Relics (16 page)

‘The Cross,’ said Dexter. ‘Symbol of Christ. Monument to that filthy Jew they called the Son of God.’ He spat on the ground in front of the cross. ‘He who sent his only bastard offspring into the world via the whore Mary. He who watched his own son die on the Cross. He who denies pleasure.’

The youth tied to the cross was moaning more loudly now as the girls began to work more vigorously on his penis, sucking and rubbing until the lad tensed and prepared for release.

The movements stopped and he gasped, looking down first at his saliva-soaked erection and then at Dexter.

Gary Webb stepped forward and handed the older man a large chalice of gold, watching as he moved closer to the helpless boy. Dexter gripped the boy’s penis in his powerful hand, beckoning the tallest of the three girls forward once more. His hand was replaced by hers and Dexter watched her pump it rhythmically up and down on the boy’s stiff shaft until he pushed his hips forward and moaned loudly.

A thick stream of semen splattered into the chalice, followed by several more spurts until the white fluid covered the bottom of the receptacle. The boy gradually relaxed as the girl slowed her movements.

From the deep shadows around the clearing, Laura Price stepped into view. She crossed to Dexter and looked at him for a moment before dropping to the ground on all fours, her legs spread, her bottom lifted high in the air.

Dexter knelt swiftly before her and offered the chalice to her lips, watching as the liquid trickled towards her open mouth. She swallowed some of it.

‘The body of Christ,’ Dexter said, smiling. He got to his feet.

It was as he stepped back that Laura caught sight of the dog.

It was a short-haired collie, a sleek-bodied animal restrained by a length of rope around its throat. As she watched, it was led towards her by Gary Webb, who paused, then handed the make-shift leash to Dexter. The dog barked once but Dexter tugged hard on the rope and the animal was silent except for low panting sounds.

The older man nodded and Gary dropped to his knees behind Laura, his penis now swollen and hard.

Another of the young men stepped forward and took up a position beside Dexter.

He carried a long, double-edged knife.

Dexter began winding the rope around his hand, pulling tighter on the dog’s leash, causing the animal to yelp in pain as pressure was increased on its throat. It turned and tried to bite Dexter but he merely twisted the rope tighter, listening as the animal’s panting subsided into hollow gasps. Then he yanked it hard, lifting the collie off the ground until it dangled by the rope, its legs thrashing wildly. It required a surprising amount of strength to hold the dog up with one hand but the athletic Dexter found it no effort. The dog was now bucking uncontrollably, its eyes bulging wide as the rope throttled it.

The young man with the knife stepped closer, and with lightning speed drew the blade across the dog’s throat.

A great fountain of blood erupted from the wound, spraying all those close by with sticky crimson fluid. Dexter kept his hold on the rope, watching as the dog’s struggles gradually became less frantic. Blood continued to spurt from its gashed throat and he watched the red gouts for a moment before lifting the chalice to the wound. The blood spilled in, mixing with the semen to form a thick, coagulated mess.

Dexter dropped the dog and held the chalice above his head with both hands.

‘The host,’ he said, smiling.

He leant forward and tilted the receptacle so that some of the fluid dripped onto Laura’s arched back. She felt the warmth of the blood and squirmed. Dexter spilled more onto her buttocks, watching intently as Gary gathered some on his fingers, rubbing it around her vagina.

Laura groaned slightly. Then she felt Gary force his penis into her vagina. He steadied himself, then began thrusting back and forth, both of them grunting like animals.

Dexter dropped the chalice and took the knife from the other boy, who looked on with the rest as Dexter gripped the dying collie by the hair at the back of its neck, yanking its head back.

Gary Webb speeded up his thrusts as he felt his orgasm beginning to build.

Dexter rolled the dog onto its back and drove the knife into its chest, tearing downwards to expose its insides. Then, using both hands, he pulled the reeking tangle of intestines from the gaping cavity, ignoring the vile stench which rose from the slippery coils. Like springs, the entrails seemed to suddenly expand and Dexter continued pulling until the animal was completely gutted, the steaming vital organs lying in a bloody pile beside him.

Laura, meeting Gary’s vigorous thrusts with her own, began to shudder as the pleasure grew more intense. She saw that other couples had also begun copulating. The entire clearing was a mass of pale undulating bodies.

Even the youth tied to the cross was not forgotten. The tall willowy girl took his penis into her mouth and began sucking it while another boy drove his shaft into her from behind.

Dexter, his naked form drenched in blood, began skinning the dead dog, tearing off hunks of skin and hair with his vicious cuts. Finally, he managed to rip the complete coat free.

This he draped over Laura’s back, and as she felt the warm blood from the hide covering her skin she began to climax.

Her cries of pleasure mingled with those of others in the clearing.

Dexter stood smiling amidst the wild depravity, his grin broadening as he saw the two girls approaching him. They were young, slim and small-breasted. Their nipples stuck out proudly in the chill wind. The first of them, a girl with short red hair, ran her soft hands over Dexter’s body and caressed his swollen testicles while her companion kissed the head of his throbbing organ.

Both bore numerous scabs on the insides of their arms, the flesh purple where it had been bruised and punctured so often. Scar tissue had turned into a vivid crust, purple in places where it had been picked away only to grow again in a more purulent form.

Dexter smiled down at them and stroked their breasts, enjoying the mixture of pleasure and anticipation on their faces.

More eyes turned towards him now. Expectantly.

He knew what they wanted and he raised the bag of heroin into the air, displaying it like some obscene trophy.

A chorus of giggles, cheers and cries of delight rippled around the clearing. The two girls standing beside the older man clung more tightly to him, their eyes riveted to the package of white powder as if it possessed some kind of hypnotic power.

Dexter laughed aloud, the sound carried on the breeze to be lost in the dense trees all around the clearing.

‘It’s time,’ he said, quietly.

Who the hell did Cooper think he was?

Not allowing anyone else into the chamber of skulls. Ridiculous!

George Perry was muttering to himself as he clambered down the rope ladder, descending deeper into the shaft.

During the day the hole was black enough, but now, in the darkness of the night, it was impossible to see a hand in front of him as he climbed down, bracing himself carefully on each rung, making his way slowly and cautiously into the abyss.

As he reached the bottom he pulled the powerful torch from his belt and flicked it on. The beam pushed a small funnel of light through the gloom. He moved swiftly through the opening which led on into the maze of tunnels beyond. Once inside the main tunnel, though, Perry slowed his pace, careful not to slip or twist his ankle on the dozens of hazards which littered the tunnel floor. Relics, bones and pieces of fallen rock all combined to create an uneven and treacherous surface and, more than once, the archaeologist had to steady himself against the moist walls.

He sucked in a deep breath, surprised at how taxing the walk along the stone corridor was proving to be. His body felt heavy, as if weights had been attached to his legs, slowing him to a snail’s pace, preventing him reaching his goal.

His torch beam dimmed momentarily but he banged the fight and it glowed more brightly again.

Perry pressed on, knowing that he must be close to the chamber of skulls. Up ahead, dimly illuminated in the light of the torch, he saw the entrance. He immediately quickened his step although the feeling of heaviness was growing almost intolerably strong now. He gritted his teeth and forged ahead, the icy chill seeping into his flesh, into the bones themselves.

George Perry was a fit man, but by the time he reached the chamber entrance he was puffing and panting as if he’d just run a marathon. He sagged against the stone portal, sucking in lungfuls of the stagnant air, waiting for his strength to return. After what seemed hours but was only minutes, he stepped inside and pulled his notebook from the pocket of his jacket. His torch beam played back and forth over the Celtic script which covered the walls of the chamber. He looked all around the small area but could see nothing that Cooper should want to protect. There didn’t seem to be any secrets worth hiding.

Then he saw the words.

A large portion of one wall had been cleaned by Cooper, exposing the ancient letters and symbols carved into the stone. Perry now moved closer, a frown already beginning to crease his forehead. He read the words to himself, faltering in places, but the gist of them came through. He went back to the beginning and started again, the full impact hitting him this time.

‘Jesus’ he exclaimed, his voice amplified by the subterranean tomb. It echoed off the walls and died away slowly to a low whisper.

He spun round, listening to the soft, sibilant hiss, realizing after a second or two that it was his own voice he was hearing. Bouncing off the cold stone and reverberating around him.

Jamming the torch into the crook of one arm, Perry began to scribble down what he saw on the walls before him. He wrote quickly, anxious to be out and away from this place. Simultaneously, he was frightened to go back through the tunnel, but he finished writing and pocketed his notepad. He read the words from the wall again, mouthing them silently this time, his skin prickling.

He had wondered what Cooper had found in this underground tomb but nothing could have prepared him for this.

Perry read the words once more, as if to reassure himself that he had got the sense of them right, then turned and hurried, almost fled, from the chamber. The notebook nestled safely in his pocket.

He would re-read the words when he got home.

Then he would decide what to do.

At first she thought she was dreaming.

Kim heard the low whispering but merely sighed, rolled over and settled herself again, her eyelids growing heavier. Yes, that was it, she told herself, she was dreaming. She wasn’t really hearing the soft, but insistent, whispering. The sound continued and she finally sat upright, realizing that the noises she heard were not the product of her imagination. She could hear them clearly now, beyond the door of her own room, drifting through the darkness.

The sound stopped for a few moments. Kim thought about sliding back beneath the covers, but then it began once more, slightly louder if anything. She swung herself out of bed, pulling on her dressing gown, now drawn irresistibly towards the low whispering.

She paused at her bedroom door, listening, trying to detect the source of the sound. There didn’t seem to be any movement, only the noise. Low and conspiratorial, occasionally rising in volume, then dying away completely for a moment or two.

Kim eased her door open, cursing as it creaked on its hinges.

The whispering stopped.

She took a step onto the landing, wishing that the light switch was beside her room instead of being on the far side of the landing. It was dark and she squinted hard in an effort to distinguish shapes in the gloom. She reached out with one hand and touched the balustrade, which felt icy cold. Kim took two more tentative steps forward, hoping that the floorboards wouldn’t creak beneath her, wondering why she felt so uneasy.

She heard the hissing once more.

Close to her.

Her heart thudded harder against her ribs as she turned, realizing that the low whispering was coming from her daughter’s room.

Kim crossed to the door and put one hand on the cold handle.

‘Clare,’ she called softly. ‘Are you awake?’

No answer.

The whispering stopped again.

Kim hesitated a moment longer, then pushed the door open and stepped into the darkened room, her hand hovering over the light switch.

She heard the sound once more and a slight frown creased her forehead as she realized that it was indeed Clare who was making it. Even in the gloom she could see her daughter’s lips moving as she mouthed the words. Whatever they were. The girl was obviously dreaming. She’d thrown her blankets off and lay completely uncovered. Kim stepped to the bed and pulled the blankets up around her once more, afraid that she might catch a chill.

As she bent low over her daughter she heard the words which escaped her fluttering lips and she froze.

They came only sporadically but a few of them were recognizable.

Kim crouched beside the bed, looking at Clare’s face and listening.

‘Help me,’ the girl whispered. ‘Tune is coming . . .
He
is coming . . . Sa . . .’

Kim listened more closely.

‘He knows . . . can’t stop . . . too late now . . . He’s coming...’

The words trailed off as Clare rolled onto her side.

For what seemed an age Kim remained crouched beside her daughter’s bed, waiting to see if the girl continued whispering, but she did not. After ten minutes, Kim got to her feet and padded towards her own room, taking one last look at her daughter before closing the door behind her.

She climbed into bed, aware of how cold it had become inside the house.

Her daughter had only been dreaming, she told herself. It was nothing to be alarmed about.

But, for some reason, Kim found it difficult to drift off to sleep again. The hands of the alarm clock showed three a.m. by the time she fell into welcome oblivion.