Ash (57 page)

‘Don’t stop there, Andrew,’ Ash urged. ‘What happened to the baby?’

The manager straightened his shoulders as if bracing himself to continue the shaming story.

‘We think it was stillborn. She was found in her cell later when food was brought to her. Apparently she’d bitten through the umbilical cord to separate the baby boy from her own body. It looks as though she liked the taste, and went on to eat the child’s placenta. But that isn’t the worst of it. When they were found, great bites had been torn from the infant’s legs and abdomen and she had just started to devour an arm.’

Ash almost gagged, but fought back the rising nausea.

Sir Victor Haelstrom took up the story. ‘As Derriman has indicated, the child was a boy, probably born prematurely and certainly not fully developed. Officially, it was born without eyes, just empty sockets in its skull, although a confidential report on the matter suggested that the deranged girl had sucked out the eyes herself.’

Ash was reminded abruptly of the fight with the Serbian and his own vicious act of self-defence. He shuddered at the thought.

Haelstrom finished. ‘The poor wretch,’ he said, and Ash was not sure if he referred to the child or the young girl who had given birth to it. Had she even understood what was happening?

It was Derriman who resumed quickly, as if to complete the telling of the squalid episode without delay. ‘I’m afraid after that, from what we can gather, she was almost entirely neglected. Nobody wanted to go near her, you see; for example rather than being bathed, she was hosed down with water.’

‘Good God,’ Ash rasped in a low voice.

‘She receives no treatment now. An annual report on her is sent to the Ministry of Defence – I’ve no idea why – but apart from that, she might as well not exist.’

He shrugged his shoulders and raised his hands, palms outwards as if that were the conclusion of the old woman’s history.

Ash was numbed. ‘What . . .’ he began. ‘What about her parents? She must at least have legal guardians?’

He caught the look of alarm that passed between Haelstrom and Derriman. It was Haelstrom who spoke. ‘That’s no concern of yours.’ The big man was becoming ever more irritated with Ash’s interrogative manner, but he wasn’t giving up just yet.

‘But there must be something in her background, her heritage. Her bloody genes, for God’s sake!’

Haelstrom rose to his feet, his big frame looming over the desk. ‘That’s enough! Your job, Ash, is to sort out these hauntings at Comraich, nothing more. I suggest you get back to work.’

Ash was not one to be intimidated. ‘When I was in her cell yesterday, I saw Nazi insignia – swastikas – on the wall. How do you explain that?’ he persisted.

‘Enough!’ Haelstrom roared. ‘Derriman, please see Mr Ash out.’

Ash shrugged off the tentative hand that pulled at his elbow.

‘Don’t you understand?’ he yelled back at Haelstrom. ‘Those black orbs floating around her. The years she spent in a coma, followed by more isolation, have somehow enabled her to psychically draw terrible elements back to Comraich, elements I believe have visited, even manifested themselves in the castle years, maybe centuries ago. Derriman’s right! The woman is the source of your problems. Her warped mind has summoned them back again, her insane mental energy their conduit. During those decades of neglect they’ve been gathering strength and they are now ready to strike.’

He shook his head in exasperation. ‘Don’t you see? Douglas Hoyle. His suite was directly above her cell. He suffered the full force of the spiritual corruption that had lain dormant for so long in Comraich Castle.’

‘Then what are you suggesting, man?’ Haelstrom stormed back at him.

‘That it’s already too late.’ Ash’s voice had dropped in tone.

Haelstrom stared back and, for the first time, Ash saw true panic in those small shadowed eyes.

Placid Pat was in his usual seat at the bottom of the grand, curved staircase, his eyes closed, head nodding, arms folded across his chest as if he were sleeping. But he wasn’t; he was deep in thought. For behind Pat’s friendly and helpful exterior was an Irishman of deep sorrow and humbled soul.

He made not a sound as he rested there, nor did there seem to be much movement, apart from the gentle rise and fall of his chest, and occasional change of position, perhaps a shifting of a foot. Remorse and guilt had lived with him for many years, refusing to leave. Pat knew it would ever be so, right up until the hour of his death. After that? How would his spirit deal with eternal damnation?

‘O’Connor.’

Pat started at the sharp manner with which his surname was uttered. Many years ago, Father Patrick O’Connor would have been spoken to gently, with veneration even. But then, that was many years ago, when he was priest of a small town but a few miles from Sligo. He lifted his head and his eyes sprang open, his body immediately at attention even if he did not stand up, for he’d recognized the voice.

His chief, Kevin Babbage, Comraich’s head of security, was striding towards him through the lobby, tough boots clattering on the marble floor. Babbage had a rough way about him, and a rough temper to go with it. Pat was not afraid of him in the least, although he was sure to remain respectful because he was, after all, his boss.

The stocky security chief came to a halt directly in front of the old guard.

‘Sleeping on the job again?’ Babbage said it more in resignation than anger.

‘Ah no, Mr Babbage,’ Placid Pat replied with due regard. His Irish accent was still noticeable, even after all these years away from his mother country, a country to which he could never return. ‘Just resting my eyes and my brain a little. Sure, yer know well I’m always alert even if’n I don’t look it.’

Babbage didn’t dislike the old man – in fact, shrewdly, he thought there was more to O’Connor than he let on.

‘I need you to be especially attentive, Pat. There’ll be a lot going on today and tonight and I want you to be on your toes.’

‘More than what went on in the woods this morning? The wildcats and such?’

‘No, nothing to do with that, but we’re expecting some very important visitors this afternoon and this evening. Everything has to be in order.’

‘With the drama last night, Mr Babbage? And you expect everything to be
normal
?’

‘I know, I know. There’s been some weird goings-on.’

Jaysus, you got that right
, thought Pat, slowly nodding his head.

‘I want you to report anything unusual you see happening. Anything at all and right away. Use your radio, don’t try to come and find me. Okay?’

‘Sure, I’ll do that all right. Incidentally, I noticed the quare feller actin’ strange-like earlier. He was headed for the medical unit, but there was something funny about the way he walked, y’know?’

‘I take it you mean our Mr Twigg?’

‘Aye, that’s the one. There was somethin’ odd about his manner. Also, he was carryin’ a big heavy bag to his chest, and when he returned sometime later, I could see the bag was empty by the way he was just swingin’ it in one hand.’

‘Yes, a few people have mentioned he’s not quite himself lately. But I don’t think it’s anything to worry about. He was probably just taking something down to forensics for analysis.’

Like somebody’s head
, Pat considered quietly to himself, and only partly in jest. Though he’d said nothing, Pat had guessed Twigg’s deadly function long since. He knew the type. He hadn’t been given that cottage in the woods for nothing, either.

‘Look, we’ve got more to worry about today than Cedric Twigg,’ Babbage insisted. He raised his thick wrist, which had strands of black hair peeping from his shirt cuff, looked at his wristwatch and cursed. ‘Half-four. Most of the damn day gone.’

In the distance, they heard the familiar sound of rotor blades. ‘First guests arriving,’ he said, then swore again. ‘I need you to be on the alert when they come through the lobby, Pat. I mean I want you on your feet, just till they pass by. Soon as they’ve checked in, you can rest easy again. Try to stay awake, though, will you?’

‘Right, y’are, Mr Babbage. No worries here.’

The security chief turned to go in the direction of the huge control office, where the landing helicopter would be shown on the monitor screens.

‘By the way, Mr Babbage, sir . . .’

Babbage stopped, looked round at the old white-haired guard, irritation plain on his face.

‘What now, Pat? I’ve got a lot to do.’

‘Well . . . it was just that I wondered if you’d noticed anything about the light this afternoon?’

Babbage frowned. ‘O’Connor, you think I’ve got nothing better to do . . .’

Pat ignored the rebuke. ‘Look, see. Don’t you think it’s kind of yellow?’

Babbage looked about him, up towards the lobby’s high windows, then down towards the half-open, oakwood front doors. There was a funny colour coming through them, he thought, but what the hell did that matter?

‘It isn’t unnatural, not this late in the afternoon,’ he said testily.

‘Not in October, sir. I’ve been outside, looked at the sky. It’s as though a mist was blowin’ in from the sea.’

‘Then that’s it. A mist from the sea.’

‘But there’s no wind. Not even a breeze, y’know? It’s giving me a creepy feeling today.’

Babbage gave a short laugh. ‘You’re dreaming, man. Fussing over nothing.’

Pat sighed resignedly. ‘Still, there’s a strange atmosphere about the place.’

‘For fuck’s sake, Pat. I’ve got enough on my plate. Now just get on with your duty and don’t let me catch you falling asleep again.’

Patrick was about to tell Babbage he’d not been sleeping before, but thinking. Thinking lots of strange things.

It was too late anyway: the security chief was already marching off.

The latest visitors to Comraich had been received by Sir Victor and Mr Derriman and taken to their suites. Pat wondered how many more were due to arrive. Four had been flown in by helicopter earlier in the day, then a further three had been driven in from Prestwick Airport; another, who had been unable to take the private jet, was making his own way. Four more were expected, and these would be flown in by the larger, grander helicopter, from London’s Arms Fair directly to Comraich Castle in the early evening. Apparently, individual business commitments had delayed all four, otherwise the whole group of conference attendees would have already been here.

Together with Lord Edgar Shawcroft-Draker and Sir Victor Haelstrom, they would be gathered for the important meeting, perhaps with Andrew Derriman in attendance but only to answer any question relevant to his position. Pat knew from experience that no minutes of the meeting would be taken, that everything said, planned, and agreed upon would be kept entirely secret, nothing would go on file or be recorded. Only a majority consensus would be counted.

Pat knew of this because beneath his tranquil manner lay a keen and inquisitive mind. As Father O’Connor, he’d been a strict but kindly priest, easy on those who confessed grave sins, yet rigorous in upholding the laws of the Church. Perhaps some thought him too unerring in his duty to God, but in those days the local priests ruled their parishes and generally their influence was stronger than the rule of law. Father O’Connor was a handsome young man and that, with his kindly but authoritative manner, attracted more than one young girl and even some parishioners’ wives. Many would have bedded him, then begged God’s forgiveness afterwards. He was only too aware of his appeal, understanding their temptation. His own temptation was immense, for several of the girls had that dark-haired Irish beauty about them, with their high cheekbones and their green almond-shaped eyes and their firm jaws that were extremely pleasing to the eye.

But Father Pat also believed in his God and it was a miracle of faith that saw him through, despite his frustrations.

He was also respected by the men who
truly
knew him, for he could be a hard man too. Because he’d yet another enduring belief, and that was for the reunification of Ireland. It wasn’t enough to live in the Republic; he desired more than anything else to have his country whole, with no partition between North and South. Among other values, this was the most important taught to him by his dada. His father who had died from a British soldier’s bayonet piercing his back.

While he did not hate the Brits, nor the Proddies in the North, he had no conscience about them, so consequently no pity when he shot at them or played his part in blowing them up. Although the Troubles had been lauded as a religious conflict, in his heart he knew religion played only a small part; it was all to do with territory under one nation, and only by ridding the land of Ulster Protestants could that come about.

Those who fought with him knew him to be fearless and fierce. As long as the children were always protected.

In the summer of 1979, Lord Louis Mountbatten was visiting his holiday home in Mullaghmore, a small seaside village between Bundoran in County Donegal and Sligo. Many men of the IRA lived in Sligo, or visited in the holiday season, and the Garda Síochána warned Mountbatten that he was risking his life if he continued to spend time there.

Mountbatten had once held the highest rank in the British military and was mentor to the young Prince Charles, who revered his brave great-uncle. Mountbatten ignored the cautions. And on that fatal summer’s morning, he decided to take his thirty-foot wooden boat into the bay for some lobster potting and tuna fishing, oblivious of the fact that Thomas McMahon of the IRA had slipped onto the unguarded boat the night before and attached to it a fifty-pound radio-controlled bomb.

It was decided that Father Pat would be given the honour of triggering the explosion. What Father Pat had not been told was that Mountbatten would be accompanied by an old lady of eighty-three years, and three children: fourteen-year-old twin boys and an Irish youth of fifteen working as a crew member.

The operation went exactly as planned, Father Pat detonating the bomb at precisely the appointed time. One of the twins was killed outright, the other maimed for life, the elderly baroness dying some time later from horrific wounds. Lord Louis was blown unconscious into the sea, where he drowned.