by Nick Marsh
‘Aktar!’ I leaned forwards to our friend. ‘Aktar! What do we do now? Could we slip and get Grace, whilst they are distracted?’
Aktar shook his head, quickly. ‘Not now. Too dangerous. A few more minutes, it is all we need.’
Before what? I wondered. I didn’t like the look of this one little bit. Neville shifted uncomfortably beside me. He had always hated ‘all that mumbo-jumbo nonsense’, as he calls it, refusing to even talk to the spiritualist I contacted after Lilly died. I wondered how he felt about finding himself at the centre of an occult ritual.
The frail old man – Selim Makryat, we now knew – stood, trembling with effort, and raised his arms. The crowd fell silent, expectant. I glanced at Aktar, and noticed he had begun to push himself slowly forwards through the throng. Even now, he was too far from me to whisper to, and I felt no desire to get any closer to Makryat or that damnable statue.
Makryat started to shout. The words meant nothing to me at the time but Milos has since told me what they meant.
‘I ask, by the powers of Sedefkar and the Skinless One, for the torment of the flesh to be endured by those corrupted by it!’
Another great cheer erupted from the crowd, as Makryat pulled a scroll from his robe, and slowly unfurled it. He opened his mouth to speak. Aktar, who had wormed his way to the front of the crowd, suddenly turned and pointed directly at the spot where Neville, Milos and I were standing.
‘Foreign spies!’ he cried in Turkish. ‘Intruders in the Mosque! Take them! Take them!’
I didn’t need to understand the actual words at the time to grasp their meaning. The cultists turned to us, gasping in shock. Someone pulled my hood down and angry voices screamed all around us. Before any of us knew what was happening, we were surrounded. I barely noticed. My eyes were on Aktar, who had taken full advantage of the momentary confusion. As the rest of the crowd turned, Aktar leapt forward, grabbing the scroll from the old man’s hands and pushing him to the floor. He stood in front of the stone block and recited the words of the scroll as we were grappled into submission. Slowly, the rest of the room began to realise what was happening at the front of the chamber, but by then it was too late. Aktar stepped back, until he was touching the block, and slowly, incredibly, the pieces of the statue materialised around him, encasing him as if he had donned a macabre suit of armour.
By now, the whole room watched in silence. Even Milos and Neville stopped struggling against our captors as we all stared at our treacherous former companion. Aktar’s head and limbs swelled obscenely, as his flesh began to grow around the edges of the statue that surrounded him. His face, wracked with agony and terror, seemed to flow over the impassive face of the Simulacrum, and his eyes bulged through the sockets of the ceramic head. The mouth opened in a soundless scream and then, suddenly, it was over. Aktar’s body snapped back to its normal proportions like a rubber band, and he grinned at the horrified crowd in front of him.
‘Do you not recognise your master’s son?’ Aktar asked. Blood dripped from his eyes and his mouth as he spoke, but he was smiling. ‘I have returned! Mehmet has returned! My father’s time is over. I am the Skinless One’s own hide, and His voice! You now belong to me.’
The crowd remained silent, and the only noise now was the sobbing of the old man, collapsed and shocked on the floor beside the man who had called himself Aktar.
‘Did you not hear?’ Mehmet said, wiping the blood from his mouth. ‘His time is over. Remove this imposter!’ He kicked the man where he lay. For a few moments more the crowd stood, shocked. Then they fell upon the ancient Selim Makryat, and tore him to pieces with their hands whilst his son watched, smiling.
Later
I have rather lost my train of thought. It became too dark to write in this wretched place, and spending a night here is not a pleasant experience. I’m almost pleased that we have very little time left, although it seems dreadfully unfair on Grace and Milos, who would have had so many more years.
Perhaps it is better this way. However painful, death in a few days is infinitely preferable to what lies ahead otherwise – as we discovered, to our horror, when we were brought here.
I stood, shocked and confused by Aktar’s... Mehmet’s, I suppose I should say... betrayal. The others put up more of a fight, but the cultists beat Milos into unconsciousness, and several swift blows to his head and injured leg soon took the spirit out of Neville. I scarcely remember the journey here. The three of us were bundled back the way we had come, and up into a tall tower – likely one of the minarets that stand at the corner of the mosque. We were dragged past sights which I do not wish to dwell upon.
They took us up several flights of stairs – four, I think, though my memories are hazy and disjointed. The last few levels were lined with stone rooms, something like monk’s cells, three on each floor. As we passed, pitiful moans, cries of pain, anger and frustration came from the doors. Several times, desperate faces appeared at the small windows cut into the thick wooden doors, clinging onto the bars and shouting obscenities, or pleading for death. Each of the figures that appeared was missing something – some had one eye, some only one ear, some bashed the stumps of their wrists on the bars. One poor wretch mewed pitifully from an eyeless, noseless face.
On the last floor, they opened the doors. Two men threw me into the first cell, and the unconscious body of Milos into a second. As the thugs opened the door of the third, I heard a woman’s voice call out from inside.
‘Colonel! Colonel, is that you?’
Neville lifted his bruised and groggy head as I rushed to the door.
‘Grace!’ we both called, together. One cultist bashed a stick of hard wood against the bars set in my door, and a second kicked Neville hard in his leg. He groaned and sank to his knees, and the cultists pushed him forwards into the cell. I just had time to see Grace catch him as he fell face-first to the muck-ridden floor, then the cultists slammed the door with a heavy boom. Without another word, they disappeared back down the stairs.
I stood at the door, my hands on the bars, and called to Grace. I had to see. I had to see what they had taken from her.
A few moments later, she appeared. Her eyes, her ears, her nose, her mouth – all intact. I think she looked more beautiful to me in that moment than anyone I could ever remember.
‘Mrs Sunderland!’ she called through the door. Tears streamed down her grimy face, leaving clear white streaks amidst the dirt. ‘I’m so glad to see you! I thought I was going to die here!’
I smiled, painfully aware that I was at the moment unable to reassure her on that front.
‘Is Milos with you?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘He’s in the third cell. I’m afraid he took quite a beating. But he’s strong. He should be all right. How is Neville?’
‘Fine,’ came a mumbled voice from behind Grace. ‘Never better.’
Grace turned and disappeared from view. ‘Don’t try to stand, Colonel,’ she said.
A clatter and a gentle thud signalled Neville’s obstinacy in the face of good advice. ‘Actually,’ he said after a moment, ‘I think I may just sit for a while. Have they gone?’
‘Yes,’ I said, eyeing the staircase. ‘For the moment.’
I let go of the bars and massaged my fingers, which were tingling and numb. I put it down to the frigid air in our lofty prison.
‘What happened to you, Grace?’ I asked.
She appeared once more at the door of her cell. ‘I can’t tell you much, I’m afraid, Mrs Sunderland. They... they dragged me through the night. I was terrified. They put something over my head. I could hear them all around me.’
‘Did they... did they do anything to you, dear?’ I asked, cautiously.
‘No, nothing like that,’ Grace said quickly. ‘They didn’t even ask me any questions – not in English, anyhow. We travelled for a long time, then I was dragged up some stairs, and thrown in here. I haven’t seen anyone since, except for when they throw scraps of food through the doors. They even
do it in the empty cells. I don’t think they pay much attention to what goes on in here. They never let anyone out.’
‘That explains the smell,’ Neville said.
Grace flushed. ‘I am sorry, Colonel. There’s nowhere else to-- ’
‘We understand, of course, don’t we Neville,’ I said, soothingly. ‘Don’t fret.’
‘What do they want from us?’ Grace asked. ‘Information?’
‘They already have what they want,’ Neville said, sourly. ‘Now they’re just keeping us alive.’
‘What for?’ Grace asked.
‘Never mind,’ I said quickly. ‘Where there’s life, there’s hope, eh?’
‘What happened to you?’ Grace asked. ‘How did you get here?’
I paused, and sighed. ‘We were betrayed. We believed a story that was spun to us. We were fools.’
‘We didn’t have a choice, Betty,’ Neville called. ‘Don’t be too harsh on yourself.’
‘What was all that business about, though,’ I said. ‘Why all that ‘Aktar’ nonsense. If he wanted us dead, why not just kill us?’
‘Distraction,’ Neville said. ‘That’s all. The bugger just wanted the crowd looking at us when he made his move to take over the cult.’
I thought about it.
‘That’s very convoluted, isn’t it? Wouldn’t there have been an easier way?’
Neville sighed. ‘I don’t know, Betty. Probably. You know these foreigners, love to overcomplicate things. Never get to the point. Just look at that eyetie chap, Machiavelli. They all love it.’
I opened my mouth to argue that there was a world of difference between the Italians and the Turks, but it was a well-trodden conversational path with Neville.
Absently, I rubbed my left leg, which had begun to cramp rather badly. I realised, as I did so, that my fingers were still tingling. When I thought about it, they had been tingling for some time; since before we had entered the mosque, in fact. I had put it down to excitement.
I turned, to look around the cell. It was a small cube of bleak stone. There was no furniture at all, not even a bed hanging from the wall. A tiny crescent-shaped window high on the wall allowed some light to illuminate the place, but not much.
‘They didn’t search us,’ I called out, suddenly realising I still had my diary. ‘They’ve left us with everything!’
‘Hmm,’ Neville said. ‘Not quite. They took my gun. Milos’s too, I imagine. But you’re right, I have everything else.’
‘We can escape!’ Grace said.
‘Hmm,’ Neville said again.
‘You must have something to get the door open!’ Grace said.
‘I don’t think so,’ Neville said, wearily. ‘Even if I did, what would it matter? There’s a room full of fanatics down there. I don’t think they’ll let us just sneak through the front door.’
‘Don’t be so defeatist, Neville,’ I snapped, but he had a point. I stared around the room, looking for something, anything that may help us.
And then I saw him.
A huddled, shrunken figure lay on the floor at the back of the cell. Half covered by a blanket, and totally covered with filth, the tiny shape was no bigger than a child.
‘There’s someone else in here!’ I called.
‘I haven’t heard anyone,’ Grace said. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure,’ I said, taking a step forwards, wondering as I did so what it was about the shape that disturbed me so much. I kneeled beside it, squinting in the darkness, attempting to make out the details. Eventually, I realised why the shape was so small. It was no child. I gasped in pity at the terrible sight before me.
The thing barely appeared human any more. Both the legs had been taken, as had both the arms, save for a short stump on the left. Thin, matted hair partially covered the balding head – a head with no eyes, and one ear. Underneath the crimson-stained blanket, I could make out the soiled remains of a tweed suit.
‘My God,’ I whispered, as I walked backwards into the cell door. At that moment, the poor torso-creature on the ground lifted its head, tears streaming down the from empty eye sockets. I screamed. The half-human thing turned its sightless head in my direction, and a tremulous, pain-filled voice emerged from it.
‘Mrs Sunderland?’ it said. ‘Is that you?’
My mouth gaped open in shock.
‘What’s going on?’ Neville called from the other cell. ‘Who is it? Who is there?’
The torso was waggling pathetically, attempting to crawl towards me. There was something familiar in the voice, something I recognised, but I could not connect it with the crippled creature before me. Pity overcame my revulsion, and I approached the weeping figure again. I helped it to prop itself up against the wall, wrapping the blanket around it to protect it from the cold. As I stared at the remains of the face, I finally noticed the long, unkempt, grey moustache. A moustache that, had it been more cared for, and on a face that was not shrunken and sagging with starvation, would have made the man appear something like a benign old walrus.
‘Good God in Heaven,’ I whispered, my soul shrivelling with the realisation. ‘Julius!’
* * * * *
It was, indeed, our old, dear friend – the man who had started this whole mad affair. Professor Julius Smith, mutilated almost beyond recognition, health and sanity failing. Nevertheless, he had recognised me, and latched on to my voice. A small bowl of water and some stale bread lay on the floor beside the entrance to my cell. Taking them, I gave them to the professor, helping him as he took a few sips of water, and swallowed a few crumbs. Already I could see it was hopeless. Lesser men would have died already from the insults that he had endured, and although the old Smith constitution had carried him this far, it was plain it could not carry him much further.
‘I thought I would never see... never hear anyone again,’ Julius said, gasping. ‘I have been here, alone, for so long. I had started to think my old life was a dream...’
My own eyes filled with tears at the awful state of my old friend. Neville and Grace were quiet, straining to hear the professor’s rasping voice in the darkness.
‘Julius,’ I said, sadly, trying to clean his face. ‘Julius, what have they done to you?’ I tried not to consider that a similar fate was likely waiting for all of us. The poor man was so weak, the water I gave him dribbled back out of his mouth and over his chin.
‘How did you get here?’ I asked, gently.
The professor frowned, his mouth gaping. He had very few teeth left. Whether the cult had taken them, or they had simply fallen out because of Julius’s dreadful state, I could not say.
‘I... I... so hard to remember. There was the lecture, wasn’t there? Was there one, or did I dream it? All so hard, so hard--’
‘There was a lecture,’ I said. ‘You were wonderful. You told us about the statue, remember. We found it, professor! We found it all, just like you asked.’
Julius frowned again.
‘I don’t remember... the Simulacrum. Asked you what? They asked me! They asked me about it, everything about it. They did terrible things!’
He cried out in terror, and his whole body shuddered. ‘Terrible things,’ he muttered again, like an afterthought. ‘They came to me after the lecture. The cult. They took me away!’
Something nagged at me as he spoke. Something that didn’t make sense. I stared at the man. It was undoubtedly our friend – haggard, worn, close to death, but our friend nevertheless. But something was wrong. I thought back to the last time I had seen him – in that small room in Cheapside, so very long ago. I thought of the dark room, Beddows’s nervous face, his hands wringing. The smell of burnt flesh.
I looked back at the man before me. The grey moustache. The moustache which had been burned away the last time I saw Professor Smith.
‘Julius,’ I said. ‘Do you remember the fire?’
Again, the frown.‘Fire? No fire. There was no fire. They took me! They took me!’
The professor collapsed in a fit of
coughing.
‘Betty,’ Neville called from the other room. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
‘I... I’m not sure,’ I said, slowly. The professor had lapsed once more into unconsciousness. I laid him as gently as I could against the wall. ‘He isn’t burned.’
‘Isn’t burned? You said he was in poor shape,’ Neville said, confused.
‘Yes,’ I said, looking at the sad figure. ‘He is. But, he isn’t burned! Neville,’ I said, standing up and looking through the bars, ‘his moustache is there! Don’t you remember? It was burned away. He hasn’t been in any fire!’
Neville appeared at the doorway, his face twisted with confusion. ‘What do you...?’ he said slowly, understanding dawning upon him as I spoke the words.
‘It wasn’t the professor that sent us on this insane quest! Julius said he was taken right after the lecture – before the fire!’
Grace appeared next to Neville at the narrow doorway. ‘Not the professor? But then... who?’
I thought back again to that puffy, blackened face, too ill to speak, croaking and gasping in the darkened room.
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ A groggy voice said from the third cell. Milos’s balaclava-clad head came into view at the bars. ‘You have been played from the start. Right from the start.’
‘I don’t...’ Neville said, slowly. The face in the bed filled my vision. Strangely familiar. I had seen that face somewhere, very recently.
Then, I realised where I knew that face from. The full extent of our gullibility and stupidity slowly began to sink into my weary soul.
‘Makryat,’ I whispered. ‘Mehmet Makryat.’
Milos nodded as I spoke. ‘I think so.’
‘But... but why?’ Grace said, confused. Neville sank from sight, too tired to stand any more. The rest of us were silent.
‘Why would he send us on a stupid chase across Europe when he could have got the statue himself?’