He bent closer. Such a strange look on the doll’s face. Almost human. No – almost inhuman!
And then, an amazing thing happened.
Wisps of white smoke began to rise from the photograph and the edges started to curl inwards. He jumped back in surprise. What the shit was happening? Tiny flames began to lick at the black and white image, creeping across the surface, eating away at the chemically treated paper, the white-covered corpses again destroyed by flames. It curled almost into a loose ball then, with a sudden burst, the fire consumed it completely, leaving only black ashes that drifted slowly upwards.
Such a thing! How had it occurred? The middle-aged photographer shook his head in wonder. He touched the remaining flakes of charred paper with a tentative finger, and they crumbled into a fine ash. He felt the movement rather than saw it, and hastily drew his hand away as the guillotine’s blade came flashing down. He staggered back in fright as the three foot length razor-sharp metal thudded down with a swift, grinding-chomping noise.
His heart beat wildly with the shock. My God, it could’ve had my hand off! What’s going on around here? And where’s that meshugana Ernie? Martin shivered at the icy blast that suddenly swirled around the room. Goose-pimples rose on the backs of his hands and along the lengths of his arms. He heard a sound from the darkroom. A thump.
‘Ernie, is that you? Are you playing games with me, Ernie?’ He heard what sounded like a muffled chuckle coming from the processing room. He marched over to the door and put an ear to it.
‘Are you in there, Ernie?’ There was no reply, but he thought he heard movement. He banged on the wood, once, hard. ‘I’m coming in, you goy! There’d better not be any film out!’
For a photographer, even if he were of the more basic variety, Martin Samuels had a distinct lack of imagination. Perhaps if he’d had more, he wouldn’t have opened the door so readily. He knew the oddest things were happening in Eton, he was aware of the tension in the town’s residents, but, over the past few weeks, he had been too busy to feel it himself. The burning photograph, the falling guillotine – his mind would not allow itself to dwell on the mystery. They had just happened and, of course, there was a simple explanation for the phenomenon. But he had more pertinent problems to think about – financial problems – and he had precious little time to ponder over the imponderable. He turned the handle and angrily pulled the door towards him. The foul stench that rushed out made him wrinkle his nose in disgust and the icy blast that greeted him caused his whole body to shiver involuntarily. He drew out a handkerchief and held it to his sensitive nose. He screwed up his eyes, trying to penetrate the gloom.
The red light seemed even dimmer than usual, but he thought he saw a dark figure standing at the back of the little room next to the water tank.
‘Ernie, is that you?’ he inquired hesitantly.
For the first time, real fear gripped him. His imagination had been finally sparked into life. It was the heavy, grunted breathing that instigated his fear more than anything. It was deep, growling, as if it came from scarred vocal cords. Unearthly!
The smell was overpowering and he swayed as its noxious fumes drugged his senses.
‘Who – who’s there?’ he cried out, holding on to the side of the door for support.
He heard the terrible snigger.
Then the voice.
‘Hello, Jew,’ it said.
He felt something push him from behind. Invisible hands. Powerful. He stumbled forward and fell on his knees into the red glowing room. The figure stepped out of the darkest shadows towards him and stooped down. He found himself looking into the crimson face of his partner. And yet, it wasn’t him! The features were the same but the expression was totally alien to Ernie’s. It contained all the viciousness that existed in the world. All the ills of mankind somehow drawn together and given physical expression. The face of the Devil!
Martin whimpered in abject terror. Never had he experienced such total, paralysing fear. The tiny muscles surrounding his hair follicles tightened, the pupils of his eyes widened, his heart pounded like a mad thing in his chest. Blood emptied from his gut into nearby muscles causing a heavy, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Chemicals were released into his bloodstream causing a tingling throughout. Muscles jerked and twitched, his whole body quivered. His bowels loosened and brown fluid ran hotly down his legs. He opened his mouth to scream, but only a dry, choked gurgle emerged.
‘Jew bastard,’ the voice said. ‘Look how you tremble. How you shit yourself.’
Martin felt iron fingers grip him under his soaking armpits. The demon face moved closer, and grinned. ‘How pleased Mastomah, the Prince, will be to receive one like this! How Agaliarept will gloat! How Glasyalabolas will rejoice!’
The photographer felt himself lifted, the evil face still remaining only inches away from his, its fetid breath entering his open mouth, descending into his lungs, spreading through his body.
‘Well, Jew, nothing to say?’ A mocking snigger. ‘See how your partner carries you. Do you know where? Why not call on Yahweh for help?’ Again, the growling laugh.
His feet dragged uselessly along the floor as his plump body was dragged over to the water tank. The cruel voice whispered in his ear. ‘They think they destroyed me. The priest thinks water will kill. You see how these religious morons think, Jew? It burnt me, yes, as the fire burnt my body. But I am not dead. I cannot be dead.’
Martin finally managed to scream as he was dragged off his feet and his body bent over the tank. The scream became a gurgling roar as his head was thrust beneath the water, the black and white prints swirling around him in a frenzy. His nose was pushed flat against the round-holed grille at the bottom of the wash and he struggled to twist his neck to ease the pressure. But the hands that trapped him were too strong.
Water gushed into his screaming mouth and up his nostrils. He was forced to suck in and the water raced down his throat and filled his lungs, as had the beast’s breath a few moments before. The effect was more deadly, and a greyness seeped into his mind, gradually forcing all visions from it like a descending curtain. When the grey curtain had completed its fall, life drifted away from him like a bored acquaintance.
When the body had ceased its struggles, and the short legs hung limp, exhausted from their death kicks, the demon released it, allowing the torso to lie face down in the water.
It walked from the darkroom and as it passed the stacks of dried prints on the workbench, they smouldered, then burst into flame. The demon swept the rows of hanging negatives into one arm and hurled them to the middle of the floor. Wrenching open cupboards, it pulled out hundreds of yellow packets containing rolls of film and many rectangular boxes that held sheet film, and threw them into the pile of curled negatives. Then, the demon walked over to the burning prints and lifted several stacks of them, ignoring the blisters that immediately appeared on its hands.
The pain meant nothing to the demon, but the soul it held subdued deep inside screamed and writhed in agony as it felt the flames destroying its body.
The creature carried the burning stacks to the middle of the floor and dropped them among the heap of negatives and boxes of film. With a whoosh, the dark grey negatives caught alight and quickly engulfed the yellow boxes. The figure of Ernest Goodwin stood amidst the growing inferno and the thing that possessed his body laughed aloud. Fire was an old friend now. Once flames had consumed its mortal body; now they sustained it.
It walked through the blaze and opened the studio door, bidding the others to follow. There was more, much more, to do that night.
19
‘London Ground, Consul 2802 for clearance.’ Captain Rogan became impatient. He hated any delay of departure time, hated the wastage of fuel, the forced retention of the throbbing power building up in the four jet engines. So far, they had only been delayed for one minute, but the senior pilot’s foul mood had already been caused by other, more personal, reasons and the late take-off was a further irritant.
/> ‘Hold, 2802,’ came the firm metallic reply.
‘Come on,’ said Rogan irritably, but to himself, not into the headset.
Keller glanced across at him, and the captain avoided his gaze, looking straight ahead, out into the night.
Christ, thought the co-pilot, that’s the end of our relationship. Why hadn’t Beth kept quiet? What possible good could it have done to tell her husband of her unfaithfulness with his friend and protégé? There were plenty of other names to mention, so why his? A one-night stand. Nothing serious. A lapse on his part. Unforgivable, yes; but among so many others probably a lot more serious, why even mention it? But then Beth had wanted to hurt Peter Rogan where it most hurt – his pride – and she’d succeeded. It wasn’t just her unfaithfulness that wounded him so deeply; it was the humiliation of having been duped by his own subordinate! Someone he’d trusted.
The question was: would he tell Cathy?
Keller had already decided he himself would do so as soon as he got the chance. It was pointless to live under the threat of someone else revealing his duplicity. She’d be hurt terribly when he told her, but if it came from another person . . . He shut the thought from his mind. She’d get over it if her love was strong enough and providing he was honest with her. If she couldn’t . . . It was another thought to be shut from his mind. Whatever happened, he made up his mind he would never lose her. She was too precious now. But Rogan was another matter. He knew he could never really make amends, and knocking him down yesterday hadn’t exactly helped. I’m sorry, Skipper, he apologized mentally. Maybe I’ll make it up to you too, some day.
‘Consul 2802,’ the metallic voice broke into both men’s thoughts, ‘your clearance is flight planned route for Washington Dulles. Standard instrument departure Daventry two, with flight level three-fifty for cruise. Squawk Alpha 4208 with altitude.’
With a relieved sigh, Captain Rogan read back their flight plan.
‘Roger, Consul 2802, read back is correct,’ came the prompt reply. ‘Contact one-two-one decimal three.’
‘London Ground. Consul 2802 at the holding point twenty-eight right.’
‘2802, behind the landing DC8, line up and hold.’
‘2802 behind the landing to line up.’
‘2802 cleared to take off.’
‘2802 is rolling.’
The 747 rumbled down the runway, gathering speed, the thrust from its jets pushing the passengers and crew alike gently back in their seats. In a matter of seconds, V1, the point at which the pilot is committed to flight, was reached and passed. Captain Rogan accelerated to VR and called out, ‘rotate’, as the Jumbo reached its climbing altitude, then he brought the Jumbo’s nose smoothly up into the air and the monster began to lift, incredible in its power, pushing into the unresisting air, becoming a graceful giant in flight as it rose into the night.
Keller relaxed as the Jumbo gained height and drew a great curve in the sky, heading for its assigned airway, Amber One. It was true: when you took off in a smooth-running flying machine such as this, you left all troubles back there on the ground. Even the skipper looked more relaxed as they went through the after-take-off checklist, the tension visibly draining from his face. Keller watched him as he gave the all-clear for the removal of safety belts, the permission to smoke. For a brief second, the senior pilot looked across at him, then turned away to check his instruments, his face inscrutable.
It was at that moment Cathy came bursting through the door.
‘Captain Rogan,’ she said urgently.
‘What is it, Cathy?’ he asked stiffly, eyes never leaving the instruments.
‘One of the first-class passengers has found a device in his briefcase.’ She glanced quickly at Keller, a flicker of emotion passing between them. ‘It looks like . . . a bomb!’
The captain’s head snapped round.
‘Are you sure?’ he barked at her.
She flinched at his rough tone. ‘It – it seems to have some sort of timing mechanism. The passenger doesn’t know how it got into his briefcase.’
‘Are the other passengers aware of it yet?’
‘In the first-class compartment they are. Those near the front in second are wondering what the commotion is about.’
‘All right.’ He looked across at Keller. ‘Get down there and check it out.’
‘Will you change the squawk to the distress code?’
‘Not until you’ve checked it out!’ Rogan snapped.
Cathy looked at the two men curiously, her mind off the danger below for an instant. She had never heard the captain speak to Dave that way before, and they’d been through other crises in the past. Keller had already unharnessed himself and was staring down at the senior pilot as if about to speak. Rogan regarded him coldly and Cathy felt the tension between the two men.
‘Well?’ the captain demanded angrily, his upturned face betraying his rage, but no fear. ‘Get your bloody self down there!’
Keller turned without a word, squeezing out from the confined space and confronting Cathy. He saw her face was pale, concerned not for the possible danger, but for him. He smiled reassuringly and held her arm. ‘Lead the way,’ he said.
As he passed the flight engineer, who had already broken out into a sweat, he clapped him on the shoulder and shouted over the noise of the engines: ‘Don’t get your parachute on yet, Al!’ The flight engineer grinned back weakly and gave him a ‘thumbs up’ sign. They hurried through the narrow cockpit door and began to descend the curving stairwell. Cathy glanced back over her shoulder at him, her face now very pale, her eyes wide. Again, he reached for her, cupping her upturned face with his hand and running his fingers across her soft cheek. He smiled encouragement and they continued their descent.
The chief steward, Brody, was waiting at the bottom of the stairs and, as he saw Keller, he pointed in the direction of the first-class compartment. The co-pilot wasted no time asking questions. He swung round into the compartment, ignoring the rows of anxious, lip-biting faces behind him. He stopped dead at the scene that greeted him.
Sir James Barrett sat sideways in his seat, his feet in the aisle, a black, slimline briefcase open on his lap, a look of consternation on his face. The other passengers’ attitudes varied from sheer panic to nervous curiosity. The younger man next to Sir James, his private secretary, cringed back against the porthole, as if willing himself to sink through the aircraft’s fuselage away from the menacing contraption housed in the case. Four Japanese businessmen, who had occupied the next rows of seats, had moved to the nose of the Jumbo and were cowering and jabbering excitedly. A woman cradled a small, weeping girl in her arms and seemed near to tears herself. A plastic doll had fallen into the aisle and was regarding the drama with cold, unseeing eyes. A man with an American accent was bellowing angrily for him to do something, while his companion tugged at his sleeve trying to calm him.
And one man stood alone, one hand on the back of his seat, the other on the back of the seat in front, supporting himself. He was ghostly thin, his skin yellowish, his face a mass of deep-etched wrinkles. He was smiling. A smile that contained a mixture of fear and excitement. And mockery.
Sir James seemed unable to take his eyes away from the case resting on his knees but, as Keller approached, he carefully turned it around, revealing its contents to the copilot. Keller knew as soon as he saw the elaborate network of wires, the plastic tubes, the timing device, that it was a genuine bomb, and he also understood how it had got on board. He opened his mouth to tell Sir James not to move but, at that moment, a blinding white light erupted before him, and a searing blast lifted him off his feet and hurled him back down the cabin, his whole body wrapped in a scorching cocoon of light.
He felt his body crash against something solid and then he fell to the floor, incredibly feeling no pain, just an overall numbness. He forced his eyes to open and wondered why the world was at such an odd angle, why passengers were floundering, spilling down the incline of the floor, why flames were enveloping the
cabin. Then he saw the forward passenger door, half torn from its surroundings, hanging miraculously by slender threads of metal, the black night air howling through the gap that had been created; and what had happened gradually sank through to his shocked brain.
He tried to raise himself, wondering why he felt no pain, succeeding only to get an elbow beneath him. He tried to cry out as he saw Cathy crawling towards him, her horrified face a bloody mask, her eyes wide with terror – and compassion – her mouth open, screaming. But he heard nothing, for the interior of the aircraft had become a silent world of turmoil. Just as that world began to dim and fade, as his eyes began to close out the horror, he caught one last glimpse of Cathy, her shaking, blood-covered hand reaching towards him, her body fighting against the odd angle of the aircraft, grief now implicit in her eyes.
And then, everything disintegrated into a peaceful blank-ness, a restful slumber.
He felt his eyelids being lifted, and was instantly awake, blinking and pulling his eyes away from the forceful thumbs. He stared up into the concerned face of Father Vincente.
‘Are you all right?’ the priest asked him. ‘Don’t move until we’ve made sure nothing is broken.’
Keller lay still as expert fingers probed his body for breakages and he strived to bring his senses back to the present. It all came flooding back, a vivid vision of a nightmare: the bomb, the explosion, the tilted angle of the cabin as the aircraft plunged to the earth, and the anguish on Cathy’s wounded face, her reaching for him. A tear filled the corner of each eye and he rapidly blinked them away. Perhaps it would have been better not to have remembered.
But at least he was sure of the cause now! The antagonism between the captain and himself had played no part in the destruction of the 747. There had been no neglect by either himself or the senior pilot; it had all been out of their hands. And now he realized how the bomb had been taken on board without detection. He struggled to sit upright, but restraining hands held him back.