Cape Wrath (10 page)

“It's pretty well-preserved, isn't it,” he said.

She nodded absently. “Yes, but it's an idiom I haven't come across before.”

Alan hefted the camera. “Shall I get a shot of it?”

Oddly, the Professor didn't seem too keen. “Perhaps later, eh.”

Alan was surprised, but knew better than to question his project-leader. “What about the portal-stone?”

“Just concentrate on the barrow for the moment,” she said. “Get it from every angle. Remember to put something in for scale, as well.”

He nodded and went back to what he was doing before. A few moments later, Clive re-emerged from the tomb, looking dusty, puffed and red in the face. The cramped interior was certainly no place for a big man, especially with two of the other guys already inside it.

“I think I'm going for a walk, to get some fresh air,” he said, beating himself down. “Like the bloody Black Hole of Calcutta in there.”

Alan nodded and smiled. Clive ambled off, checking with the Professor first. She exchanged a few words with him, then stood and came back to the barrow. “Lunchtime, I think, Alan,” she announced.

Relieved, he switched the camera off. Right on time, David reappeared from the entrance-tunnel, also looking grubby and tired.

“Just the man,” the Professor said. “Toddle down to the camp, would you, David. Get us a fire going. We'll be cooking in the next 20 minutes.”

The younger student grinned broadly at the mention of food, and, for once without a quip, hurried away to do as he was told, leaving Alan and the Professor standing side by side. There was a moment of silence. Alan glanced round at his mentor. She was lost in thought … by the furrows on her brow, apparently painful thought; by Professor Mercy's normal standards, she was in a very doleful, downbeat mood. He didn't need to be a psychoanalyst to understand why.

“Craig's death
is
a bit of a choker, isn't it,” he finally remarked.

She glanced at him. “Sorry?”

Alan shook his head. “No,
I'm
sorry. I made a bit of a scene down there, and I shouldn't have.”

She considered before replying: “Well … the whole thing's pretty upsetting.”

By now, Barry and Linda had come over to join them. The Professor surveyed them all, her beloved students, and gave them a sad but rather fond smile. “What's the definition?” she said. “Ah yes … as I recall, archaeology is supposed to be ‘the study of ancient cultures through the excavation and description of their remains'.” She shook her head. “Despite Indiana Jones' antics, it was never supposed to be dangerous.”

Alan shrugged. “Like you said, accidents happen.”

“And Craig would go off on his own and do these things, you know, Jo,” Linda put in.

“Yes,” the Professor replied, gazing down the slope into the pinewood.

Clearly their words of consolation were no real solace to her. It struck Alan that he had underestimated the woman at the time they'd found Craig's body; evidently, she felt a deep remorse and guilt about what had happened. Either that or she had something else on her mind that was distressing her more. But
that
had to be nonsense. What could be more distressing for a teacher than the death of one of her star pupils?

“Come on, folks,” the Professor suddenly said, with an attempt at brightness. “Let's get something to eat.”

There was a mumble of agreement. They called Nug out from the barrow, then set off downhill to the camp. But when they got there, the fire was still not made up, and there was no sign of either David or Clive.

“Now what?” said Barry irritably.

“David's down there.” Linda pointed towards the nearest of the bog-pools.

David was crouching by the water's edge, with his sweater and t-shirt off. He seemed to be washing himself. Alan and the Professor ambled down towards him. David heard them approach and turned. He was dripping wet; arms, face and torso.

“Thought you were making the fire for us?” Alan said.

“Thought I'd scrub up first,” David replied with a grin. “You know, hygiene? Digging in graves and all that, then cooking lunch.”

“Well your fastidiousness does you credit,” Alan said. “Now can you get your arse back up to the camp, please? We're all starving.”

David stood and shook his hands dry. “You mean
I'll
actually get something this time?”

Alan shook his head solemnly. “Don't push your luck too far, pal …”

“David?” the Professor said. “Have you seen Clive?” She was gazing thoughtfully into the trees. Clearly, she hadn't even been listening to the banter.

David shrugged. “Didn't he say he was going for a walk or something?”

“I'll find him,” Alan said, moving away.

The professor stopped him. “It's okay,
I
will. There's something I want to talk to him about.”

And she set off without waiting for an argument. Alan stared after her, puzzled. “Not like her to do the leg-work,” he finally said.

David chuckled as he pulled his t-shirt back on. “Hey pal, don't knock it. When the engine driver's willing to do the rubbing-rag's job, you don't hear the rubbing-rag complaining.”

Alan glanced at him with distaste. “Cool analogy, thanks.”

Five minutes later they were seated around the fire, plastic dishes proffered, while Linda filled the frying pan with cooking-oil, laid several strips of bacon in it, and cracked a couple of eggs on top of them. In essence, she was frying up an omelette, though on other recent field-tips this particular delicacy had come to be known, rather uncharitably, as ‘egg-mess'. Not that anyone was complaining. As well as being highly nutritious, Linda's egg-mess was also rather tasty, and quick and easy to throw together. There also tended to be more than enough for everyone, as it was easy to store plenty of fresh eggs and bacon in the cold-box.

“I wonder what Craig did wrong?” David said, as they all sat there eating.

“Get interested in bird watching,” Barry replied.

“You think the police'll come over here, to have a look round?” Linda asked.

Barry shrugged. “They might.”

“It's pretty cut and dried, though, isn't it?” David said.

Again, Barry shrugged. Alan glanced at Nug, wondering what
his
view was. Nug remained non-committal.

Linda was about to say something else, when an odd noise broke in from somewhere in the woods behind them. It was like a long, drawn-out
bleat
, though it sounded unnaturally high-pitched, and after they'd been listening to it for several seconds, it was cut off abruptly.

Alan stood up. His face had gone white. “What the hell was that?” he said.

Barry gave him an irritable look. “A sheep. What's the big deal?”

Alan didn't hang around to disagree. He dropped his plate, and pounded away into the trees. The others glanced bewilderedly at each other for a moment, then Nug stood up. “The big deal is, Barry,” he said, “
there're no sheep on this fucking island!
”

Alan wasn't exactly sure where the sound had come from, but he zig-zagged in the general direction, stepping back and forth among the increasingly densely-clustered pines. He was vaguely aware that the others were close behind him, calling his name, telling him to wait up … but he couldn't do that. That sixth sense he'd never previously known he had was tingling again, screaming at him that something terrible had happened, and that he was homing in on the scene of it right now. The apprehension rose up inside him like floodwater. Though he was running as fast as he could, he felt an irrational panic. He had to get there, had to find out what was happening, because he somehow knew it was both evil and unnatural …

Then he entered the glade.

The first thing he saw was the Professor sitting cross-legged, apparently crooning to herself. Then he saw the blood, glistening red among the rich browns and greens. The more he looked, the more there seemed to be of it, and not spattered, but spilled, daubed, thick like tar. And, good God, it was everywhere! On the mounds of fallen pine-needles, on the rocks and cones, running down the bark of the trees, dripping from the nodding heads of the forest orchids.

And then he saw why.

Someone had stripped Clive to his capacious waist. Then they had crucified him. Between two pine trees. Each one of his hands had been fastened to its respective trunk by having a tent peg hammered through it. The torture hadn't ended there, however. He had been crucified back-to-front, and then his back had been brutally attacked.

First the shirt torn away.

Then the flesh.

Then the fat.

Then the bones.

Someone had hacked viciously at the bones, for the rear section of Clive's ribcage now hung apart like two broken, bloodied xylophones. The central ridge of his spinal column was intact and in place, albeit in a vertical line of torn cartilage and jutting white vertebrae, but to either side of it, the moist yellow sacks of his half-deflated lungs bulged outwards through two spectacularly gruesome apertures.

Alan felt as though he'd been hit with a mace. He stood there, swaying, in near paralysis. Beside him, he was vaguely aware of a high-pitched tooting. Seconds seemed to pass before he realised that this was David screaming. A moment later, Barry came up alongside them, and he too began to scream, a dirge of hysterical profanities. The athlete covered his eyes and staggered away, before toppling to the ground. Nug meanwhile, who'd seen death before but never like this, had lurched sideways against Alan, then sank down onto his knees.

“Jesus Christ!” he shouted. “Jesus Christ Almighty …
Alan, it's the Blood-Eagle!
”

Alan, still unable to speak, could only nod drunkenly, his eyes riveted on the crimson atrocity, his mouth tight-closed like a clam. He'd known
that
of course, all along. From the first moment he'd set eyes on the eviscerated rib-cage, he'd known …

The Blood-Eagle. Possibly the most ghastly of all Viking blood-rituals.

In 867, they'd done it to King Aella of York, and in 869 to King Edmund of East Anglia – two sovereigns who fell into Danish hands after their armies were butchered, and who then made the mistake of thinking their royal status would protect them from abuse. Neither, of course, had known at the time about the ferocity of Ivar, his detestation for the ‘White Christ' – as his people knew Jesus – and his all-consuming adoration for the Nordic Allfather, Odin, who demanded only quality sacrifices in return for his gifts of rage and lust. Inevitably, on the back of berserk Ivar's five triumphant years on the battlefield, only the gratitude of the Blood-Eagle – the ultimate form of offering – would on these occasions suffice; the slow ruination of the human body with knives and clubs, and the eventual sundering of the rib-cage, so the lungs might be brought out and arranged on the back in the fashion of folded wings, creating a lasting impression of the eagle, Odin's most sacred bird.

Moments seemed to pass, yet Alan was still only vaguely aware of where he was and what he was doing. From David's direction, he could hear a loud and persistent retching, and the splashing of vomited egg-mess on the forest floor. Hardened though he was to the realities of British history, Alan had rarely had it thrust in his face like this. He now knew that he too was going to vomit. Either that or faint, for his legs suddenly felt like rubber.

“Let's see 'em write this off as an accident …” he heard Nug mumble.

Then Linda arrived, coming breathless into the clearing, having taken a different route from the rest of them, just to cover all bases. That was very like Linda; she was serious about her martial arts, and prided herself on staying alert and keeping a cool head in a crisis. Of course, up until this moment, she'd never experienced a real crisis, and her immediate reaction now was to let forth a series of wild and piercing shrieks. The eyes looked ready to pop from her head, the veins stood out in her brow. This went on for 30 seconds at least, before she then turned and plunged frantically away into the wood, running pell-mell – to where and for what, nobody knew.

Alan recovered himself sufficiently to go lurching after her, but Linda was fit and strong, and she ran far, far ahead. Minutes passed as he blundered in pursuit, once again tripping, stumbling, whipped by branches. “Linda!” he shouted. “Linda, wait!” As far as he knew, she was headed in a vaguely northwards direction, which meant straight towards the sea. In Linda's state, of course, she probably wouldn't be aware of that. “
Linda, Jesus Christ … Stop!
”

But she wouldn't. Not at first. She dashed blindly on, sidestepping trees with ballet-dancer precision, going under and over branches like she was on an assault course. She'd have stayed well ahead of him all the way, had the horror of what she had just seen not been hampering her, finally to the point where she lost all sense of place and direction. She began to totter and tumble. Her throat was raw with screaming. Her eyes filled up with tears, blurring her vision like fog. She neither saw nor sensed the vast gulf just ahead of her, just beyond the next stand of pines.