Ash (41 page)

Ash opened a window and listened, but all he could hear was the crashing of waves against the cliff below. It was a raging violent noise, but it was a thousand times better than the pitiful cries of the animals preyed upon by the intruding wildcats. That was something else that puzzled him: why were the wildcats drawn to Comraich? What had brought them to this source of ungodly malfeasance?

The fresh sea air, although wild and tangy, refreshed his face and he let the wind blow over him, reviving his whole body and sharpening his mind. For a few minutes he remained there, the powerful breeze gusting into the corridor as if to sweep it free of malign infection.

Reluctantly, he closed the window again and, as he turned to walk down the corridor, he thought he saw something move in the shadows at the far end. He blinked, looked again, then dug into his leather jacket for the Maglite torch and aimed its bright beam at the spot. His mind may have been playing tricks, but he was sure he’d seen a hooded figure scurrying into the shadows.

‘Hey!’ he called out, expecting no response and receiving none.

Ash began moving swiftly down the corridor. He called out again, louder this time. All he heard in return was the echo of his own voice and the soft scuffling of feet up ahead, as if someone were climbing the steps of the tower at the end of the passageway.

Panting a little, he reached the tower’s arched entrance and shone the light upwards.

The spiral staircase curled around a thick central shaft built of sizeable old-stone brickwork. He’d seen from outside that the towers had windows, so he presumed they also contained rooms and floors. Did the hooded figure inhabit one? More scuffling noises came to him, but the footsteps were slower now.

He called out again. ‘Can I talk to you? I mean you no harm.’ The faint sounds paused for a second, then resumed, fading as they went higher.

Ash had little choice but to follow, though he found the idea as appealing as venturing into a lion’s den. He began to ascend the well-worn wooden steps, taking them slowly, cautiously, nervously. From above he heard the sound of a door opening and then closing.

Almost immediately he came to a landing. There was a door off it, but he was sure it wasn’t the one he’d just heard being opened and closed. That sound had been soft, barely audible. Ash felt certain it had come from higher up.

His suspicions were confirmed when he heard more scuffling footsteps on the level above. Taking a mighty breath, he continued up the stairway. Round he went, his left shoulder scraping against the curving wall, aware that his haste was affecting his balance. Steadying himself by placing a hand on the central pillar, he held the Maglite in his left hand and proceeded more carefully.

Why had this hooded person fled from him? Ash had presented no danger. He’d merely called out, then followed. And why the strange garb? Another of the bishop’s acolytes, maybe? Whatever, it was an eerie costume to see in the dead of night, but although it was stereotypical of reported ghost sightings, he’d never actually witnessed one dressed like that himself.

Another noise interrupted his thoughts.

It sounded like someone, or something, falling.

And then a guttural noise. A stifled sob?

Ash mounted the last few stairs to the topmost landing. As he faced the closed door through which his quarry must have passed, a chill ran down his spine, despite the sweat-inducing chase. Perspiration had soaked his entire body – the sweat of fear as much as exhaustion. He felt clammy, shivery, shuddery, and although a numbing sensation affected his body, he knew it was all in his mind. His mind, and the mood within Comraich itself.

Grimacing, biting into his lower lip to bring conscious pain that would help restore his own reality, he strode towards the closed door and, without hesitation, turned the handle and pushed it open.

There was a feeble nightlight near the base of the room’s curved outer wall and in its glow Ash could make out the shapes of furniture – chairs, a sideboard, a free-standing cupboard, a table, a writing bureau and a bed. There were few other comforts.

A low snuffling noise brought his attention back to the bed and he was able to see a dark shape cowering beside it. He saw at the edge of his vision a light azure haze hovering over the crouching figure, so insubstantial that it was almost invisible and which vanished frustratingly whenever he tried to focus on it.

Ash realized that the Maglite in his hand was still pointing to the floor. He raised the torch and shone it directly at the quaking shape beside the bed. He moved the beam slowly, like a searchlight, afraid of what it might illuminate. His fear proved well founded when the cringing, brown-robed person lurched towards him.

Ash deliberately aimed the light full into the shaded cowl, and when he saw the face, the unremitting glare of the Maglite exposing all that had been hidden beneath the deep shadows of the hood, he felt his heart would stop.

Ash’s eyes widened. He wanted to exclaim in horror, but all he could do was stare, his mind unable to make sense of what was before him. The torch almost slipped from his hand, perhaps a psychological reaction to something he really didn’t want to see. He didn’t waver, though, the light shining deep into the dark cavern of the hood revealing every hideous detail of the face, of the
thing
, that could no longer hide from him.

But eventually the sight proved too much, and Ash staggered backwards, hitting the doorframe with his shoulder.

And then he froze as he registered the sound of pounding footsteps on the creaky wooden steps below.

Kate McCarrick and Gloria Standwell pulled up the collars of their topcoats as they stepped out of the restaurant into the dark, narrow London street. It was drizzling rain, but the restaurant thoughtfully provided umbrellas for its regular patrons. Thus protected from the fine mist of rain, they set off in search of a taxi.

Kate was reflecting on all that had been revealed to her over dinner that evening and, desperate to know more about the Inner Court, was the first to speak.

‘I understand how powerful this organization must be, but are they
directly
involved in politics?’

This brought a smile to Gloria’s face. ‘Oh, you’d better believe it.’

‘For example?’

Gloria hesitated once more, then shrugged her shoulders.

‘Do you remember back in the seventies, Kate, when you and I were just kids?’

‘Oh yes,’ Kate drawled, ‘I remember them well, Glo, but I don’t think we were much bothered about politics then.’

‘No, course not. But you remember Harold Wilson, the former prime minister?’

‘Vaguely, yes. Though more from what I’ve read since. He claimed MI5 tapped his phone, didn’t he?’

‘He did, and he was right.’

Although both women were huddled under the umbrella, they kept their voices low.

‘Did they really imagine he was working for the KGB?’ asked Kate.

They left the pavement to cross to the other side of the street. Kate noticed the reflection of the brilliantly white moon surrounded by silver-edged clouds reflected on the puddles. She wondered if it was as clear in Scotland, and whether David was looking at the same moon. As they reached the other side, with the drizzle beginning to ease, Gloria continued.

‘If you remember, the country was constantly racked by strikes. The powers behind the powers that be—’

‘Like the Inner Court?’

‘Precisely. They were ashamed and embarrassed that Britain was being called “the sick man of Europe”. We were slowly being stifled by the unions. Everywhere you looked, workers were on strike. Some union bosses were undoubtedly working for the Russians, and when the miners’ strike forced Ted Heath out, the country was entirely on the rocks, so to speak. People couldn’t get to work because of train strikes, the working week was cut to three days because we didn’t have enough power to keep industry going – oh boy, we were in a
total
mess.

‘Wilson won the 1974 election, but then other powers started to act. Wilson’s name was smeared by the right-wing press and those behind it. They wrote about his mental health – implied he was going doolally – alleged he was having an affair with his private secretary Marcia Falkender, and so on and so on.

‘What the press didn’t know, however, was that plans were being laid for a military coup. Lord Louis Mountbatten would lead it. All major ports and airports were to be seized, as well as the BBC studios. The Queen would urge the public to support the armed forces, because the government could no longer keep order.’

Kate stopped dead and turned to face Gloria. ‘I can’t believe it! A military coup in
Britain
?’

‘Seems impossible, doesn’t it? But I can assure you, Kate, it was all deadly serious. Those wielding the real power felt the country couldn’t be allowed to wither and die. And the Inner Court was in the thick of it, but on Britain’s side, thank God. If the population had really known what was going on at that time, well, I think probably civil war would have broken out. Yet it was all kept under cover, although there were inevitably rumours.’

They began walking again, heels clattering on the wet pavement. Gloria glanced at Kate. ‘I don’t think it would ever have happened,’ she soothed. ‘The British are not cut out for mutiny.’

Kate sifted through her memory. ‘What did happen to Wilson?’

‘Forced out of office and replaced by Jim Callaghan. The usual reason: “ill-health”, which actually did materialize later. He resigned in the same week as Princess Margaret announced her divorce from Lord Snowdon. The irony was that many suspected Wilson’s resignation was timed to deflect attention from the royal family’s embarrassment. In truth, the precise opposite was the case: Princess Margaret’s announcement was meant to take the spotlight off the country’s perilous situation.’

They had reached the end of the narrow street and, as they faced the busy main road Gloria said, ‘The point is, that episode helped the Inner Court gain even more power within the political system, because it helped instigate a perfect campaign against both socialism and trade unionism.’

‘I thought Margaret Thatcher was supposed to be responsible for saving the country from the unions.’

‘But who do you think was behind her?’

‘I don’t believe it. Thatcher would never work with an organization like the Inner Court.’

‘You must remember: this all happened very subtly. But the IC did make a huge mistake at first – it backed Edward Heath, the prime minister for a short time before Wilson.’

Kate could only smile in dismay yet again and shake her head.

But Gloria wasn’t to be deterred; in a way, telling her friend of the machinations of government and industry was cathartic for her. She’d kept these secrets for so long.

She continued, ‘The Inner Court knew about the idea of a European Community that was seriously being bandied about. In fact, they encouraged it.’

Kate laughed.

‘You see, they wanted Great Britain tied with Europe because it would be very advantageous for their businesses, especially the armaments trade. A union of European countries would be marvellous for their organization. So they first helped Heath become prime minister in 1970. He was a buffoon but a very useful buffoon. The only thing they couldn’t make him do was get married. Those were the days when homosexuality was still pretty unacceptable, particularly in politicians. But he was stubborn. So the rumour was started that he was asexual, though some of the young men and boys who crewed his yacht might say otherwise.’

A taxi came along, its for-hire beacon lit, but they let it pass. The conversation was too good to finish just yet.

‘So,’ continued Gloria, ‘he was persuaded by the idea of a unified Europe, but needed the lie that it was merely a trade organization rather than a political one. It was the IC that advised him always to refer to it as a “common market”, even though the Europeans preferred the term “community”, because the public wouldn’t then regard it as a threat to their country’s sovereignty. Later, in his retirement, Heath pompously stated that the people were stupid to think the alliance was
not
politically motivated. Anyway, he lost the Conservative leadership to Margaret Thatcher, someone who appeared to talk plainly and honestly.’

The rain had stopped and Kate let down the umbrella.

‘What about Thatcher? Was she also an Inner Court dupe?’

‘Good God, no!’ Now it was Gloria who was smiling. ‘Obviously, she knew of the organization’s existence and despised it. She would have nothing to do with its members and deeply resented our entry into the EU. The IC was aghast – here was somebody too strong to bend to their ways. She had become a liability, and they began plotting against her almost immediately.’

‘And Heath?’

‘He sulked right up to his death in 2005 as Thatcher led the party for the rest of his career in politics. Eventually though, after turning this ailing country of ours around, Thatcher was knifed in the back by her own party, in particular by Michael Heseltine, who wanted the premiership for himself and who struck the first blow.’

‘Did the Inner Court orchestrate her defeat by John Major, then?’

‘Not really. They were too busy getting Tony Blair into office. He was no more aware of it than Thatcher had been, of course, but he was an ideal candidate for them: so far right of centre that he might as well have been a Tory, a good worker – and networker – and with great stamina. The only problem was his wife, Cherie, a woman intensely disliked by some, and especially by the media. And, of course, he was very popular with the public. What the Inner Court would really have liked was for him to become president, first of Great Britain, then of Europe.’

‘But what about the Queen?’ asked Kate. ‘You can’t have a president
and
a monarchy, surely?’

‘The takeover would be done in a subtle way and would take a long time, almost so the British public wouldn’t understand it was happening. After all, most of those who voted to join the “Common Market” didn’t really understand what they were voting for.’