Relics Page 9

  She heard the sound of soft footfalls on the stairs and pulled the sheet tighter up around her face. The door of her bedroom opened a fraction, light from the landing spilling through the crack, and beyond it she saw a dark shadow.

  ‘Clare.’

  She recognized her mother’s voice but she didn’t relax. She kept the sheets pulled up and screwed tightly between her fists.

  ‘Are you asleep, darling?’ her mother asked, but she didn’t answer, and after a second or two the door closed again. The room was dark once more. Should she call out? Tell her mother about the nightmare? She decided not to and pulled the sheets up still more, wrapping them around her head until she resembled a nun, with only her face visible.

  Her eyes flickered again, and this time she could not fight the part of her mind which wanted sleep. As she drifted into oblivion she had one fleeting thought.

  Would the creature come for her again?

  And, if it did, would she see its face this time? The face which she felt she already knew . . .

  Twenty-Three

  The van was parked in the hedgerow with its lights off. So well hidden that Rob Hardy almost drove past it. He stepped on his brakes and brought the Vauxhall 1100 to a halt on the other side of the road. He switched off his lights and his engine.

  He turned to see Mick Ferguson clambering out of the van and heading across the road towards him. Hardy swung himself out from behind the wheel and greeted the other man.

  ‘You took your fucking time,’ Ferguson grunted. ‘I’ve been freezing my bollocks off in that van for the last twenty minutes.’

  Hardy shrugged.

  ‘Have you got them?’ the other man asked, smiling as he saw Hardy reach into the back of his car and grasp a well-secured sack which he dragged free. A chorus of squeals and whines came from inside and Ferguson looked at his companion approvingly. Then his eyes shifted back to the sack, which was twisting and writhing as if it were alive. The two men walked back across the deserted road, satisfied that no more traffic would come this way at such a late hour. It was well past one a.m. and they were more than three miles outside Longfield. No danger of any interference from the law this far out, Ferguson told himself.

  They reached the van and he fumbled in his pocket for the keys to unlock the two rear doors, blowing on his hands in an attempt to restore some of the circulation, his breath forming gossamer clouds before him. Hardy, still gripping the sack in one hand, climbed over the nearby fence into the field beyond and trudged about fifty yards through the slippery mud, pulling a torch from his belt. He directed the beam at the sack, watching its frenzied movements and listening to the cacophony of noise from inside which now seemed to be growing to a fever pitch. He jabbed it with his torch and chuckled.

  From the direction of the road he heard a loud bark, followed by Ferguson’s gruff voice, snarling a command for silence which went virtually unheeded. Hardy turned the torch towards his companion, feeling his own flesh rise into goose-pimples as he caught sight of the dog which Ferguson held securely on a chain as thick as his wrist.

  The albino pit bull terrier pulled against the strong links, restrained by a metal collar. The torch light reflected eerily in its pink eyes, turning them the colour of boiling blood. Its lips slid back over huge and savagely sharp teeth. It was the first time Hardy had seen the beast and he was suitably impressed.

  When Ferguson was about ten yards away he stopped, flicking off his own torch when the moon emerged from behind a bank of cloud, giving them all the natural light they needed. He held onto the chain with both hands, then nodded to his companion, who untied the sack and reached in, his hand protected by a thick gardening glove.

  From within he pulled a spitting, rasping tomcat. Like some malevolent magician, Hardy removed the creature from the sack, gripping it by the neck, ignoring its frenzied attempts to scratch him.

  ‘Now let’s see how good this dog really is,’ Ferguson said.

  Hardy hurled the cat towards him.

  No sooner had the cat hit the wet earth than the dog was upon it.

  Both men watched fascinated, as the terrier’s jaws grasped the bewildered cat’s right front leg and the dog pulled with all its strength. Most of the cat’s limb was torn off in the savage assault and the animal toppled over, blood spraying from the stump, its anger now transformed into terror and pain as the pit bull struck again. This time its teeth closed around the cat’s head. The steel-trap jaws crushed the helpless animal’s skull into pulp as the dog shook its head madly back and forth, ripping away half of the cat’s head. A sticky mass of blood and brain flooded from the massive bite and the terrier, apparently unconcerned that its victim was already dead, savaged the twitching body again, tearing the stomach wall open and ripping several knotted lengths of intestine free. Blood sprayed from them, some of it spattering Hardy, but he seemed barely aware of it. He merely reached into the sack and hauled out another cat.

  This one was scarcely more than a kitten and a terrier needed only one savage bite to all but tear the little animal in two.

  Ferguson chuckled as he watched the destruction which his mad beast wrought, keeping a firm grip on the chain as the dog tossed one half of the dead kitten into the air.

  Hardy needed both bands for the next occupant of the sack.

  While the terrier tore what remained of the kitten into blood-soaked confetti, he pulled a small labrador from the mèlée inside the hessian prison. The animal had its jaws firmly bound with strong tape. Hardy seized one end of the tape and tugged mightily. There was a sound like tearing paper as the sticky-backed binding came free, ripping tufts of hair from the dog’s muzzle with it. The animal yelped in pain and fear, barking loudly as Hardy kicked it hard in the side, pushing it towards the waiting terrier.

  The albino launched itself at the labrador and ripped off one ear with a single bite of its powerful jaws. The stricken dog howled and tried to bite its opponent, but this only seemed to inflame the albino more and it struck upwards at the labrador’s belly, its teeth shearing through fur and flesh until it reached the soft entrails. The stomach wall burst open and the terrier pulled several lengths of throbbing intestine free. Blood erupted from the hideous gash and the labrador fell forward onto its front legs, helpless now as the pit bull seized it by the throat, almost severing its head, so awesomely savage was the attack. The spurts of blood looked black in the moonlight and both men watched in awe as the albino, now drenched in the dark fluid, tore ferociously at the body of its newest victim. The smell of slaughter was strong in the air, mingling with the pungent stench of excrement.

  The terrier leapt and writhed amidst the carnage it had wrought, inflamed to the point of madness by the blood, until it was exhausted. Only then did Ferguson attempt to grab it by the back of the neck and secure its muzzle. The beast almost twisted from his grasp, its body was so slippery with blood, but he held onto its collar firmly and succeeded in fixing the restrainer over the deadly jaws.

  ‘I’ll get rid of these,’ said Hardy, prodding the remains of the dead pets with the toe of his shoe. He began lifting the tom remains back into the sack, blood soaking through the coarse material. ‘I’ll bury them somewhere.’

  Ferguson grunted his approval.

  ‘That’s a hell of a dog, Mick,’ Hardy said, looking at the blood-spattered albino terrier.

  ‘Yeah, that mad fucker’s going to make me a lot of money. If you’ve got any sense you’ll have something on him when he fights.’

  Hardy nodded.

  ‘Just remember, Rob, I don’t want anyone else to know about him, not yet,’ Ferguson reminded his companion. He turned and headed back towards his van, dragging the dog with him.

  The moon cast a weak, silvery light over the deserted landscape.

  The blood which covered the ground glistened blackly in the pale glow.

  Twenty-Four

  The rabbit was dying.

  It lay on its side with its eyes closed, only the barely perceptible movement of
its chest signalling that any life still remained.

  Kim watched it for a moment, then opened the cage door and lifted the animal out. It was limp in her arms, its head lolling back as if its neck had been broken. She gently drew back its eyelids, noticing how a membranous film was beginning to form over the usually glistening eyes, turning them opaque.

  Moving slowly, still holding the rabbit, she walked along the row of cages which housed some of the museum’s live subjects. During the summer months the animals were kept outside in a small annexe where they served as an attraction for the smaller children who visited the museum. There were a few more rabbits, some mice and two white rats. Kim noticed that the food trays in every cage were still full, the food untouched. There was an almost unnerving silence too. No squeaking or any other sound came from the animals.

  The other rabbits were also lying down. As Kim poked an index finger through the bars of the cage, they glanced helplessly at it, and when one tried to rise it found the effort too great and slumped over once more.

  Two of the mice were already dead. They lay in the straw at the bottom of the cage, their limbs stiffening.

  Stroking the rabbit she held, as if trying to coax some warmth and movement back into it, Kim gazed into the last cage. The female rat was carrying young. Its belly was bloated and swollen but the rest of its body was disproportionately thin, so much so that the bones which were now visible under its fur looked as if they would tear through. The male wandered aimlessly back and forth, ignoring the food that had been placed there for it.

  Kim watched the rodents for a moment longer and then returned the rabbit to its cage, laying it gently on its side, wondering how long it would take to die.

  She returned to her seat and sighed wearily, feeling strangely isolated within the museum. With Roger Kelly in hospital, she wondered if she should advertise for a replacement. The building had few enough visitors during the week but she couldn’t cope alone forever, and there was also the administrative side to deal with. Normally this was the province of Alec Blane, a retired headmaster who was nominally in charge of the museum. However, he was out of the country enjoying a holiday, so Kim was left alone. She considered her position for a moment, then returned to the work at hand.

  Spread out before her on the desk were two of the stone tablets, laid carefully on thick gauze to prevent them sustaining damage. Close by Kim had placed a bottle of diluted hydrochloric acid with which to remove any particularly stubborn pieces of debris from the small slabs of rock. She tapped her notebook with the end of her pen and studied the lettering, trying to make some sense of what she had already written down:

  WANDERER. THINKER. I AM SO. WITHOUT NEED OR WILL TO BE OF ANY TUATH. ONE OF THE AES DANA, MAN OF KNOWLEDGE LET ME PASS BY THESE YEARS QUICKLY. FOR TIME IS WHAT WE ALL SEEK. AND FREEDOM BUT THAT MAY NOT COME WITHOUT THE KNOWLEDGE. I AM FEARED. SON BORN OF SON BY AEDD MAWR. NONE MAY TOUCH ME. NOT PLEBES. NOT EQUITES. I AM FEARED FOR DAY THAT MUST COME

  Kim shook her head, weary from the effort of trying to transcribe what she saw on the tablets into something meaningful.

  Whoever had spent so much time creating these tablets, meticulously carving words so small that up to a hundred covered each slab of stone, obviously had been a learned man. One of the áes dana as he himself said – the wise men of the tribe. The Celts were insular people, making contact with other tribes usually only for two purposes: trade or war. And yet this man belonged to no tribe.

  ‘I am feared,’ Kim read aloud. The Druids were revered and respected by the Celts but not feared as far as she knew. They functioned as law-givers, judges and mediators. Why had this man been feared?

  FEARED FOR DAY THAT MUST COME.

  Kim sucked in a weary breath, noticing how cold it was in the room. She leant over and touched one of the radiators, recoiling sharply when she found it to be red hot.

  And yet the cold persisted.

  Puzzled, she got to her feet and walked across to the thermometer.

  The mercury was stuck at fifty-one degrees.

  Kim shuddered and tapped the instrument.

  As she watched, the silver thread which marked the temperature slid even lower on the scale and settled at forty-eight.

  She frowned in disbelief, then shrugged and returned to her seat. She glanced over the rest of her notes, blowing on her hands in an effort to restore some warmth.

  I CARRY WITH ME THAT WHICH NONE SPEAK OF YET ALL FEAR. WHEN COMES THE TIME THEY SEEK ME THOUGH I KNOW ONLY MY UNDERSTANDING IS WANTED. THEY KNOW NOTHING OF MY WAY BUT FEAR MY PRESENCE NOT KNOWING I AM THEIR ONLY HOPE. YET I ENJOY THE POWER FOR AS LONG AS I AM ITS MASTER. SHOULD HE EVER OVERCOME THESE LAWS THEN MY OWN DEATH WOULD BE THE FIRST. I AM THEIR HOPE AND THEIR FEAR AND THEY KNOW OF HIS DAY. FOR MANY YEARS IT HAS BEEN. FOR MANY YEARS IT WILL BE SO. AFTER ME IF NONE COME THEN MANY WILL FEAR AND MANY WILL DIE BY HIS HAND.

  A warrior? A king? Who was He? Kim wondered. She was assuming that the man who had engraved the stones was a Druid but whom did he speak of in the strange text? She wondered if the other slabs of rock would give the answers.

  Looking up at the clock, she saw that it was almost five-thirty. Time to close the museum. As she got to her feet and walked out into the main hallway it occurred to her that it might be wise to close the museum for a week or two, or at least until she found a replacement for Kelly. She went to the main doors and pulled them shut, then retrieved a large key from the pocket of her jeans and began to lock up. She would leave by a side exit, she decided.

  It was as she was turning the key that she heard the noise.

  At first she wondered if her ears were playing tricks on her, but then the noise came again.

  From above her there were sounds of movement.

  Kim realized that someone was still inside the building.

  She crossed to the bottom of the staircase which led up to the first floor and cupped one hand around her mouth.

  ‘I’ve got to lock the doors now,’ she called. ‘It’s five-thirty.’

  No answer.

  Obviously someone wandering around the galleries had lost track of time and did not realize that the place was closing, Kim told herself. She walked back over to the main entrance and unlocked it again, then returned to the staircase and made her way up about five or six steps.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said loudly, trying to attract the attention of whoever was up there. ‘I’m locking up now.’

  Silence.

  She thought about calling out again, but instead began climbing the stairs towards the first floor, her heels clicking noisily in the stillness. As she reached the first landing she spoke again but still there was no answer.

  Kim frowned. Surely whoever was up there must have heard her by now. She continued up the stairs, aware that the sounds of movement had stopped. Kim stood at the top of the steps and looked around her. Galleries lay in all directions from where she stood. Immediately ahead of her was the one which housed objects of local interest and some specimens of local wildlife and plants. She decided to look in there first. The floor was polished wood. The sound of her footsteps echoed loudly around the building, which seemed almost unnaturally quiet.

  Kim paused as she reached the entrance to the gallery, peering in to see if she could see anyone.

  A beautifully mounted badger gazed fixedly at her from one of the exhibit cases, and for a moment Kim caught sight of her reflection in its lifeless glass eyes. She moved into the gallery, treading a slow and measured path between the other specimen cases, her ears and eyes alert for the slightest sound or movement.

  She heard breathing and spun round, her heart thudding against her ribs.

  There was nothing to be seen.

  Dozens of sightless eyes bored into her as she stood looking around, wondering where the harsh breathing sound had come from.

  She heard it again, and this time a knot of fear began to settle uncomfortably in her stomach.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she called as she heard the soft hiss on
ce more.

  It took her only a second more to realize that the noise was not really breathing, it was the wind rushing through a ventilation duct in the wall.

  Kim let out a long, relieved breath, angry with herself for being so jumpy. Satisfied that she was alone in the gallery, she moved on. Perhaps her ears really had been playing tricks.

  A new sound came from somewhere up ahead, in the next gallery. Then again, louder.

  Kim froze, not sure whether she should continue. She stood listening for a moment, aware that someone was indeed moving about ahead of her. She considered calling out but swiftly decided against it.

  Moving much more slowly, she walked on, unconsciously clenching and unclenching her fists, feeling the moisture on the palms of her hands.

  She reached the entrance to the gallery and stopped, pausing a moment before taking a step inside.

  In the centre of the room was a large sculpture of a mother and baby, the features missing, the limbs long and curving in an abstract way. Although she had seen it countless times, Kim suddenly found it curiously menacing.

  She moved towards it, towards the middle of the gallery.

  The sculpture was a large, solid object about seven feet tall and three or four feet wide.

  Kim was only inches away when she realized that the sounds were coming from the other side of the object.

  For long seconds it was as if time had frozen. She tried to stop herself shaking, knowing that any second she was going to confront whoever was hiding behind the sculpture.

  They stepped in front of her.

  Two children. Little boys, no more than ten years old.

  They looked up at her in embarrassment, wondering why she hadn’t shouted at them, wondering why she looked more frightened than they were.

  ‘We weren’t trying to steal anything,’ the older of the two said. ‘We would have gone out of a window or something if you’d locked up.’