Ash

  Only two events from her past had remained in her poor sick mind. Once, when one of the male nurses had interfered with her body, her cell door closed so that no one would hear her screams of protest. He’d appeared to take strange pleasure in what he did, even though she knew she was ugly and malformed. The man was physically sick afterwards, vomiting onto the stone floor of her cell, his body bent, hands stretched out against a wall to support himself, his broad shoulders heaving, his throat retching. It disturbed her. Finished, he’d dashed from the room and she had never seen him again.

  During the following months her belly had become swollen and her menstrual blood had ceased to flow, though she couldn’t fathom the reason behind these frightening changes to her body.

  On the day the baby was born she was hysterical with fear, but no one came to help her, for it had been a long time since her last cleansing and nobody else had noticed the bump in her belly, lost in the voluminous gown she wore. Through intense pain, unbearable pain, she gave whatever help she could to the little thing that had finally emerged between her legs to lie there, covered in slime, faeces, and blood, stillborn and silent. Exhausted, she had held the tiny, slick body in her arms, not knowing what to do with it. She had passed out, and when she had regained consciousness, it was gone.

  The second event she could remember, though only vaguely, was when she had been taken to a room with bare concrete walls and laid in a bath half-filled with a silky kind of water. She recalled floating on the strange fluid while all kinds of things were attached to her: wires to the upper part of her head, tubes pushed into her nostrils and fixed to her arms – glucose to sustain her, they’d said. When the room’s light was turned off, she found herself in total darkness, although she could sense she was still being observed. They laughed. ‘Don’t worry,’ they said, ‘it will all be over in three months.’

  Strange and bizarre thoughts began to enter her mind after the first few weeks of complete sensory deprivation: a symbol, black and white and red, both awesome and iconic, somehow aesthetic, yet instilling cold fear in her heart.

  She was not conscious of its meaning, nor what it represented, yet it was vivid to her. As time passed she found herself first in sympathy with it, then empathizing with it and then, finally, understanding it. Other bewildering, hazy and indeterminate emblems drifted in and out of her subconscious, a place in the mind where she now lived. An evil silver depiction of a skull and crossbones; a kind of embellished angled cross, two letters, SS, sharply defined like lightning strikes.

  Further messages formed, risen from the subconscious but not yet defined, only sounds of voices shouting a phrase that was difficult to distinguish for some time. Eventually, those indiscernible voices became as one, swelling with power and rectitude. ‘Sieg Heil!’ they bellowed. ‘Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!’

  But other presences were beginning to creep in: sinuous shapes that slithered into her worldless darkness – her only province, her universe, her cosmos – into the recklessly engaging void that was now her mind. These creatures of the mind’s id – one of the three parts of the psychic apparatus and the unconscious source of powerful psychic energy – played and schemed in her brain, only thinly attached to the corporeal, fusing with her collective memory of bygone eras, of atrocities, attaching themselves to these evocations for purposes of their own.

  In this woman’s deranged mind they had found the ideal conduit that would help them return to the physical dimension.

  61

  Cedric Twigg hobbled on through the castle, desperately trying to keep his trembling hands steady by clutching the bulky satchel tight to his chest. He licked off the drool seeping from the corner of his mouth. Word had soon got around about the wildcats roaming the woods, but apparently the problem had been cleared up that very morning. The guests were intrigued, but thanks to upped levels of Lithium freely administered, even last evening’s frightful event had dulled in their memories. Besides, a proper authenticated ghost hunter, a parapsychologist no less, was already here and on the case. Time was now short, Twigg realized. But it had taken him months to plan and avail himself of the highly dangerous materials and technical equipment required for his farewell to Comraich Castle and all the people therein. And tonight, with the bigwigs assembled for their gathering, was uncommonly fortuitous.

  He knew that, as his condition deteriorated, his masters would soon realize he’d be of no further use to them, and so would find their own means of guaranteeing his future silence. He wondered briefly if they would have chosen the now defunct novice, Eddie Nelson, to execute him, and the thought raised a stiff smile.

  Over the past couple of months Twigg had had no trouble acquiring the materials he needed – radio control switches to activate the bombs, timers and initiators, ammonium nitrate fertilizer, diesel fuel and, of course, various parts to make improvised detonators – all of which he bought from contacts in London and other cities. It had been a busy time for him, time that became even more precious when he learned of the date that the important Inner Court hierarchy would be attending Comraich for an extra-curricular summit-meeting.

  The penultimate bomb, which was of particular significance to Twigg on a personal level, had been well hidden inside one of the castle’s towers and was meant for someone who he truly believed was a monster. With all the excitement last evening, the assassin had found it relatively easy to sneak into the tower. The incendiary device would set alight all of the tower’s interior wooden structure, primarily the floors and spiral staircase, making it impossible for the occupant of the highest room to escape. He – it – would be sent crashing down into the fiery Hell from whence it had come! Twigg sniggered.

  Now virtually every bomb was in place. Only one more little trip to the castle’s sub-basement was left. As he proceeded, Senior Nurse Krantz appeared from the other doorway to the special care units. ‘Mr Twigg,’ she snapped. ‘What are you doing in this part of the castle?’

  He was pleased to see the plaster and padding across the obviously broken nose, as well as the dark purple and yellow bruising beneath her eyes. He’d never liked her – nor she him.

  ‘Sir Victor asked me to take a look at the lift-shaft damage,’ he lied, before adding another lie. ‘I used to be an engineer years ago and I think he wants a professional assessment.’

  She sneered behind the mask concealing her injured nose. ‘You? An engineer?’

  He struggled not to giggle, for her voice had that blocked nasal sound, so different from the harsh, crisp quality of her usual tones.

  ‘I’ve done many things in my time, my dear, so I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t hinder me.’ He hoped she hadn’t noticed the slurring of some of his words and decided to keep the conversation as brief as possible.

  ‘Where’s your pass?’ she snapped. ‘Nobody goes down to the lowest level unless they’ve got one from Sir Victor.’

  Twigg reached into his raincoat pocket and produced a dark titanium key-lock card. ‘You’re aware of how busy everybody is today preparing for tonight’s meeting, and Sir Victor is no exception. In fact, he’s busier than anybody else, so rather than waste time writing me a pass to show to anyone who should get in my way, he issued me with this.’ He waved the hard metal card at her as back-up.

  As a matter of fact, it really was Haelstrom’s key-lock card, which Twigg had slipped into his pocket over a year ago after the big man had carelessly left it lying on the corner of his desk. The funny thing was, Haelstrom had admitted to no one that he’d lost his key-card to the sub-basement, as if he might look a fool for mislaying it. Instead, he’d merely ordered a fresh card to be made without informing anyone as to the reason. Vanity, Twigg supposed. Sir Victor obviously did not want his employees to know he could be stupid enough to lose anything of such importance.

  Senior Nurse Krantz continued to study Twigg suspiciously. ‘What have you got in that bag?’ she demanded, pointing at the satchel he was holding so close to his chest.

  The ass
assin was growing impatient, for he was having difficulty containing the symptoms of his illness. He licked away the drool that was beginning to gather on the side of his mouth and stiffened his neck to stop the slight but constant nodding of his head.

  ‘My tools!’ he all but shouted. ‘Tools to help me assess the structural problems the crashed lift may have caused!’

  Although Twigg was a strange character who had very little verbal contact with lower members of staff, his anger was something new to Krantz; dour and unfriendly though he might be, nobody had heard him raise his voice before, and now it shook her.

  It had been a bad morning for her, having had to explain the injury to her face. She wasn’t sure if her story of slipping over and hitting a stone wall as she toppled was believed. But she’d caught the smirks passed between junior nurses and the medical team. To add to her ire, Twigg said, ‘If you’d like to check with Sir Victor on this busiest of days, I’m sure he’d appreciate your call.’ His speech was a little unclear.

  It was a bluff, but one that Twigg found usually worked where confusion and nervousness were involved.

  Instead of declining the suggestion, Nurse Krantz merely turned on the heels of her white brogues, and stomped back into the initiation and special care unit: many of Comraich’s clients were under observation in there, complaining of nausea and stomach pains (not to mention severe mental trauma) after last evening’s terrifying incident. Krantz was far too busy to be wasting her time, let alone Sir Victor’s.

  ‘Don’t be too long,’ she growled over her shoulder at Twigg, which was said only to have the last word.

  The tall guard, who had been observing this heated exchange, immediately stepped aside so that Twigg could slide his metal card down the coded doorlock slot. Although almost twice the size of the small, bald-headed man, the guard instinctively knew there was something dangerous about him. Maybe it was Twigg’s cold, unblinking, protuberant eyes. Or maybe the guard had watched too many Halloween movies.

  ‘Would you like me to accompany you, sir?’ asked the guard, holding his chunky stun-gun across his chest. He wasn’t happy – he didn’t normally go down there where the lunatics were caged (especially since the cell doors had become unreliable, allowing the loonies to roam the long corridor outside their cells) but felt it was his unpleasant duty to make the offer.

  ‘No, I’ll . . . I’ll be f-fine.’

  ‘Sorry, sir?’ The words had been difficult to understand.

  ‘I said I’ll be all right on my own,’ Twigg snapped back, his irritation forcing his voice to be clearer.

  ‘Very well, sir,’ the guard came back with. ‘I’ll just go with you to the bottom of the stairs to make sure it’s clear.’

  The guard, Grunwald, entered first and Twigg followed him down the stairway. If Comraich’s upper floors were palatial, then the castle’s lowest level was the antithesis. The stone walls smelt, and seeped water, the edges of the steps themselves were worn and bowed. And the muted wailing soon came to their ears as they descended. A rat – a rather large one – scuttled across their path at the bottom, disappearing somewhere into the darkness. All the ceiling lights were protected by mesh ironwork covers, and pools of water gathered in the indents of the concrete flooring.

  The guard, who also wore a Glock model 34 sidearm, magazine capacity of seventeen rounds, as well as two flash grenades on the left side of his broad chest, nevertheless felt nervous in this dingy, underground domain that looked as if nothing had changed for centuries apart from having dim ceiling lights and code-lock doors. Even the foul air, musty and oppressive, somehow seemed old. But it was the soft moaning and muffled wailing coming from separate lock-ups that spooked him mostly.

  ‘Right, sir,’ he said, brisk with the need to leave this rotten place, ‘corridor’s clear, but if you need help there’s a red alarm button inserted in the wall on the right-hand side. I’ll be off then.’ With that he took to the stairs once more, two at a time on the way up.

  Twigg shuffled down the corridor, clutching his satchel as might Shylock a bag of silver. He ignored the indistinct cries and whispers that came from behind the doors, although he sensed some of the cause of their anguish: it was as if something unbearable but invisible had entered the confines of Comraich Castle. Some of the more impressionable staff had told him they’d seen small black orbs floating around down here. Portents of death, they said. If so, their arrival would not be unexpected by him.

  He continued what was becoming an arduous journey along the dank corridor and occasionally felt eyes watching him from the slots in the cell doors. Yet no one tried to attract his attention by tapping on the glass, or calling out to him. He found that strange, given the dire atmosphere here in the very depths of the historic building.

  Spotting what he was looking for directly ahead, he attempted to speed up, but his legs refused to obey him. He was also finding it difficult to breathe in the close environment, as though the air were somehow thicker, even cloying. He thought he could detect the faintest aroma of the sea, but it didn’t seem to help much. Finally, he found himself at his destination.

  The spot was marked by debris, dust and large pieces of rubble, masonry mixed with loosened iron reinforcing rods, dangling cables and other lengths of bent metal rails and chunks of stone. The pile of detritus virtually blocked the corridor and he carefully set the heavy satchel on a clear space before clambering over to the other side. The lift car was destroyed, its walls buckled and twisted, but as he leaned forward and peered upwards, he noticed a large hole had been smashed through one side of the lift, with another hole further up creating a sort of chute from the lift’s bowed roof and crooked floor. He had to look away quickly as fine floating particles of dust irritated his bulbous eyeballs. He blinked several times to clear them.

  It would take months to clear the blockage and install a new lift. No difference to him. If his plan worked as it should, then ultimately the whole place would be destroyed. Twigg turned away, eager to get on with his job.

  Stumbling back over the debris, he reached for the satchel and lifted it cautiously, warily, paying the device he’d carefully assembled the respect and attention that was its due.

  The C4 explosive inside the cardboard box had already been primed, its timer already counting down. There would be no need for concealment, for here, among the rubble left by the crashed lift, it would never be noticed in the few hours before its detonation.

  Cedric Twigg smirked at his handiwork and the thought of the consequences that would soon follow. Behind him was an old but strong-looking wooden door. With luck, the blast would rebound from it and direct the explosion to where it would cause the most damage among the castle foundations.

  Unnoticed by him another door, the one opposite the lift, had opened while he’d been going about his work. Just a couple of inches. Just enough for a pair of crazed, slitted eyes to follow his progress.

  The door quickly closed again and Cedric Twigg stood back to admire his own skill and cunning as he slapped his hands together to rid them of dust.

  62

  Grim-faced, Ash descended the broad, sweeping staircase, both furious and mystified by what he’d discovered. His equipment, which he’d left in strategic positions around the building, had been destroyed.

  He’d kissed Delphine lingeringly before leaving her room to change into fresh clothes. He’d felt aroused once more, even so soon after they’d left her bed, and her smile had been warm and almost mischievous as she’d sent him on his way with an admonition that they should both get back to work. The thrill in her eyes had been still evident, though.

  He’d gone to take the morning’s readings and found every one of his sensors smashed to pieces. He was both angry and confused. Could any of Haelstrom’s people have been responsible? If so, why? What purpose could be achieved by such wanton destruction? Or had the supernatural elements somehow found a channel, a conduit to enter the very depths of this wicked place, entities drawn here by something or some
one? He recalled the crazed woman in the castle’s lowest dungeon and the floating Stygian orbs in her dank, ill-lit cell. The possibility could not be ignored, yet the people who governed Comraich seemed strangely reluctant to acknowledge the danger they were in, or give him free rein to deal with it. The time had come for Haelstrom to tell him the full truth about the ancient castle. He’d asked Ash to give him a progress report, so this was the perfect opportunity.

  The old guard who sat at the bottom of the stairs barely gave the investigator a second glance as he passed.

  From behind the reception desk, Veronica looked up in surprise as the investigator strode by and knocked loudly on the manager’s office door. She thought he looked tired, and was about to give him her warm smile and ask him how he was today, but on seeing the scowl on his brooding yet decidedly handsome face, decided not to do so. Besides, there was a lot for her to be getting on with. She’d been told to expect the arrival of many important visitors throughout the day for a hastily called conference, preceded by some sort of banquet that Gerrard was arranging.

  Ash banged on the door again and Derriman’s voice came over the small intercom, sounding both mechanical and tremulous at the same time. ‘Yes, who is it?’ The investigator guessed that Derriman was also having a bad day.

  ‘It’s David Ash,’ he responded. ‘Here to see Sir Victor.’