Relics (5 page)

‘How much further?’ Perry murmured wearily. ‘We must have come five or six hundred yards already.’

‘The Celts didn’t usually build labyrinths like this, did they?’ said Kim, not sure whether it was a question or a statement.

‘Their hill-forts are very complex but I’ve never seen anything like this
under
the ground,’ Cooper confessed.

The tunnel widened slightly, turning an almost ninety degree bend. The three archaeologists came around the corner virtually together.

The sight which met them stopped them in their tracks.

The skeletons were piled six deep in places.

The bones, blackened by the ages, lay lengthways across the tunnel like a mouldering barrier, preventing the archaeologists from moving any further.

Cooper shone his torch over the macabre find, overawed by the sheer number of ancient forms. Kim took a faltering step forward, kneeling beside the closest one. Cooper joined her, muttering to himself as the torch beam flickered once more.

‘This kind of mass burial wasn’t normal Celtic practice,’ Kim said, quietly, as if reluctant to disturb the unnatural silence around them. Even as she spoke her voice seemed muffled. Stifled by the choking smell and the almost palpable darkness. ‘There must be hundreds of them.’

‘They look like children’s bones,’ said George Perry, noticing, like his companions, that not one of the skeletons was more than about three feet in height.

Kim prodded one with the end of a pencil, hearing the lead scrape along the bare bone like fingernails on a blackboard.

Perry looked down at the skeletons, then past them, the beam of his torch catching a larger object.

It was another barrier, this time stone covered with rancid moss, its surface mottled by the few lichens that had managed to survive in such a fetid atmosphere. Perry was about to say something when Cooper stood up and spoke, a note of urgency in his voice.

‘We need to examine these bones as soon as possible,’ he said. ‘We also need some light down here. George, see if you can rig up a generator on the surface. We can run cables down here and fix up some lights so we can see what we’re doing.’

Kim had remained silent but now she got slowly to her feet, eyes fixed on the pile of bones before her. When she spoke her voice was low, subdued.

‘I think George is right. They are children’s skeletons. But where are the heads?’

The dog snarled as the chain was pulled tight around its neck. It wore a heavy muzzle over its jaws and thick white saliva hung like glutinous streamers from its teeth.

The dog was a bull terrier. Small and stockily built but possessing tremendous strength, its black body was slightly more streamlined than average but it lacked none of the musculature which made the breed so powerful. As it tugged on its chain the hair at the back of its neck rose in anticipation.

‘Keep still, you bastard,’ snapped Rob Hardy, jerking the chain once more, almost pulling the dog over.

As he spoke, Hardy looked past the men near him to where another group of men were gathered, and amongst them he recognized Vic Regis. He was also holding a dog, another terrier, a brindle dog which was slightly smaller than Hardy’s but no less ferocious in appearance. It too resembled a spring about to uncoil with tremendous ferocity. The dog was making little noise except for the low breathing which Hardy could hear. It reminded him of damaged bellows.

Another man sat on one of the hay bales which had been used to construct the makeshift arena. He was in his early thirties, tall and thin-faced with a pitted complexion and dark stubble which defied even the sharpest razor. His eyebrows were also thick and bushy and met above the bridge of his nose, giving him the appearance of perpetually frowning. He was holding a thick wad of money in his tattooed hand.

‘Vic wants to lay a side-bet of fifty quid,’ said Mick Ferguson, scratching one cheek with the rolled-up cash. ‘Just between you and him.’

‘I’ll cover it,’ said Hardy without hesitation. ‘I’ve been training this dog for three months. Even
I’m
scared of him.’

Ferguson laughed and held out his hand for the ten fivers which Hardy pulled from his pocket.

‘Are you in for a slice of that too?’ Hardy asked.

‘What do you think?’ Ferguson said. ‘I set up these little shows, don’t I? I reckon that entitles me to some of the proceeds.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Come on, let’s get started.’

Ferguson got to his feet and walked to the centre of the fighting area. The old barn smelt of damp straw and neglect, mingling with the more pungent odour of sweat from both humans and animals.

He guessed that there were a dozen other men besides himself in the dilapidated barn. Its beams were seething with woodworm and the roof leaked when it rained, but the place was perfect for its present purpose. It was about three miles out of town and half a mile from the nearest road. Motorists driving to and from Longfield came nowhere near it, and anyone who thought of turning into the old dirt track was usually discouraged by the sign on the heavy gate which proclaimed PRIVATE: KEEP OUT.

Ferguson thought how lucky he had been to find this place. Up until then he hadn’t dared to stage dog-fights within a twenty-mile radius of Longfield. The coppers in the area knew him well enough already. He’d done a two-year stretch in Strangeways for theft and another six months for receiving. They’d also lifted him for GBH on one occasion, but the case had been dismissed for lack of evidence.

The idea of dog-fighting had come to him after attending a coursing meet one Sunday morning. Two of the greyhounds, after killing the hare, had begun fighting between themselves and one had been blinded in the ensuing battle. It had been only a small step from getting the idea to organizing things properly. He creamed off sixty per cent of the take for himself. The rest was used to pay back bets and give the winning dog owner a few bob. Ferguson had two animals of his own, but he would not unleash them in this arena until he felt the time was right. He’d bred them himself, mating a dog with a bitch from a litter which the dog itself had fathered. This incestuous inter-breeding had spawned another litter of six, four of which had been blind or deformed. Those were useless to Ferguson and he’d taken them straight from their mother, still dripping from the womb, and drowned them in a bucket of water. The other two, though, were savage beyond belief and, as such, perfect for his needs. He kept them in cages in the cellar of his house, feeding them on the best meat he could afford. Training them. Moulding them into perfect killing machines. Soon they would be ready and then he’d clean up with side-bets.

As Ferguson stood in the middle of the barn the spectators scuttled to find the best vantage points. Hay bales not used to construct the fighting area itself were hurriedly employed as seats and a hush descended as Regis and Hardy led their dogs forward.

As they drew closer to each other, the two animals began snarling and straining in their eagerness to fight. Both men removed the restraining muzzles and a cacophony of loud barking filled the barn.

‘Let them go,’ said Ferguson, quietly.

As the collars were tugged free the dogs hurled themselves at each other, all their pent-up fury now finding vent.

Ferguson, Regis and Hardy vaulted to safety behind the low barrier of hay bales and turned to watch as the two animals locked jaws.

The sound of barking was replaced by a succession of snarls and growls of anger and pain.

The brindle dog gripped the black terrier’s bottom jaw and pulled, tearing away a long sliver of skin from its lower lip, but the larger animal pulled loose and lunged at its opponent’s head. It snapped off the end of one ear as easily as shears cutting through grass, and the taste of blood seemed to inflame it even more. Like two steam trains crashing head-on the dogs smashed into one another again, and this time the smaller dog succeeded in fastening its jaws on the other’s shoulder. Its powerful neck muscles tensed as it pulled the black dog down, ripping a sizeable chunk of skin and fur free. Blood burst from the wound and the larger dog drew back slightly. But the respite was short. The two dogs locked jaws once more, scrabbling with their paws to get a grip on the slippery ground. There was a loud crack as the brindle dog broke a tooth.

Ferguson rolled a cigarette as he watched, apparently oblivious to the shouts of the other men. The thick roll of notes nestled comfortably in his trouser pocket. He lit up the cigarette and drew on it.

The black terrier lunged forward and managed to bury its powerful canine teeth in the back leg of its opponent, but in so doing it exposed its own sleek side to attack and the other animal was not slow to respond. It fastened its jaws firmly into the bigger dog and began shaking its head back and forth.

Blood from both animals began to fly through the air and the ground beneath them turned crimson.

Vic Regis grunted indignantly as several hot red droplets splashed his face. He hurriedly wiped them away.

The brindle terrier drew back an inch or two and then bit down even harder, chewing into the side of its opponent, causing it to loosen its grip. But the bigger dog struck at the other animal’s head. Its despairing lunge caught the brindle below an eye, one razor-sharp tooth gouging up through the eyeball, almost ripping it from the fleshy socket. Both dogs drew back and Rob Hardy cursed as he saw a gleaming fragment of bone sticking through the pulped and torn mess that was his dog’s side. Each time it exhaled a dribble of thick red foam spilled from its nostrils.

Similarly, Regis saw that his brindle dog had been blinded in one eye, its face a mask of blood and sputum. The savage wound on its back leg was also bleeding profusely.

‘Do you want to call it off?’ Ferguson said.

‘No way,’ snapped Regis.

Hardy agreed.

Before either of them could speak again the dogs had joined in battle once more.

Caught on its blind side, the brindle dog saw the charge too late and the other terrier managed to drive its teeth into the fleshy part of its opponent’s neck, shaking its head madly back and forth until its teeth sheared through the smaller animal’s jugular vein. There was a bright red explosion as the vein was severed. Blood spurted high into the air and soon the smaller dog began to weaken.

The barn stank of blood. The crimson fluid was everywhere. On the floor, the hay bales, the spectators, Even on the walls in one or two places.

‘Right, that’s it,’ shouted Regis. ‘Get your fucking dog off.’ He glared at Hardy, who smiled and clambered into the makeshift arena. There might have been a slight chance of saving the defeated animal’s life, if anyone had been so inclined, but those watching were too busy complaining or rejoicing, depending on which dog they’d backed.

Hardy gripped the black terrier by the back of the neck and pulled it away from the stricken brindle dog, which tried to drag itself upright. But loss of blood had weakened it too much, and with a throaty gurgle it fell back onto its side, its breath coming in sporadic gasps.

‘Useless fucker,’ snapped Regis, looking down at the dying animal. ‘I’ve lost over a hundred quid because of you.’ With a savagery born of anger he kicked the ravaged dog in the stomach.

It raised its head weakly, as if pleading for help, but Regis was unimpressed.

Ferguson joined the two men, stepping over the fatally wounded brindle dog. He handed a bundle of notes to Hardy, who quickly pocketed them. Regis, muttering to himself, stalked off to the far side of the barn and returned a moment later carrying the pitchfork they had used to move the hay bales. He held it above the dying terrier, the twin prongs poised over its heaving chest. Regis hesitated and the dog whimpered forlornly.

Ferguson snatched the lethal implement from Regis and steadied himself momentarily, then brought it swiftly down. The prongs punctured the dog’s body and he forced them down until he felt them strike the ground beneath. A blast of foul smelling air escaped from the animal’s punctured lungs and it bucked spasmodically, bloody sputum spilling from its mouth.

Ferguson continued pressing down on the fork until the animal ceased to move. He smelt the pungent stench of excrement as he wrenched the weapon free of the bloodied body. He stuck it into the ground close to Regis, a faint smile on his face.

‘Never mind, Vic,’ he said, grinning. ‘You can’t win them all.’

It was a child; that much they knew.

Anything else they could only guess at.

The skeleton lay on a piece of plastic sheeting spread carefully over the table inside Cooper’s tent.

‘Judging from the size,’ said Kim, ‘the child couldn’t have been more than five or six years old. I’ll run carbon-14 and nitrogen tests on the bones when I get them back to the museum.’

‘If only we knew where the skulls were,’ said George Perry.

A moment later the flap of the tent was pulled back and Ian Russell walked in.

‘Charles, have you got a minute?’ he asked. ‘Mr Cutler’s here. He says he wants to speak to you.’

Cooper shrugged and got to his feet, following Russell outside. He rubbed his eyes as he stepped out into the dull grey light. He hadn’t slept much the previous night; his mind had been too crammed full of the sights which he and his colleagues had seen. Now he saw two men in suits standing beside one of the excavation trenches peering in at a couple of archaeologists who were busy freeing an object from the soil.

Cooper recognized James Cutler. The land developer was tall and wiry, his slim frame topped by a pinched face and thin, bloodless lips. Approaching his fortieth birthday, he was sole owner of Cutler Developments, one of the most successful private businesses in the country. The black Jensen parked on the nearby ridge testified to his material status although it looked out of place amidst the organized chaos of the archaeological paraphenalia which surrounded it.