Alchemist (46 page)

Everyone stood watching. The thrusting increased until the Magister's body tightened and began juddering. He seemed to seize, suddenly, let out a long wail, then lay motionless, spent, on top of his female partner. It was as if they had become fused into one eight-limbed sculpture.

The bell rang again.

‘Hail Satan!' the assembly intoned.

The gong sounded.

The Magister withdrew and slowly stood upright, his penis
limp again now. The young woman lay staring upwards, expressionless. Daniel heard the cry of a baby again, and saw a female serpent's head holding a naked boy in her outstretched arms.

Daniel felt his hands being untied, and the cords were allowed to fall to the ground.

The Magister began to intone once more, his head raised towards the black ceiling: ‘Behold! saith Satan, I am a circle on whose hands stand the Twelve Kingdoms. Six are the seats of living breath, the rest are as sharp sickles, or the Horns of Death. Therein the creatures of Earth are and are not, except in mine own hands which sleep and shall rise!'

Someone held out an athame to Daniel. It was his own, he realized, which had been taken from him when he had been put in the van. The woman bearing the baby came forward into the circle, followed by another in a wolf's head who was carrying a silver chalice, and the Magister closed the circle with his sword behind them. Then all stood still.

The bell rang three times in rapid succession.

The female in the serpent mask held the baby out to Daniel. He stared into the mask, could see the eyes behind the slits, but could read nothing in their expression. The baby had blue eyes, a light fluff of hair, and was quiet now. Daniel could not tell its age – a few weeks, perhaps older.

He jumped, startled, as a firm hand took his wrist. It was the Magister. Slowly the Magister brought the point of the athame down towards the baby's chest.

Going to cut it
, Daniel thought, horrified. The wolf-headed woman held the chalice beneath the baby, as if to catch the blood.

He tried to resist, but the Magister's grip was firm and steady, pushing determinedly, closer and closer. The baby remained placid, even when the tip of the athame's blade dented the skin on the right-hand side of its chest.

The gong boomed, then boomed again, five times in succession. Then, as it boomed a sixth time, the Magister tightened his grip on Daniel's arm and pressed down hard, driving the blade deep into the baby's chest. Daniel gasped in reaction.

The baby's mouth opened as if it had been sprung by a lever. Its arms and legs shot outwards. Its eyes registered only mild surprise, as if it had been expecting a dummy, or food. Blood streamed like red ribbons either side of the blade and down the infant's bare chest. Some fell into the waiting chalice, some ran down its side, the remainder dripped on to the floor.

A cry turned to a gurgle, then silence.

The gong sounded.

Then the wolf-woman held up the chalice to Daniel.

‘Drink,' the Magister commanded.

In deep shock, Daniel pressed the metal rim to his lips, then tasted the warm, coppery blood. He swallowed, aware of dozens of eyes all watching him. He saw the Magister nodding approval.

‘Shemhamforash!' The gong sounded again.

‘Hail Satan!' the entire assembly chanted.

Daniel felt a sudden, strange surge of power within him. With it came an elation greater than anything he had ever experienced. The Magister nodded at him encouragingly. ‘Feel the power, Theutus? Do you feel it?'

The boy nodded. He felt as if he could fly.

‘Test it, Theutus. You have drunk the blood of power. You have all the power in the world. Test it with a command!'

Daniel thought hard, lowered his eyes, then raised them again towards the Magister and spoke in a voice so loud and strong it startled him: ‘O, Lord Satan! I command you to take away from my mother the ability to put her hands together in prayer!'

The gong sounded again. Daniel felt the force of his words carried with it, far beyond the walls of the temple.

Monday 21 November, 1994

Monty stayed motionless in the kitchen, the knife gripped in her hand, listening to every sound, watching every shadow through the windows.

Finally, she heard the sound of a car approaching fast, then the slam of its doors. Moments later she saw the beam of a flashlight out in the garden; but it was not until she heard the reassuring crackle of a two-way radio that she began to relax.

There were two policemen; one remained outside, the other searched the house with her, starting upstairs with her bedroom. He opened the large Victorian wardrobe, checked the inside, then locked it again. Raindrops dripped from the peak of his cap all the time and rolled down his heavy blue coat. His name, he had told Monty, was P. C. Brangwyn.

‘You're quite sure you didn't leave the front door locked and go out via the kitchen today, madam?'

‘I'm quite sure I wouldn't have jammed a piece of wire in the front door lock if I had.' She managed a smile. ‘I'm not Houdini.'

He looked back at her thoughtfully, the joke eluding him. ‘It's a common technique for professional burglars, locking the front door to prevent themselves being surprised and leaving an exit open for a quick getaway – in your case the kitchen.'

He nodded towards her dressing table, neatly tidied by Alice, and asked, ‘Nothing missing?'

‘Not that I can immediately see.'

The radio fizzed and crackled just then and a truncated voice said: ‘Charley-Victor-ove –' followed by a rasp of static.

Constable Brangwyn nodded an apology at her and pressed a switch on his radio: ‘Attending at Foxholes Cottage. On the scene now. Over.'

‘Thank you Charley-Victor.'

P. C. Brangwyn looked at Monty again. ‘You may have disturbed them before they had a chance to take anything.'

The remark brought her fear swirling back.

‘Do you have a routine? Always leave for work and arrive home at the same time?'

‘It's changed during the past few months – I used to work in Reading, now I commute almost every day to London.'

‘What time do you get home?'

‘Normally between eight and nine.'

‘And tonight?'

She stiffened. ‘Earlier – about half past six.'

He nodded. ‘That could explain it. You didn't notice any unfamiliar vehicles along here or parked on the main road recently?'

‘No.'

‘Perhaps you ought to have a word with the Crime Prevention Officer some time – if you ring the main Reading station they'll put you through. Being as isolated as this, your house is very vulnerable.'

‘It's only a little cottage – I wouldn't have thought it was of much interest to burglars.'

He gave her a long, searching look. ‘It might only be a cottage to you, madam, but compared to what some people live in it's a palace.'

She smiled wistfully. ‘Yes, I'm sorry, I suppose you're right.'

The drawing room smelled of fresh polish from Alice's administrations and nothing was disturbed. Then Monty suddenly noticed her rubber plant over in the far corner, by the window. It had been flourishing for the past couple of years, and had grown to over four feet. Now it looked dead; its leaves were brown and curled at the edges, and the stem seemed to be buckling.

Her eyes shot to her poinsettia, which had been in bloom yesterday. But the flower had browned and withered and the plant looked a goner. Startled, she looked at her palm and her aspidistra. The same story.

‘Problem?' the policeman said, sensing her consternation.

‘My plants – I noticed the dead flowers in the kitchen and it's the same here.' She pointed at them. ‘They were fine yesterday.'

He walked over to the poinsettia, pulled off his leather glove and dabbed the earth with his finger. ‘Bone dry.'

‘That's impossible! I watered it yesterday.'

He went over to the palm and knelt, digging his fingers into the pot, then raising a pinch of earth. ‘Dry as sand – I'm a bit of a gardener myself – these haven't been watered for weeks – months, more like it.' He reassured her. ‘Easy to forget these things when you're busy.'

She went over and touched the earth herself. He was right. She darted over to each plant in turn; the soil was bone dry.

Am I cracking up?
she wondered.

P. C. Brangwyn's colleague came in, holding his dripping hat in his hand. ‘No footprints or anything,' he announced.

Brangwyn removed his own hat, held it dutifully by his side, and spoke to Monty in a new, stiffly formal tone, with his eyes constantly moving as if he were addressing not just her but an entire roomful. As he was mid-delivery, the cats re-appeared and circled his ankles warily. Monty watched them, still puzzling over their earlier behaviour.

‘We'll put a call out to all patrols asking them to keep a close eye on your property tonight. You'd best be vigilant, keep your doors locked at all times and an eye out for strangers. If you see any unfamiliar cars down the lane take their number and give us a call.'

‘Yes, thank you.'

She stood at the front door, watching them turn around then drive off down the track. As the tail lights disappeared, she felt very vulnerable and closed the front door, sliding the safety chain firmly home. The cats stood and watched her expectantly.

‘What's the matter with you two?' she said, kneeling and stroking them. ‘Did someone give you a fright?'

She checked to see that the kitchen door was properly locked, turned the central heating up, switched on the porch light, then hurried round drawing the curtains in each room.

When she had done that, she gave her plants a drenching in the hope of reviving them, then laid and lit a fire in the living room. She felt dirty, as if she and the house had been violated, and badly wanted a bath or a shower, but there wasn't time.

She had been planning to casserole the chicken in the Aga, but now she would have to rush and use the microwave; less traditional, but too bad.

Two minutes past eight. Conor would be here any moment, and she hadn't changed, or put on any make-up. She dashed upstairs, hoping the traffic would delay him, and in her rush to get prepared momentarily forgot her anxiety.

She stripped off, splashed on some Issey Miyake cologne, pulled on a black pullover that she knew flattered her figure, her best jeans and her suede boots, shovelled her hands through her hair, then ran back downstairs to the kitchen.

Should they eat in here or the dining room, she wondered. Light a couple of candles and the dining room could be romantic. Maybe too romantic, she worried, not wanting the American to think this was some kind of deliberate seduction scene. They would eat in the kitchen, she decided.

She checked the microwave, but the windowpane rattled in a gust and she turned, nervously feeling a draught like cold breath on her neck, and saw the closed blinds shifting from side to side. She looked at the chopper, which she had left out on the draining board for reassurance, then walked over to the Aga and held her hands over the chromium-lidded hot plate, grateful for the warmth. It was still unaccountably cold in here.

Perhaps she was going down with flu, she thought, parting the blinds and peering into the darkness. Was someone out there now, biding their time? Intruders. Burglars who hadn't taken anything. That was becoming a familiar story lately.

She remembered Zandra Wollerton telling her about
her
break-in. Nothing had been taken then, either, except a pair of cotton panties from her wash box. So far Monty had not actually counted her knickers.

She also remembered, involuntarily, Hubert Wentworth's words that first time he had come to see her here. He'd been telling her about his son-in-law's break-in on the day of Sarah Johnson's funeral.

You see, there's something else curious: on the afternoon of Sarah's funeral, her home was burgled, ransacked. Alan could find nothing missing at all … Burglars are normally after consumer
goods, jewellery, silverware, cash. These ignored all that. Possibly they were disturbed, but it seems strange that they found time to riffle through the medicine cabinet in the bathroom
.

Caroline Kingsley's home had also been ransacked, and the burglars had riffled through her medical cabinet …

Outside Monty heard the sound of a car pulling up. She went into the living room and peered through the curtains. Relief surged through her as she saw Conor Molloy walking uncertainly down the path to the front door, his coat collar turned up against the rain.

Don't look too keen
, she told herself.
Don't seem too anxious
. She waited until she heard the doorbell, then hung on a few seconds after that before walking through to the hall.

But the moment she saw him all her defences crashed. He had removed his tie and his soft white shirt was open at the neck. Two licks of hair were plastered down his forehead and his face was largely obscured by a bottle of wine and large bouquet of flowers.

Before she knew what she was doing, as he stepped in the door, she flung her arms around his neck and held him tight, tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘Thank God,' she murmured, clinging to him as if he were driftwood. Rain lashed in but she barely noticed, feeling the stubble of his cold wet cheek against her face and the reassurance of his arms around her, squeezing her gently.

‘Hey!' he said. ‘That's some greeting!'

His grip slackened and she stepped back, closing the door behind him. ‘God, I've been scared,' she said.

His forehead creased into a frown as he saw her distress. ‘What's up – what's happened?'

By way of answer, she led him through to the living room and despite her agitation she noticed him relishing the chintz surroundings. If he observed the dead plants he didn't show it.

He looked at Monty with concern, asking again, ‘So tell me what scared you?'