The last thing Twigg saw was the lime-stained jaw streaked with dried blood, for it had landed just a few inches from his beady staring eyes.
And the last thing he heard over the sounds of the screeching, squealing cats was Nelson’s hoarse guffaw of a laugh as the dead man tried but failed to keep the rest of his guts inside his open stomach.
103
Prince Philip, Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II’s royal consort, impatiently paced up and down the lush carpet in what was commonly known as the Balcony Room of Buckingham Palace. It was where numerous royals had stood happily, if a little stiffly, waving to the crowds who always turned up in their thousands for every important celebration or state occasion.
In his pacing, the prince paused for a moment to look down the Mall. He always stood back a little from the tall, draped windows, because he knew that with the Union Jack flying, signifying the Queen was at home, the forever optimistic crowds from all over the world invariably gathered at the palace gates, yearning to catch a glimpse of any member of the royal family, never thinking they were sometimes watched in return. The mere shadow of a figure would send the tourists into a frenzy.
He looked back across to where his wife sat in a small gilt chair reading through a leather-bound report, the cover impressed with the royal crest in a gold motif. Queen Elizabeth favoured being closer to the people she served whenever there was trouble on the horizon, for the public’s faith and adoration always imbued her with strength.
The prince continued his pacing, hands held loosely behind his back, worried by the anxious frown on the monarch’s usually unflappable countenance. He wouldn’t disturb her while she was reading.
The report contained a necessarily shortened version of events that had recently taken place at Comraich Castle. It seemed that it now lay in ruins, razed almost to the ground. The report also apparently included some previously unknown details of that bloody mysterious Inner Court, the bane of so many royals and dignitaries over the decades. What was to be done? What was to be done about them? Prince Philip frowned in angered frustration.
At last, his wife raised her eyes from the report and removed her reading glasses. She sighed as he approached and handed it to him. Now it was her turn to wait patiently and silently while he quickly scanned the pages.
In his early nineties, she thought her husband still cut a fine figure of a man. His back was once ramrod straight, but these days, his shoulders were a little rounded as if the years of high office weighed upon them mightily.
Queen Elizabeth said not a word while he skimmed through the report from the Home Office.
Finally, he closed the leather-bound primary transcript and dropped it contemptuously onto a nearby table. He looked across at his wife, who could only respond with a resigned expression.
Prince Philip walked back to stand by the long glass-panelled door that overlooked the Mall.
‘Fuck them,’ he said quietly. ‘Fuck them all.’
Also by James Herbert
The Rats
The Fog
The Survivor
Fluke
The Spear
The Dark
Lair
The Jonah
Shrine
Domain
Moon
The Magic Cottage
Sepulchre
Haunted
Creed
Portent
The Ghosts of Sleath
’48
Others
Once
Nobody True
The Secret of Crickley Hall
Graphic Novels
The City
(Illustrated by Ian Miller)
Non-fiction
By Horror Haunted
(Edited by Stephen Jones)
James Herbert’s Dark Places
(Photographs by Paul Barkshire)
First published 2012 by Macmillan
This electronic edition published 2012 by Macmillan
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ISBN 978-0-230-76487-3 EPUB
Copyright © James Herbert 2012
The right of James Herbert to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
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James Herbert, Ash
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