The Trespass (42 page)

“Go on, then.” Moran gave him an encouraging smile.

Dracup moistened his lips. He reached a hand into the circle. It felt warm and pleasant. He turned to Moran. The policeman nodded. Dracup withdrew his hand, and walked slowly forward, bracing himself for – what? He realised he had closed his eyes. He felt the sun on his face, a soft wind against his forehead. He opened his eyes and his chin dropped in astonishment.

He looked round to give Moran a thumbs up, but Moran was indistinct, a mere shadow behind a curtain. Dracup looked at the tree, amazed at the size and shape of the leaves, the abundant fruit hanging in great fertile clumps from every branch, and the sheer girth of the trunk.It was alive in a way he could not find words to describe. And then it came to him:
The Tree of Life
. With the memory came a vague uneasiness. He placed his hand on the bark. It pulsed under his fingers. He pulled back in surprise, but felt immediately drawn to reconnect to the sudden burst of energy he had felt emanating from the wood. This time he let his hand remain.
This is – amazing
. He had never felt so alive; he could feel the blood travelling through his veins and arteries, the oxygen inflating his lungs, the small movements of a million cells and processes within. He was
alive
. He almost laughed aloud.
Alive!

Dracup sank to the ground and listened to the sound of life. He was vaguely conscious of Natasha’s presence, but the motive that had impelled him to enter the circle was now forgotten in the extraordinary sensations running through his body. Somewhere in the recesses of his subconscious he heard another voice. It was insistent, grating. He wanted it to stop. It was spoiling everything. And then he remembered, with a sudden sharp clarity:
Moran.
He turned his head. There was Natasha, his daughter. He reached out. “’Tash. It’s me.”

The girl looked at him. “Hello, Daddy.” She smiled. “I like it here, don’t you?” She frowned, a little furrow in her forehead. “You’re thin. You need to eat.”

Dracup’s head was clouded. He couldn’t think. “Yes, darling. I do. But –”

“Can we stay? Please?” Her eyes were appealing to him. “No one will hurt us here.”

“I – I know, ’Tash. I’m not sure –”

Dracup!

The voice in his head was louder now. Perhaps he should listen. Talk to it. “What is it?” he shouted.

Hold onto the girl and I’ll help you... Feel for my hand.

What hand? Dracup looked. Nothing made sense.

“Don’t shout, Daddy. You need to be quiet here.”

Draaaacup!

“Here, Daddy.” Natasha held out a fallen fruit. It was large and pear-shaped, but a deep, purple colour. The juice ran onto Natasha’s fingers. She raised her hand to lick the juice.

“No!” Dracup leaned over and knocked her hand away from her mouth. The fruit fell, slowly turning, and smashed into a pulp on the soft, mossy ground.

“Daddy!”

Another voice in Dracup’s head was speaking urgently and rapidly now.

... The man has now become like one of us, knowing good and evil. He must not be allowed to reach out his hand and take also from the Tree of Life and eat, and live forever...

With a huge effort of will Dracup grabbed Natasha’s hand and turned away from the tree. There was Moran’s hand, gesticulating urgently from the other side of the curtain that separated the tree from the wasteland of Eden. The policeman’s shape was dim, but discernable.

“Daddy. Please. I don’t want to...”

“We
must
,” he hissed through gritted teeth, muscles trembling with the sheer effort of pulling away. “This isn’t for us. Not now. Not in this life.”

Moran’s arm and shoulder appeared. Dracup prayed that the DCI would not succumb and join them in the circle. Natasha was resisting, digging her heels into the soft turf.
“No, Daddyyyyyy –”

Sweat sprang from his forehead. He reached out for Moran, felt his tendons straining as the steely fingers enclosed his wrist.

Sara knew where they were heading. Her feet could have found their own way, so often had she felt the cold stone of these steps beneath her bare feet. Here was the central stairwell that led to the chamber of Adam. How right it was that he should lie at the ziggurat’s pinnacle, how fitting. But surely Jassim would not bring Farrell, an outsider, to
that
place, of all places? And then she remembered Jassim’s duties, his role here amongst the Korumak. Jassim was the keeper of the flame, the high priest of the great chamber. And he kept his accoutrements appropriately close by, in a small storeroom accessed directly from the stairwell. She heard the jangling of his keys as he turned off the great staircase and down the narrow corridor that led to his domain. Farrell was expressing his unease by means of his usual tuneless hum. It jangled her nerves in sympathy with Jassim’s keys. “Farrell – give it a rest.”

Farrell stopped humming. “Okay. If you tell me where we’re headed.”

“You’ve agreed to come. Jassim has given his word that he won’t harm you.”

They were waiting outside a polished wooden door. It was set into the passage wall, surmounted by a low beam. Sara followed Jassim through the narrow space. Farrell was hesitating, toying with his automatic. “
He
won’t harm
me?
”

“That’s right, Farrell. Come on.”

She watched with satisfaction as the tall American ducked his head and joined them inside. Jassim closed the door.

Sara inhaled slowly. The scent of the room evoked bittersweet childhood memories of visits to Jassim’s predecessor, a wizened, hunched servant of the chamber named Mahalalel. Even with her small hand firmly clasped in her mother’s it had seemed a forbidding place. Her young eyes had widened at the ointments, ceremonial robes, jars of musky oil and strange, illusory tapestries hanging from the walls of Mahalalel’s sanctuary. Even now she felt the familiar foreboding settling on her. She gazed at the sacristan’s paraphernalia and shivered, catching a similar reaction on Farrell’s bemused face as he took it all in. Jassim brought her back to the present, his soft voice lulling childhood fears away.

“Mr Farrell. The weapon is unnecessary.” Jassim made a slight, dismissive movement with his hand.

Sara watched Farrell. She could see the agent’s fascination in the small, distracted movements of his head, the nervy moistening of his lips.

“What is this place?” Farrell holstered his handgun and let his arms drop. “There’s a feeling, I can’t –” He shook his head, bewildered.

“Mr Farrell. You know your scriptures, I am told.” Fine lines appeared around Jassim’s eyes, the faintest of smiles raising the corners of his mouth. “But as you say in the West, seeing is believing.”

Sara caught her breath. Her brother had taken the greatest risk; now there was no going back for either of them. She felt a pang of guilt and caught Jassim’s arm. “Jassim – I – I don’t know... Kadesh is only doing –”

“– what he feels is right.” Jassim nodded. “I know. And what about Ruth? Was that right?”

Sara took a deep breath. She watched Farrell moving around the room, touching, inspecting. Confusion raged inside her. She took her brother’s hand and squeezed it.

“It just feels like a – a betrayal. He is one of us. He is our leader. Are you sure –”

Jassim’s grip was firm. He looked into her eyes. “No, sister. This is not betrayal.” Jassim held her by the shoulders, gently reinforcing his words. “This is
survival
.”

“Where the hell is he?” Potzner slammed down his fist on the Humvee dash. He glanced at his watch. “Okay. That’s it. We’re going in.” Damn Farrell. He’d have to look after himself.

He opened the door and stepped onto the baked earth. The marines silently disembarked, assembling in a disciplined phalanx around the vehicles. Conversation was limited to terse, monosyllabic checks and affirmations. Weapons clicked in the darkness as they were primed and loaded. A shadow approached.

“Mr Potzner?”

“Yes, Colonel?”

“Keep to the rear of the second squad. I’ve assigned two guys to you personally. They’ll do whatever is necessary.”

Potzner nodded with satisfaction as two marines materialized beside Colonel Osbourne. Nametags identified them as Cruickshank and Rutter. They were built like football players. Good. Things were going to get tough in there.

Potzner looked up at the great Tell, silhouetted against the skyline and blocking the stars with its bulk. He felt a rising excitement, a tingling in his loins.
At last.

The grip was firm, clasping Dracup’s hand and drawing him towards the shimmering curtain. But Dracup’s mind was in rebellion. He fought against the unrelenting vice that would sever him from Paradise. Natasha was screaming, pulling and kicking his legs. Dracup fought for control.
I can’t leave.

You must.

He felt a coldness seeping into his outstretched arm and with it came a reluctant clarity. He realised that he was half-in, half-out. He could see Moran, the tendons on the DCI’s neck straining with the effort of dragging Dracup from the persuasive influence of the tree.

And then he was out. He felt a shock run through him, like a rapid electrical discharge. He was lying next to Natasha, his lungs struggling for breath. Moran was flat on his back, panting and cursing.

“Daddy?” Natasha shook him gently by the shoulder. “Can we go back now?” She pulled Dracup’s hand. “I want to see Sara.”

“Yes. We should go back.” Dracup felt groggy, like an interrupted lotus-eater. He looked around at the stunted roots and grey, lifeless earth. Behind him, the tree pulsed with unremitting energy.

Moran was standing by the curtain, his hands caressing the translucent space in front of him. The air rippled and parted at his touch.

“Don’t even think about it,” Dracup said. “I haven’t the strength to get you out.”

“The Tree of Life.” Moran’s face was pressed against the solid air, trying to see. “This is the Tree of Life.”

“I heard you speaking,” Dracup told him. “I remembered the verses you quoted.”

“I didn’t quote anything,” Moran snorted. “I was pulling like a dray horse.”

“Thanks.” Dracup smiled wryly. “But
someone
was talking to me –”

“Daddy, you
are
thin.” Natasha assessed him with the uninhibited assurance of her years. “And your face is dirty.”

Dracup fought back tears. He reached out his hand. “Come here. Just give me a hug.” He cupped Natasha’s face in his hands. She appeared unharmed, tranquil.

“By the way,” Moran said, “have you noticed?”

“What?”

Moran pointed. “Your arm. Have you checked it recently?”

Dracup pulled up his shirtsleeve to reveal the rough bandage Farrell had applied. With a shock he realised he felt no pain. More than that – he had forgotten his injury. His fingers probed under the dressing. They reappeared dry. No blood. He unravelled the gauze. The skin was unbroken.

“Someone’s on our side.” Moran took a deep breath. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

Dracup took Natasha’s hand and they walked away, retracing their steps. He wondered when the elation would kick in, but found that he was consumed by other, unbidden feelings; he dared not glance back. He could feel the tree’s energy seducing him, as if he were straining against the insistent tug of some invisible, elastic connection. As he made one foot follow the other he thought about the voice. He hadn’t imagined it. But if it wasn’t Moran’s...

Then whose was it?

Potzner crouched low. He had heard
something
. Up ahead the leading marine hissed a warning. Behind him Cruickshank and Rutter’s nervous banter had stopped, replaced by the sound of adrenaline-primed heavy breathing. The signal came to move on. The stairwell was firm under Potzner’s feet, his steps confident. He felt unstoppable.

Suddenly there was nothing under his feet. The marines in front simply fell into the void, like stones dropped into a well. Potzner’s arms shot out for purchase, catching the edge of the stairwell and finding some metal projection, part of the trap’s machinery. He was a heavy man and the odds were against his being able to support his weight. He felt his back judder with the shock, a stinging pain in his bicep. For a moment he swung precariously above the blackness, then with gritted teeth he clawed at the crumbling stonework until he felt Cruickshank’s farmhand grip on his wrist. It took all the marine’s muscle to pull him up. Rutter added his energy to the final heave and then Potzner was lying across the staircase, the taste of blood in his mouth where his teeth had clamped against his tongue during the fall.

The sprung section had swung back into place by the time he had recovered sufficiently to get to his feet. He examined the stonework. They could pass if they clung to the side wall and moved slowly. He massaged his arm. Five men gone. Someone was going to pay.