Catacombs of Terror! (12 page)

They looked at each other. Kafka spoke. “What happened last night was probably the most frightening thing I've ever encountered. I don't know what I was expecting, but . . . I tried to sleep when I got home but I couldn't. Too much in my brain. I couldn't forget the darkness, and I couldn't forget those—those horrible sounds. Then I realised that my tape recorder was still running. I rewound the tape. I felt like my memory was, I don't know, rewriting itself or something. I thought that maybe we hadn't heard anything at all. That we'd got sort of hysterical and imagined it.”

I raised my eyebrows. Oh, so that was okay, then. We'd imagined it. I bowed my head and gave my temples a squeeze. I gestured for Kafka to carry on.

“Well, anyway. I had to get my head clear about whether we'd heard anything or not. So I rewound the tape and had a listen. It started off okay. I could hear us whispering and there was ambient noise from us wandering about inside that chamber. But pretty soon, when we were walking along the corridor, there was this weird noise. It started way before we noticed it. It was chanting of some kind, but it was really distant. By the time the tape picked us up, whispering about it, it had been going on for nearly twenty minutes. We just hadn't heard it at all. I couldn't make out what the words were. I think they were in another language. Something like,
‘memvola sintrompo, memvola sintrompo, kontentiga morto, kontentiga morto.
' But the worst thing was, amongst all the gobbledegook chanting that I couldn't make sense of, there was your name. Repeatedly.
Martin Valpolicella. Martin Valpolicella.
Like they were calling you. As if they knew you were there.”

“I never heard that. I never heard that. I did
not
hear that,” I said, and I could feel sweat pricking on my scalp. I felt very cold.

“Nor did I, Martin.
But it was on the fucking tape!
I swear it. Look, I don't know myself what the hell it means. But the tape picked up stuff that we didn't hear. This Latin or whatever the fuck it was, it's there, on the tape. And your name. There is some extremely heavy-duty sinister shit going on, Martin, and whoever's doing it . . . I don't know. But this tape scared me, maybe as much as being in the tunnel scared me. It sounded—evil. I could hardly bear to listen to that noise on the tape. But I get the feeling that you're being trapped. The tunnels are a trap. You're walking into it. If I was you I'd take a hard look at what I was doing. I'd leave it all well alone . . . .”

“That wouldn't necessarily solve anything,” said Stonehenge. I smoked my cigarette and looked out of the window. Their voices were just wallpaper. I looked out and I watched the raindrops running down the glass. I could see the woods on the other side of the valley, hazy in the rain. Everything looked calm. Hardly anyone walked past the café, and those who did were huddled up against the weather. In couples or alone, they passed by, on their way to the next episode in their lives. Sunday dinner somewhere, maybe. The cinema. The rain veiled the horizon, and I felt like I was inside a cloud. My eyes began to lose focus. I was drifting away. With a conscious effort I pulled myself back to wherever I was supposed to be. Stonehenge and Kafka were looking at me quizzically.

“What?” I asked a little bitterly. The brief escape had been pleasant. Maybe the best thing that had happened to me in a while.

“I was saying we mustn't frighten ourselves,” said Stonehenge. “If we do, we're doing Their work for Them. They'll have won before we've begun. They'll have scared us off. And if this tape really does reveal that AFFA are calling your name, so what? They know it already. It doesn't mean they know you were there, though of course they may well have known, or been alerted somehow that you were there. AFFA already plan to use you as Their fall guy. The chanting might have been to do with that. There are less than twenty-four hours until the time that's been set for your arrest. I suggest to you both that we use this time as productively as possible, rather than getting tied up in knots over what may have sounded terrifying but probably, in reality, was not.”

He took a slurp at his coffee, and waited for one of us to respond. I kind of spluttered. Kafka replied in a taut squeal.

“Sounded terrifying? You weren't there, mister. It was more than terrifying. And that was before I heard the tape. I think we're in trouble, really bad trouble, and I think the quicker we leave this stuff alone the quicker we'll be able to have some kind of normal life. Get it?”

“I get it. But I don't think you do. I think you're so freaked out that you can't think straight. Listen. Scaring people is nothing to Them. It's a sideline. If, as you think, They knew you were there, why didn't They come and get you? AFFA know the tunnels inside out. If They knew you were there then They could have got you. Easy. No problem. But They didn't. Why not? It's my opinion that They didn't know you were in the catacombs. So, Valpolicella's name might have come up. So? They've already decided to use him as the scapegoat for their next human sacrifice. It's just coincidence that you were down there when they were chanting his name.”

“Well, that's fine,” I said, “and very reassuring. Okay. Okay, Stonehenge, here's my verdict. You are full of shit. And you're going to stay full of shit until you agree to come with me, into the tunnels, tonight.”

“Christ, Martin, you can't be serious,” said Kafka, almost shouting. We were still the only customers in the café. The waiters were looking at us with interest. I shot them a glare.

“Shut up, Colin,” I said quietly. “Let him answer me.” Stonehenge looked me in the eye for a time. Maybe a minute. Maybe a little less.

“You're on,” he said. “I've never been more serious. Tonight is our last chance to stop AFFA. I'm coming. Colin? Are you coming?”

Kafka choked. He looked like he was close to spraying the table with coffee.

“No. I am not. I'm staying up here, thanks. Look, I don't mind finding stuff out for you. I don't even mind sticking my neck out for you. But I am
not
going back down there. I'm scared. I don't mind admitting it. Okay?”

“Okay, Colin,” I replied. “And if my name wasn't already known to them, if they hadn't already planned where in the basket my head was going to land, I'd be right with you. But I've got to do this. Otherwise they're going to fuck me up and I won't even know why. I might be crazy already, but trying to figure stuff out after the event isn't my style. Now, Stonehenge. Let me get this straight. You and me are going underground tonight. Okay. That'll be just peachy. But let's not get ahead of ourselves. Colin's told me his disturbing news, and it was lots of fun. If I remember rightly, you had some disturbing news, too. So, do we get to hear it?”

I waved to one of the waiters for more coffee. The toast had got cold, but it wasn't any great shakes when it was hot either. I'd had a couple of bites, but the bread had turned to cotton wool in my mouth. It had taken a little while to swallow. My mouth was pretty dry anyway, for some reason. Yeah, well. I looked at my watch. 11
A.M
. More coffee arrived, so I drank some of it while Stonehenge gave us his news.

“You said something about pigs,” he said.

“I did,” I answered.

“What? What the hell are you talking about?” demanded Kafka.

“That horrible squealing? The noise that really got us moving? That was pigs, I'm pretty sure. I realised when I got home. That's what a load of pigs sound like at feeding time.”

I hoped I sounded as bored as I felt.

“So, yeah, Mister Stonehenge. What about them? What about the pigs?”

“Well, when you mentioned pigs on the phone, I knew it must be true. It makes sense.
This city was founded because of pigs.
”

“Just fuck off, why don't you,” said Kafka.

“Ah, give the guy a break,” I said. “It's maybe hard work being a professor or whatever.”

“Thank you,” said Stonehenge wryly. “Now. Listen. Just as there are arguments in science, in politics, there are arguments about history. You've heard the cliché about history being written by the winners, yes?”

I nodded for Stonehenge to continue.

“Well, the history you were, presumably, taught at school is simply
one
account of
many
that exist. Most of the history you were taught is the invention of the Victorians, of the builders of the British Empire; of course, it pleased them to interpret history as a succession of empires, of continuous development, of increasing scientific enlightenment. But
their
history is not the only history. The real history of
this
city—a history that predates the Romans, never mind the Victorians—is that Bladud, the son of a certain King Lud—the ruler of Babylon-on-Thames, or, as we now know it, London—was exiled from the royal palace because he contracted leprosy. Bladud, who had been destined to become king of England, became a humble
pig herder
after his exile, and if that were not humiliating enough, his pigs caught his leprosy from him.

“That city, the ancient city of Babylon-on-Thames, is rumoured to still exist, metres below the modern edifice, below the sewers, below the underground railways. And in that subterranean city, below Ludgate Circus and Farringdon Road, where the River Fleet still flows below the surface, live the Fleet Pigs. An ancient race of pigs who have existed underground for centuries, feeding on the various sorts of debris that fall through the layers down to old Babylon. They're said to steal and consume human children . . . adults disappear as well. Vagrants. Drunks. Addicts. The lost, the miserable. Nothing more is heard of them. It may be that these disappearances are the work of the Fleet Pigs . . . .

“The legends say that these pigs are the descendants of those Bladud was given when he was exiled, a thousand years ago, or more. The leper Bladud wandered westwards through the countryside with his leprous pigs, reviled and rejected by all who saw him. Until he came to
this
valley, the valley where
this city
now stands. In those days it was a valley of darkness, bounded by towering hills and high cliffs, where amongst the matted vegetation the exiled Bladud found black bubbling quicksands, steaming with unnatural heat . . . bright red rocks stained with the iron content of the spring waters . . . blood red . . . . He led his pigs into the waters. When they emerged they were
cured
—they were free of the curse of leprosy that had afflicted them. Bladud followed them into the waters, and
he
was cured, too. He founded the city on this site.

“But Bladud was a tyrant. His thirst for power was unquenchable. He ruthlessly destroyed those who stood in his way. He set up prison camps for his enemies on the hills around his new city. They were more like death camps. Most of the hills around here have never been excavated, but there was one small dig early in the twentieth century on Solsbury Hill, to the east of the city. In an area of just a thousand square feet, the remains of six hundred mutilated bodies were found. Smashed skeletons. The excavators were appalled. They'd never seen anything like it. Body upon body. Bone upon bone. Nowhere else in Europe—not until the twentieth century—has revealed massacres on such an immense scale. The finds suggest that the whole area was incredibly heavily fortified, and anyone—anyone—who disagreed with the regime was brutally disposed of. And I'm not talking about myths here. Barry Eliot has heard this from Karen. What I'm telling you forms part of AFFA's oral and written history. In other words—for all intents and purposes—it's true.”

“What about the pigs?” asked Kafka.

“I'm getting to them. Bladud loved pigs much more than he loved people. He had been despised and exiled by humans. Pigs had become his only companions—his leprous pigs. The descendants of his first pig herd became his—his killing machines.
He
bred pigs to kill
. They became like pig Rottweilers. Again, this is what Barry has heard from Them. Bladud would have his enemies crippled, their joints smashed, then thrown as living food to his pigs. These pigs thrived on live human flesh. Bladud's victims were thrown down deep holes—oubliettes, or ‘forgetting holes,' they're called—onto ever-growing mounds of the dead and the wounded, as food for the pigs that roamed the catacombs beneath the city.”

“
Mounds of bodies
?” I said, almost to myself. Putrefying corpses, animal and human, piled up.
The fetid black liquid seeping from the crushed carcasses at the bottom of the pile, the writhing masses of larval flies, the sickening miasma emanating from it
. . . . I lit a cigarette. I felt bad.

“That is a revolting story,” said Kafka. “Are you suggesting that what we heard in the tunnels last night were the descendants of these—these fucking man-eating pigs? Because if you are, then you're even more of a lunatic than I thought you were. You can't seriously be thinking of going down there?” He turned to me. “Valpolicella, don't listen to this guy. He's fucking crazy!” Then he stood up. His chair crashed to the ground behind him. The waiters were really taking notice now.

“Who the fuck are you?” he bellowed at Stonehenge. Stonehenge did a pretty good job. He faced Kafka down. He just looked him in the eye until he backed away. Kafka picked up his chair and sat down again.

“I am not your enemy. As I told Valpolicella, I'm an academic. I teach pre-Roman history at the University of London. When I was first told this convoluted and, I admit, barely believable story by Barry Eliot, I reacted much as you did. Though I didn't knock my chair over. But the more I heard and the more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that it was—and is—true. I've always studied conventionally. I've never had much time for earth mysteries, ley lines, or crop circles. But there are just too many gaps in our understanding of the world. It's been said that modern science has one superstition—which is the notion of coincidence. The same holds true for all modern branches of learning. Anyway, you heard the pigs. I've heard
about
them, but I've never
heard
them. You're ahead of me there.”