such a wild tale, but we have seen much in the last month, more than any of us would have wanted.

  Aktar was trying to learn more about the Simulacrum when he was discovered, and his cover blown. Instead of coming after him, they broke into his home, and took his daughter. His only child.

  Aktar’s voice stayed steady as he talked of this, but his face grew dark. Exhausting his contacts, his friends, and his money, he searched for her all through the city. Despairing and distraught, he eventually tracked her down.

  ‘What they did to her...’ he said, staring at the floor. ‘A girl of ten. Things had been... taken from her.’

  He stopped for a moment, biting his lip. When he continued, blood trickled down his chin.

  ‘You may say I was cruel. This is not so. I was kind.’

  His eyes met mine.

  ‘I killed her.’

  Afterwards, Aktar fled the city, hiding out in a gypsy camp with some old friends, but he kept his ear to the ground, longing for revenge against the cult that had taken everything from him. Three days ago, he learned that Beylab the Perspirer was being forced into their service in order to lay some kind of elaborate trap in the graveyard, but he did not know who, or what for. Deciding that any enemy of the Brothers was a friend of his, he came to the graveyard to rescue us.

  Milos became agitated during Aktar’s story. When he had finished, Milos stood.

  ‘Where did they take your daughter? We have to get Grace. We have to get her now.’

  ‘I can show you,’ Aktar said. ‘But we must wait for nightfall. It is too dangerous.’

  ‘No!’ Milos said. ‘We must go now!’

  ‘Milos--’ I said.

  ‘Now, Mrs Sunderland!’ Milos shouted, turning to me. Tears filled the corners of his eyes. ‘She is there, now! They... they may be...’ He lowered his head as he spoke, his voice breaking. Neville stood, and laid a hand on his shoulder awkwardly.

  ‘Steady on, old man,’ he said. ‘We’ll get her back. But Aktar is right. No sense getting ourselves killed, is there? It wouldn’t help her.’

  I hadn’t realised quite how taken Milos was with Grace. We must get her back. We simply must. We have lost too much.

  My arm is getting tired again. My whole body aches. Well, not aches, exactly, but I feel... strange. Like I’m missing something, a part of myself. I remember what the duke said, about what happens to people who have been in possession of the Simulacrum for too long and then lose it. Exactly how long is too long, I wonder? He told us
years... but he told us lots of things.

  None of us entirely trust Aktar, mostly, I think, because none of us will entirely trust anyone at this point, but his story made sense and the pain in his eyes when he spoke of his daughter was very real. It doesn’t matter anyway – we have no other leads, and no other choices. As he pointed out to us, if he wanted us dead, then he has had ample opportunities to do the deed. If he wants us for some other purpose... well, we are too tired and too heartsick to try and uncover it. He doesn’t seem the Machiavellian type to me.

  Tonight, Aktar will take us to the cult’s stronghold, the Shunned Mosque, via a secret passage that he is certain will not be guarded. There, he believes we will find Grace, and the Simulacrum. I am not as regular a churchgoer as I once was, but if the Lord is with us at all, he won’t allow any harm to befall such an innocent as Grace. Neville and I have discussed the possibility that she may be in a similar state to that which Aktar’s daughter was when he found her. He has assured me that he will do anything that may be necessary. Quite how we will handle Milos in such an event, I don’t know.

  Diary of Mrs Betty Sunderland, Tuesday, 24th November 1925

  They have left me my diary. They have left us with everything. Why not? There seems little that we can do other than wait. Wait to die. I may as well write, although the others tell me there isn’t any point. At least it will feel like something is finished - other than us, of course.

  A weak joke, for a dark place. I apologise for the state of my handwriting (although no one will ever read this) but the light is poor, my eyes are old and the cramps grow worse by the hour. I do not think it will be long now. Better get on with it.

  That night, Aktar led us through darkened, narrow streets with rough cobbles and refuse rotting in the open air. Dogs roamed at night, and dark shapes lurked in alleyways, but our destination was darker still. We came to a stone staircase that led down into blackness, and far, far below we could hear water lapping against stone.

  He told us we were approaching... I cannot remember the name. An ancient Byzantine cistern, built to provide water for the fountains in the streets above. It was as black as... well, as one might expect an underground water chamber in the middle of the night to be. Dark, murky water reflected our torchlight. The steps continued straight down into the pool, but a small rowboat was tied to a rusty metal ring on the wall. Aktar climbed in, and gestured for us all to follow.

  It was an eerie, surreal journey as the boat glided silently through the still water. Around us, fluted columns emerged and joined in huge archways high above us. No one spoke. We huddled together in the chill air as Aktar rowed us towards the other end of the great chamber. We approached a high, moss-covered wall, and as the boat gently bumped into it, Aktar stood and pushed his long, thin dagger into an almost invisible crack. Gradually, he levered out a two-foot door of stone with a slight grating noise that made us all wince. He tied the boat to the open door.

  ‘Through there?’ I asked, nervously. Aktar nodded.

  ‘How much further must we go?’ I said.

  Aktar turned to face me. ‘To Hell, my friends,’ he said.

  ‘Bloody melodramatic foreigner,’ Neville muttered as Aktar slithered into the dark passage. Milos did his best to hold the boat steady as first I and then Neville followed our new friend as he crawled down the narrow, slimy passageway. After perhaps twenty yards we reached a rusted iron grate, and Aktar turned to me, his face pale.

  ‘Here... we are now at the basement of the mosque.’ He pointed at my torch. ‘Turn those off. We will not need them. And we must be silent!’

  I nodded and switched off my torch, turning to tell Neville and Milos to do the same whilst Aktar heaved the grate outwards, grunting with effort. It moved slowly, the metal squealing awfully against the stone, and for one terrified moment I thought the whole thing was going to crash to the floor, but instead it swung to the side as the door to the passage had, and Aktar caught it before it bashed into the stone wall.

  Slowly, and as quietly as we could considering Neville’s gammy leg, we lowered ourselves into a darkened chamber.

  ‘We are below the main dome of the mosque,’ Aktar whispered to us, pointing upwards. Faint blue light filtered through small cracks and apertures in the ceiling. ‘Noise will carry, so please try to be silent.’

  ‘What is that God-awful smell?’ Neville said in a stage whisper that made me thump him on the arm, but he was right. The air in the stone room was thick with a cloying scent that made me think of an abattoir.

  ‘It smells like rancid fat,’ I said.

  ‘The vats,’ Aktar muttered quietly, as he turned to the door, and we decided not to pry any further.

  Aktar opened the door, peering out into the room beyond. Apparently satisfied, he gestured for us to follow, and led us through a narrow room lined with crudely chiselled shelves, which were jammed with scrolls, books, and bottles. A wide set of stairs at the other end of the room climbed upwards into the mosque proper, and at the top of the stairs we could see the silhouetted form of a man in a heavy robe. Aktar held his hand out for us to stop, turning to us.

  ‘We must get past, but we must be silent,’ he said, grimly. We all looked at each other.

  It was Milos who dealt with the man. I didn’t watch, but stared at the wall, thinking of Violet, Alphonse, Grace, and the dreadfully burned body of Professor Smith. Soon, Milos returned from the stairs, wiping his knife. I hadn’t heard a thing, and I didn’t look at the crumpled heap in the corner as we sneaked past it into another small, cold room, this one filled with sealed earthenware jars. A closed wooden door stood directly opposite us, and through it we could hear murmuring, mutterings, and the general hubbub that a large group of people make.

  ‘What now?’ Neville whispered to Aktar. ‘It sounds like there’s a hundred of them out there! We can’t possibly--’

  Aktar raised his hand. ‘They will not be looking for us. They think we are dead. And they will be... occupied. Remember they have the Simulacrum now. I think they are making ready for it.’

  ‘Making ready?’ I asked. ‘Ready for what?’

  Milos handed me a long red robe. He must have taken it from the man from the top of the stairs. ‘Mrs Sunderland. I think you should wear this. The rest of us perhaps blend in more easily, but you...’

  I failed to see how a retired colonel from Twickenham would blend into a secret cult meeting any more easily than a middle-aged Yorkshirewoman, but I took the robe nevertheless, trying to ignore the crimson wet stain on the back. I slipped it over my head, and raised the heavy hood.

  ‘All right,’ I said, turning to Aktar. ‘Do you know where we are going?’

  ‘Yes,’ Aktar muttered. ‘Oh yes, I do.’

  He turned the handle of the door, and quietly pulled it open. The same blue glow that we had seen from below filled the room, and the sounds of the crowd grew louder.

  ‘Just follow my lead,’ Aktar whispered, as he slipped through the open door. I took a deep breath, and followed him.

  I emerged into a wide, tall room, with cracked tiles covering the floor, and flaking, crumbling pillars, perhaps once ornate but now in an appalling state of disrepair. The hood restricted my vision, but to my right I could see what appeared to be an entrance hall. An identical door to the one I had just stepped out of stood closed on the other side of the room, perhaps thirty feet away. To my left, the room opened out into a vast hall, lined with pillars and statues. A great dome of rusted iron and cracked marble covered the centre of the chamber, and a large block of stone, somewhat like a tall altar or lectern, had been placed directly beneath it.

  The hall was filled with a large gathering of people, some in robes, some in tattered clothing. Many of them were chattering nervously to each other, and many more were staring at the stone in the centre of the chamber. There must have been three hundred of them, none of whom paid any attention to Aktar or myself as we entered.

  There was an air of tense expectation throughout the
crowd. Something important was clearly about to occur, and I was reminded strangely of midnight mass back in Harrogate.

  Milos and Neville entered the chamber nervously, as I had done. Aktar began to walk casually forwards, mingling with the crowd, approaching the centre of the chamber. Not knowing what else to do, and terrified of giving myself away, I followed.

  As we drew closer to the altar, I saw that it was made of some strange greenish soapstone, taller than a man. Six long, narrow niches had been carved into it, arranged like a five-pointed star, with a central vertical spoke that was somewhat wider and flatter than the others.

  ‘Where is he going?’ Neville whispered urgently in my ear. ‘Aren’t we supposed to be finding Grace?’

  ‘He doesn’t want to appear suspicious,’ I whispered back. ‘Perhaps it would look peculiar if--’

  One of the crowd, a young man with dark hair dressed in tattered clothes, looked at me sharply as I spoke, a puzzled frown on his face. My heart skipped a beat as he stared at my robe, peering at me as if trying to see under my hood. He opened his mouth, as if to ask me something, but at that moment the crowd began murmuring in awe, as six figures in red robes emerged from a small antechamber at one side of the tall stone block. The man turned to see, and the crowd pushed forwards until Aktar, Neville, Milos and myself were caught right in the centre of it.

  The six figures each carried a small bundle wrapped in a blanket, which they raised in front of the crowd to shouts of delight and encouragement. One by one, they unwrapped the bundles revealing the objects we had trekked so far and lost so much to obtain – the six pieces of the Sedefkar Simulacrum. In turn, they placed the limbs into the niches of the stone block, which I now realised were not arranged in a star formation, but as a facsimile of the human form.

  The last piece to be placed was the torso, in the centre of the stone block. Four more hooded figures emerged from the antechamber, carrying between them a tall wooden chair. Perched upon it, his dark eyes glittering in triumph, was the ancient old man that we had encountered in the graveyard. The crowd cheered, wild and excited as the four cultists set the chair down in front of the block containing the Simulacrum.