‘Be patient, Mr Keller, I’m nearly through,’ Father Vincente said.
‘I’m okay,’ Keller insisted, looking around. ‘Where’s Hobbs?’ he asked anxiously.
‘I’m here, David,’ a muffled voice came from the shadows. A figure stumbled towards him, and the medium came into view clutching a red-stained handkerchief to his lips. The candles had been re-lit, and the beam from the torch was now stronger. There was a quiet stillness about the aircraft.
‘Hobbs, it was a bomb! When I blacked out, I remembered everything that happened that night!’
‘Yes, I know it was a bomb,’ Hobbs said wearily.
Keller tried to discern his features in the flickering light of the candles, the torch beam aimed directly at his own body. Angry, dark red welts had appeared on the medium’s forehead and cheeks; his hair had been burnt away in several places, revealing a proliferation of blisters, many forming even as he watched.
‘Christ!’ was all he could say.
‘Nothing appears to be broken, Mr Keller,’ Father Vincente announced, straightening up from his rapid, but thorough, examination.
‘No, I told you, I feel okay,’ said Keller, unable to look away from Hobbs’s mutilated head.
‘Mr Hobbs needs to get to a hospital right away,’ the priest said. ‘He’s suffered from some severe burns. The cuts around his mouth have opened up again; they’ll need to be treated. I think a strong sedative wouldn’t harm any of us either.’
‘No.’ Hobbs took the bloody handkerchief away from his mouth so he could be understood more clearly. The priest and the co-pilot winced at the sight of his swollen, bleeding lips. ‘There’s more to be done this night.’
‘But you can’t go on in your condition,’ Father Vincente protested.
‘There’s no choice,’ came the simple reply.
‘He’s right. It’s not over yet.’ Keller pulled himself into a sitting position. He said to Hobbs, ‘Why are you sure it was a bomb?’
Hobbs tried unsuccessfully to stem the flow of blood from his lips. He grimaced with pain as he spoke. ‘While I was . . . under, another voice spoke to me. It was a different voice – confused and as frightened as the others – but not the same.’ He bent forward in his agony, and the two men reached out to steady him. ‘No, no, I’m all right. Just let me rest for a moment.’
They waited in silence until the medium had gathered enough strength to carry on. ‘The . . . the voice . . . managed to tell me . . . what had happened . . . who was responsible. We’ve got . . . got to get to this person . . . tonight . . . if we’re to prevent . . .’ He fell forward again, groaning.
Keller held his shoulder. ‘The voice. Who was it? Who spoke to you?’
Hobbs fought to control his distress. ‘I . . . I don’t know. It was confused . . . trying to help us, though . . . I can take you to . . . the person.’
‘Who? The one who planted the bomb?’
‘Yes!’
‘How can you do that?’ the priest broke in.
‘Picture in my . . . mind. He . . . showed . . . me.’
‘It’s a matter for the police then,’ Father Vincente said resolutely.
‘No time . . . no time.’
‘He’s right,’ Keller agreed. ‘How could you explain all this to the police anyway?’
‘We have . . . to hurry. Must get there . . . tonight.’ Hobbs struggled to get to his feet, the priest and co-pilot helping him. He was unsteady, but able to walk.
Thoughts raced through Keller’s head. The bomb. Carried aboard by Sir James. As simple as that. As well as being a director of various other companies, he played an important role as a director of Keller’s own airline and it was often his privilege to dispense with the tedious customs checks and the personal baggage scrutiny by boarding the aircraft with the crew. It was all unofficial, of course, and a prerogative not always used; but this time, Keller was sure, it had been. It was all so easy.
But who had planted the bomb? What maniac would kill over three hundred people just to get one man? Or had mass murder been the true intention? And why hadn’t Sir James been aware of the bomb before he boarded the Jumbo? There were still so many questions that remained to be answered. His own escape, for instance. He had heard of cases before, when a person standing directly in the path of an explosion had somehow miraculously escaped injury. It was something to do with the rushing air, pushing the person ahead of the blast, forming a protective shield around his body. It was improbable, but not impossible. His body had struck something solid and been forced round it, almost into the stairwell. It could have been that which protected him from the ensuing fire flash accompanying the explosion. Then, when the 747 had plummeted to the ground, the loosely hanging door had been wrenched free, flying back, scraping the wing as Tewson had surmised. And he, lying close to the doorway, had been thrown clear to land in the soft mud of the field.
He felt relieved: relieved at finding the explanation of his survival; relieved to know the disaster could in no way be attributed to the actions of himself or Captain Rogan. But it was an uneasy relief.
They scrambled clear of the aircraft, surprised to find it hadn’t disintegrated completely, surprised not to find a reception committee of policemen waiting for them. Surely the terrific din from the wreck had attracted some attention. Then, the priest pointed towards an obvious reason for the lack of attention.
To the east, towards Eton’s High Street, the night glowed red as flames licked into the sky. It looked as though one of the shops or buildings along the High Street had caught fire.
And the fire was spreading.
20
The three boys crept stealthily along the shadowy colonnade, two carrying small cans of paint, past the numerous names of Old Etonians killed in the 1914–18 War, morbidly – but proudly so – inscribed on the stone walls. One of the boys tried desperately to stifle a giggle.
‘For Chrissakes, Greene, shut up will you!’ the leader hissed. The offending boy did his best to smother the sound with a dirty handkerchief.
They reached the solid wooden door of the antechapel and paused, listening for any sudden shouts, any pursuing footsteps.
‘Look, Spelling,’ one of the boys whispered breathlessly, ‘d’you think we should go back? I mean, if we’re caught we’ll be slung out on our ear.’
The leader turned to him and said with disgust: ‘Bugger off if you’re scared, Clemens. You were the one who thought of it in the first place!’
‘Yes, but it was just a joke. I mean, it was just an idea. I didn’t think you’d take me seriously.’ He scratched nervously at a pimple on his neck.
‘Well, we did! And you’re in on it, so keep your sodding trap shut!’
It was an idea that had come to Clemens the night before as they lay awake in their beds, restless because of the exciting but spooky stories that had flown around the College that day. The stories were all concerned with the mysterious death of Thatcher, the dramatic deaths of the couple who had leapt from a window into the High Street, the corpse down by the river, and the other unusual happenings – not the least of which was the vicar going bonkers that very day. The stories had spread and grown, the boys revelling in their own particularly macabre versions.
The favourite so far was that the vicar was an occultist, a black magician, and the couple who had committed suicide were part of his coven. The fat boy had been their sacrifice to the Prince of Darkness and the man who had died down by the river had come across one of their secret ceremonies and had been frightened to death! But the Devil hadn’t been satisfied with the sacrifice so had made the vicar potty, and the other two had killed themselves out of remorse! It didn’t bother the younger boys that the time sequence was illogical, nor the fact that the next day the Reverend Biddlestone had been seen returning from the hospital, as sane as anyone. The vicar would have to be watched with a cautious eye from now on, and gold crosses would have to be worn for protection against his hypnotic evil (a Saint Christopher medal would
do if you didn’t own a cross). The older boys had scoffed at the juniors and the ‘Pop’ had reprimanded all of them for spreading such silly gossip.
But to the three fifteen-year-olds, Spelling, Greene and Clemens, who shared the same room in their particular Oppidan house, the stories were too gruesomely enjoyable to let die so soon. And they provided an excellent chance to use the keys to the chapel. They weren’t the real keys, of course – just replicas skilfully cut by Greene in the manual crafts class, the originals having been ‘borrowed’ from Saunders, the janitor, who looked after the chapel and made sure visitors didn’t carve their initials on the ancient woodwork. They’d been returned before he’d even known they were missing – after an impression had been made in Plasticine, of course. What to use them for, that had been the problem.
And then, it had all fallen nicely into place when the stories of ghosts and black magic had swept round the College. The original and fairly feeble intention had been to sneak in and carve their own initials, not amongst the hundreds of past Etonians, many of whom had become famous figures of history, but in some better, more obscure place, where nobody would find them. A secret place which only they would know about, so they could sit and gloat with each other during services, smug in the private knowledge that their names were there with the immortals! It was a practice that had been banned, but that, of course, only made it all the more desirable. The place they’d agreed on was Provost Thomas Murray’s elaborate tomb which was on the left of the altar; possibly somewhere on the carved effigy below the tomb. No one would ever spot the initials if they etched them discreetly; and think of the satisfaction in years to come when one returned to the College and could point out their names to their wives, or children – or mistresses! That had been the intention, but Clemens’s plan was better.
What if, one day, when all the school filed in for morning service, they found the chapel daubed with black magic signs, emblems of witchcraft, symbols of the occult! What a furore there’d be! What a commotion! The College would never get over it! And the atmosphere was exactly right. It could all be cleaned off afterwards, of course, so there’d be no actual damage done. It would be something to laugh over for years to come!
Spelling had purchased a book on the black arts in one of the old second-hand bookshops in the High Street that very morning, and there were lots of smashing pictures of diabolic symbols they could copy. They’d have to get rid of the book as soon as their deed had been accomplished, of course; the consequences would be disastrous if the prank were ever traced back to them! The keys would have to be destroyed, too. But the beauty of the idea was that they could lock the doors behind them so it would indeed look as if supernatural forces had been responsible for the damage!
As the evening had drawn on, Clemens had become more and more reticent about the whole adventure. It had been a stupid idea! They would be expelled without a second thought! And, anyway, it was pretty creepy around the chapel at night. Spelling had threatened to bash him if he continued whining; it was the best wheeze anyone had thought of for years at the College – possibly for centuries! What a chance to get back at old Griggs-Meade, the headmaster, the self-righteous bastard! This would make him change his tedious sermons on how evil was just inside oneself. This would make him realize evil was a real, physical, living force! Dennis Wheatley said so!
Greene sniggered again. ‘Come on, you clots!’ he whispered loudly. ‘Let’s get on with it.’
Spelling took one last furtive look around, then drew out a long, gleaming key from his trouser pocket. He inserted it quietly into its accommodating keyhole, all three boys holding their breaths and clenching their teeth. He turned his wrist and exclaimed: ‘It’s already unlocked!’
Still with bated breath, he gently pushed the door open, thanking God Saunders kept the hinges well oiled.
‘Let’s go, Spelling. I mean, there must be someone already in there if it’s open,’ Clemens said, nervously looking around him.
‘No, look! There’s no lights on inside. That silly old bugger Saunders must have forgotten to lock it.’ Spelling poked his head through the gap, then slipped inside. ‘Come on,’ they heard him command from the darkness.
‘Go on, Clemens, you first.’ Clemens was shoved roughly through the door by Greene. He was pushed again when he bumped into Spelling in the dark.
‘Watch it, you bloody oaf!’ Spelling hissed. ‘Come on, Greene, get in and shut the bloody door. Then we can switch the torch on.’
The long gap narrowed and disappeared completely as the third boy entered the hall to the antechapel and closed the door behind him.
A thin beam of light cut through the blackness as Spelling switched on his pencil torch.
‘Are you sure there’s no one else here?’ Clemens asked anxiously.
‘Well, they could hardly have climbed the stairs in the dark, could they?’ Spelling retorted. ‘Now just shut up and let’s get into the chapel. Follow me.’ He crept silently up the wide wooden steps and the other two followed hastily, their ears acutely aware of every creak and groan of the old staircase.
They reached the door to the antechapel and to their surprise found this unlocked also.
‘Bugger me, old Saunders must have been on the juice,’ Greene exclaimed. Then he chuckled. ‘Tell you what, we’ll lock up for him when we leave.’
The others tittered in nervous appreciation. Spelling peered round the door again, shining the thin beam around the walls of the antechapel, which was a sizeable hall, as big as many a small community church. They listened intently for any noise before entering the heraldically decorated ante-chapel, then moved cautiously over its stone floor towards the entrance to the main chapel, Clemens half-expecting the whole place to be suddenly flooded with light and an angry voice to demand what they were up to. But there was no disturbance of any kind.
The chapel itself was infinitely brighter because of the high stained-glass windows which allowed light from outside to enter the vast hall in a muted diffusion of colour. To Clemens, though, the chapel still presented a forbidding and gloomy interior, and if Greene had not been following so closely behind him, he would have turned and fled there and then. The three boys stared down into the depths of the high-roofed fan-vaulted chapel with its rows of beautifully carved dark wooden pews facing each other across the wide aisle, those at the rear bearing the inscriptions of wealthy or famous past Etonians. The impressive marble altar, backed by its exquisite tapestries, at the end of the perpendicular architec-tured chapel, was barely visible to them and the fragmentary wall-paintings running along the first half of the chapel’s length were just grey blurs of darker shapes.
All three failed to see the white-coated figure sitting in the dark at the back of a row of pews. But all three were aware of the dank coldness that seeped through to their bones.
‘C-Christ, it’s bloody cold!’ murmured Spelling.
Clemens, shocked by the profanity in such a holy place, could only stare at the white blob of Spelling’s face.
‘Let’s get painting,’ said Greene eagerly, and he marched down the aisle of the chapel swinging his can of paint cheerfully, humming his current favourite tune. He seemed unperturbed by the coldness which clung heavily to the chapel.
‘After you, spotty,’ Spelling said cruelly to Clemens, sure he would make a bolt for it if he got the chance. The boy shrugged his shoulders dejectedly and followed Greene towards the altar. Spelling took one last look behind him and did likewise. He thought he’d seen a white blur against the left-hand wall but, as he began to swing the feeble torch towards it, Greene’s disgusted voice distracted him.
‘Smells as if a sodding cat’s died in here,’ Greene said, wrinkling his nose at the odour. ‘I say, Spelling, where shall we do our daubs? Over the altar?’
‘No,’ came Spelling’s reply. ‘On the walls, I think, and perhaps on the floor in front of the altar.’
‘Right. You do the walls, I’ll do the floor.’
‘We’
ve only got one torch, idiot. We’ll have to do one at a time.’
‘Come on, then. Floor first.’ Greene began to prise open the lid of his half-pint can of paint. ‘Here, Clemens, you hold the torch while Spelling and I do the paintings.’
Spelling thrust the torch into his companion’s shaking hand and began to open his can of paint. ‘What have you got, Greeney? The red?’ he whispered across at his friend who was gingerly holding the lid from his tin with thumb and finger, careful not to get paint on himself.
‘Er . . . red,’ Greene replied.
‘Yes, I’ve got the black. Now, let’s just have a look in the book. Shine the light over here, Clemens.’
As he leafed through the book, searching for an appropriate symbol, Clemens glanced around the chapel. His eyes were becoming more accustomed to the gloom now, but for a moment he wondered if they were playing tricks on him. For just a brief second, he thought he’d seen the long rows of pews filled with dark unmoving figures. He blinked his eyes vigorously, then looked again. No, it had been his imagination, there was nothing there.
‘Keep the sodding light still, will you, Clemens!’ Spelling said harshly. ‘Ah – this one will do for a start.’ He grinned at the picture he’d found, his face evil and gnome-like in the light from the torch. He screwed up his eyes to read the caption running beneath the illustration. ‘The goetic or sorcer-ous circle used for black evocations and pacts,’ he read aloud.
‘Sounds all right,’ commented Greene. ‘Bit complicated, though.’
‘We’ll simplify it.’ Spelling lay the book down on the floor and produced a two-inch-wide paintbrush from his jacket pocket. He dipped it into the black paint and, bending low and shuffling backwards, began to trace a rough circle on the floor in front of the altar.