Catacombs of Terror! (7 page)

Another interesting thing was happening. I had a peculiar feeling that I was being watched. Not surprising, after ‘interviewing' a surveillance company. Okay. But it was a more visceral feeling than that. An animal sense. It started as something vague, like a forgotten errand. But by the time I was halfway down the street that led to my office it had coalesced into a certainty. I was being followed. I stopped and inspected the windows of a bike shop. I wasn't going to do anything as stupid as look back. But I considered my options. If I went to my office now . . . . No. I wanted to stay on top of this. Hell, I needed to stay on top. Time was running out.

I darted across the road, through the usual slow-moving Saturday traffic jam. Making a bit more of car-avoiding than was really necessary, I ducked into a pub and shook the water off. I stood just inside the door and waited. My tail was just under one minute behind me. Smartly dressed. Pretty expensive clothes, and formal enough to look just a little out of place in this particular pub on a Saturday. He was a very big man, I thought. I'd turned to the bar, waiting to get served. He scanned the pub, quickly and efficiently. Okay. I wasn't trying to hide. I was just an honest journalist, having a drink after a bit of weekend work. Fair enough? Bet your life. I was covered. And very glad I hadn't gone straight back to the office, past the brass plaque by the door. That might have been something of a giveaway.

I got a pint and moved away from the bar, taking care to appear not to notice my unwelcome companion. He checked me out, seemed to come to the conclusion I was legit. He did some kind of ‘my friend isn't here after all' mime and left. I found a seat and pulled out my cigarettes. I'd been a convincing reporter, I thought. I'd had a press pass. I'd been fairly predictable. A bit stupid. I didn't think I'd asked any of those ‘wrong' questions that Colin had been so keen for me to avoid. Why had the Council, or, more likely, ScryTech/KHS thought it necessary to have me tailed?

I finished my pint. Scurried out into the rain after checking there was no nosey smart dressed man hanging around. I'd gone fifteen yards when a car pulled up next to me. Expensive. Shiny. The tinted passenger window rolled down electrically and a voice said, “Get in.”

I leant down to look in at the speaker, but before I could open my mouth, one of the back doors opened, someone from behind manhandled me into the back seat, shoved themselves in after me and there I was, sandwiched between two huge guys. It was like the one who'd tailed me had a twin or something. It was expertly done, and I fought back a scream as it happened. The car started moving immediately, and we were heading out of the city before I could speak.

“
What the fuck is this?
” I spluttered.

“Be quiet. Do not speak until you're asked to,” said the guy in the passenger seat. He had a very even voice. No emotion at all. He didn't turn round. Everyone in the car was looking straight ahead. They wore dark clothes, not suits, but pretty smart all the same. What was this type of clothing called? Oh yeah, ‘smart casual.' Everything looked new. And very, very normal. Very respectable. The car, their clothes, everything. There wasn't even any scuffing on the shoes of the two apes I was squashed between. I considered my options. There didn't seem to be any. So I considered them again. Still nothing.

“You ask the questions, right?” I said. A huge elbow drove into my stomach and I shut up very fast. I was too busy gasping. Tears squeezed up behind my eyes. We were out on the main road heading north, moving fast, when I got my breath back. Nobody spoke. We pulled off the road in a lay-by next to the junction with the motorway. One of the gorillas opened his door and I was persuaded with little difficulty to get out with them. The passenger door opened and the only one who'd spoken got out, too. He was quite a little guy. He put up an umbrella. He looked straight into my eyes.

“What is your name?” His voice was curt, and still showed no emotion at all. He sounded like an automaton. I wondered what to say.

“Bob Jones.”

He seemed to consider this for a minute.

“Who are you working for?”

“I'm a journalist. I work for the local paper. Want to see my press card?” He nodded. Well, he moved his head slightly. I reached slowly into my pocket and got my forgery. I wished I'd spent a little more time on it. The little guy took it and examined it. Then he passed it in to the driver.

“Check this name,” he said. And we stood there in silence, cars rushing past us on their way to somewhere else. Rain was running down my forehead into my eyes, but the gorillas held my arms at my sides so there wasn't anything I could do about it. A couple of minutes went by, not as quickly as I'd have liked. Then a hand emerged from the driver's window, holding my card.

“There is no record of any ‘Bob Jones' working for any newspaper within two hundred miles,” said the driver's voice. “And this card is fake. Not even a good fake.”

Oh, shit. The little guy's eyes left mine for an instant while he glanced at both the gorillas. Then I was marched through a gate into a field, and flung into the soaking wet grass. They didn't give me a chance to get up. A heavy foot encased in a shiny shoe stood on each of my upper arms and it wasn't too nice being face down either.

“Who are you working for?” said the little guy again.

“I don't know,” I shouted into the grass. “I'm being fucked about and I don't know what's going on and can I please get up
for fuck's sake
?”

The shoes got off my arms and one of them rolled me over. Rain poured into my face.

“Look, I'm being set up by someone. I don't know who or why. I'm trying to find out what's going on.” I tried to get up, but I was pushed back onto the ground.

“Mister Jones, if that is indeed your name,” said the little guy, “if you have any interest in living a comfortable life I suggest you stop trying to find out, as you say, what's going on. Cease your puerile enquiries.” He said the words with disgust, as if he was talking about sewage. I sat up, cautiously. I'd been wetter and more uncomfortable before. When I'd drunkenly stumbled into a canal one February night. But I had to admit it. This was pretty bad.

“Do I have your agreement?” It was less a question, more a statement. I reckoned the easiest course of action was to nod. I nodded. He stared shrewdly at me, then turned back towards the car. I looked at the gorillas, and tried to get up again. No dice. Those shiny new shoes had other ideas.

I lay there in the rain for quite a while, groaning and stuff. An expert kicking had been delivered, and I couldn't fault the twins' technique. They hadn't said a word. They hadn't grunted, hadn't got out of breath, and they hadn't even laughed as they walked back to the car after an action-packed three minutes. Okay. I watched raindrops trickling down the broken stems of the grass and wondered what to do. If they'd wanted to hurt me really badly, then they could have. As it was, parts of me hurt, but nothing was too badly damaged. Nothing broken. It had been a warning.

Delicately I eased myself into a standing position. Parts of me definitely hurt. But I could walk. I made my way out of the field. The lay-by was empty. Yeah, well. Wearily I trudged to the edge of the road and stood with my back to the city for a time. I had nowhere else to go, so I faced the oncoming traffic and stuck my thumb out. I wasn't an ideal hitcher. I was wet through, muddy, and didn't look very happy.

After about three centuries a pickup truck slowed to a halt. I ran to catch up with it, stated my destination, and made to get in the passenger seat. The driver, a squat sort of guy with a checked shirt and a strong smell of engine oil about him, pointed at my clothes and shook his head. I climbed into the back of the truck, ready to enjoy some more weather.

And me in my best suit, I said to myself. The truck got me back to town, more or less. Okay. I had to get back to my flat. I couldn't do anything in this state. I needed a shower, new clothes, and perhaps something to eat. Scratch that. I needed a very large drink. The walk back up to the flat was pretty much unremitting agony, but I got home in the end. My place was still a tip, but in a sort of comforting way. It wasn't unexpected, intriguing, or interesting. It didn't ask me impossible questions or beat me up in remote fields. And for that I was deeply grateful.

By the time I felt okay it was nearly 6
P.M
. The flat was okay, but it wasn't any kind of place to think. That was one of the reasons why I had an office. And that's where I went. I'd learnt one thing from the little guy with the emotionless voice and the big friends. So I dug out an umbrella. I bought some supplies on the way—whiskey, cigarettes, and I nipped in to the house of a guy I knew and picked up some cocaine.

I had a feeling that I might be needing it. But I only had time to do about five minutes' thinking when I got down to the office, because the thought I had after five minutes was that I was supposed to meet the famous Stonehenge T-shirt at 7
P.M
., which was now about a quarter of an hour away. Okay. I looked at my furniture. I had a quick whiskey and locked the office again.

Saturday night is not a calm night anywhere in the world. So I was expecting it to be busy, even early in the evening, but it seemed to be pretty mellow in the Old Green Tree. There were a few old colonel types drinking in the public bar, and a couple talking quietly in the lounge. That was it. No Stonehenge T-shirt. I ordered a pint of lager and sat down in the lounge, trying not to overhear what the couple were talking about. Sounded pretty interesting until I realised they were discussing
EastEnders
.

I lit a cigarette and stared at the wall. And I carried on with the thinking I'd been intending to do. Okay. ScryTech and KHS were one and the same thing, I figured. Barry Eliot had something to do with it all, but I couldn't tell what. The Charlcombe dig was not about archaeology, at least not in any normal sense. KHS were obviously withholding data and hiding finds. Okay. I decided that firstly I was going to call Karen Eliot and get her to tell me all about Barry. And I was going to go back up to Charlcombe with a flashlight, a camera, a fresh half-bottle of whiskey, and my wrap of Charlie.

I was going to check out those tunnels. I guessed that Saturday night was a good time to do it. Those ‘archaeologists' would probably be far away, down the pub somewhere. The warning delivered by the smartly dressed bastards with their fucking shiny shoes was not an issue. So—I was fucked if I did anything. But the same applied if I didn't.

I'd just got my mobile out to call Karen when a big fat guy wearing a beard and a slightly stained Stonehenge T-shirt came in. He went up to the bar and I heard him order a pint. Real ale. That figures, I thought. Then he turned around and walked straight towards me, pulled out the chair opposite, and sat down. He took a massive swig of his ale. Without looking at me he took out a packet of tobacco and made a rollup. He lit it with a battered Zippo, took a huge drag, and exhaled the smoke in my face. Then his eyes met mine.

I sighed, ran my hands over my face, and said, “Panto. Very nice. Why an Ugly Sister though? You'd make a great Cinderella.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Hmm. For someone in as much trouble as you are, you've still got a sense of humour. Look after it. You might not have much else after Monday.”

“Look,” I said. “I'm very tired. I've been very busy. And it hasn't been easy. Some big men have been nasty to me. Almost everyone else has been elusive, insulting, and generally difficult. And it never stops fucking raining. So, listen . . . I'd really, really appreciate it if you just state your business, tell me whatever it is you're here to tell me, and then leave me the fuck alone. Is that too much to ask?”

“You been up to Charlcombe yet? Have you any idea what's going down?”

“I've been up. I've been down. I've been all over. You know what?” I was suddenly very bored. “You know what? If the next sentence you utter doesn't grab me, I'm gone. As of that moment. I'm gone. Are you hearing me? Catching my drift?” I lit another cigarette and closed my eyes for a couple of heartbeats.

“Hey.” He looked a little perplexed. With that I could identify. “Calm down. I'm here to help you. Help you. Understand?”

As you can imagine, I'd had enough help to last me a long time. None of it did the job though. None of it helped. All it did was get me deeper into something I had no wish to even dip my toes in. “Okay,” I said. “Help me then. Yes, I've been up to Charlcombe. They've got a big hole there. It goes a long way in a direction I don't like. Who, exactly, are you?”

“Think of me as your friend. My name's not necessary for you to know. I've got some information for you.
Now, do you want it?
”

I sighed, again. I ran my hands over my face, again. “Yes,” I said, exhaling.

I stared at my empty glass for a little while, realised he wasn't going to offer to get it filled up again, excused myself, bought another pint, and sat down again.

“Look,” I said patiently. Well, yeah. Impatiently. “Before you begin, just by sitting here with you I'm implicating myself in this further and further.”

Maybe I should have just ignored the note, the e-mail, I thought. I shouldn't have gone to see that woman in the Star. I shouldn't have gone to the dig at Charlcombe. I should have avoided the CCTV place like the plague. But I didn't. I went and got all intrigued about it. Then I got myself a kicking in a farmer's field next to the motorway. I sighed again. The practice was improving my delivery.

“Okay,” I muttered, lighting another cigarette, “tell me what you know.”

“Listen. There's something under the city. It's been there a very long time, since, well, maybe forever. A darkness. But it's a darkness people have been using, or trying to use, for, well, a long time. Thing is, now they've worked out how to use it. For real. And that? That is seriously bad news.”