Fade to Black (41 page)

“
Stay back!”
Michael yelled to her. She stopped. Michael looked into Black’s eyes and simply said, “It’s time.” Michael turned his head sideways, then struck upwards with his teeth, sinking them deep into Black’s throat. Black howled, the shrill sound an echo of the lemurs. They stayed like that for a half minute, frozen figures in the mist. Allie saw no blood. No sound now came from either of them. All strength abandoned Black, his body fell limp and he toppled to one side as Michael withdrew his teeth from his throat—revealing a ragged hole. Michael wrapped his huge arms around Black’s waist and lifted him up. He slowly rose to his feet, supporting Black until he could stand firmly. They were locked together. This was how it always had to end. Michael’s wings started beating rhythmically. Slowly, the two beings rose into the air, the slab sides of the tower barely three feet from them. They reached the top, Michael’s wings beating harder now, Black’s hanging limp and wasted by his side, his head still to one side under the unrelenting grip of Michael’s jaws.

A cold mass formed in Allie’s chest as she watched Michael move across to the tower and stand on its edge, Black firmly locked in his grip. He disengaged his jaws from Black and looked down at her, his extended wings brilliant and luminescent in the half-light.

He nodded to her. She stared back at him, knowing this was farewell. She wanted more. This was not how their farewell should be. Not after all they had been through. She could do nothing. He looked over his shoulder towards the road. She heard it now too; people, still hidden from her by the mist, were coming up the track. He looked back at her. She thought she saw a glistening in his eyes, but it might have been a trick of the light. He looked up to the heavens, the stars now pale in a brightening sky. His massive wings beat faster now. Mr. Black stirred and locked his arms around Michael's waist as he was lifted to the sky. Michael turned his gaze toward her once again. She waited for the words, but there were none. Michael and Black started to spin, slowly at first, black, white, black, white, then blurred to grey before a single, brilliant white light prevailed. For a moment the light suspended above the ancient tower brought her father’s words back to her. He’d told her of lights being seen above the Tor since ancient times and, of course, just four days ago. It was part of the ancient ritual with the Tor as the portal from this world to another. As the light faded, Allie St. Clair knew the game was over.

*****

The driver of the black BMW cursed when he saw the white light. He punched the ignition key into its socket and fired the eight-cylinder motor into action. He engaged ‘drive’ and let the torque of the motor move the car almost silently down Coursing Batch, then left into Ashwell Lane, where its ancient oaks and bucolic charm still hid in darkness, the sun blocked from this area by the mass of the Tor. He nursed the car along to number 13 and turned left into the long earthen driveway. The little farmhouse at the end, with its tiny garden tucked up against the lower reaches of the Tor, looked exactly the same as he’d last seen it—thirty years before, when at sixteen years old, he’d finally discovered his birthplace.

He checked his watch, 5:46 a.m. He knew the single occupant of the house would be boiling the kettle in the tiny kitchen at the rear of the house. Who knew— the occupant might even have witnessed the epic struggle above St. Michael’s Tower and the white light ascending. It didn’t matter now. He exited his car, leaving the door open. He pushed open the moss-covered wooden gate at the side of the cottage and walked to the rear corner, his expensive black shoes crunching against the fine gravel. He kicked in the ancient wooden back door, not worrying now about being seen or heard; the shrubbery obscured any external view of the back garden. The door shattered and flew from its hinges, the termite-ridden doorframe collapsing with it. He confronted the startled old man who stood at the wooden bench, steaming cup in his hand. “Hello, Dad. Long time, no see.”

Albert Mortlock stared at the face of the man who had burst into his kitchen. He recognized it immediately—the firm jaw, jet-black hair and sharp nose. Even the way he stood with that peculiarly Germanic bearing. The man was his wife Marion reincarnate. So the boy hadn’t died. Well, well. They stared at each other, neither showing fear, anger nor any emotion. The intruder nodded. It was time. They both understood the rules, but that didn’t mean Albert had to give up his position timidly. That was not his way. His father would be proud of him… maybe his son now, too. He sat his cup down on the bench and faced his child.

The old man fought hard and had been surprisingly strong, but in the end, his backbone had snapped loudly like a twig and the light had left his eyes without another word exchanged between them. They’d reconvene in Hell one day. The son buried his father next to where he knew his mother lay, under the willow tree in the corner of the garden. He turned and faced the Tor, which stretched above him to the night sky. He bowed. After a minute, he strode to the weathered garden shed and placed the shovel behind the rickety wooden door.

He backed the black car out of the laneway and pointed it towards London. The setback at the Tor this morning meant there had to be a new strategy. Ending his father’s life meant that he would now be the only conduit for
him
. The future would be different; he’d see to that. He smiled. His father’s name now had a literal meaning—the bastard, Albert Mortlock, who had adopted him out and from whom his own name, ‘Lock’, was derived, really was now a deadlock. He floored the accelerator. The BMW lifted its nose and charged down the blacktop. Jason Lock would be back in London sitting at the board table at Cranston Lock in two hours.

Epilogue

Seven days later

Allie St. Clair slumped against the cool, green metal of the riverside bench, her bandaged hands limp in her lap. Putney Bridge spanned the Thames to her right, the university-rowing clubs already alive at 6:30 a.m., stretching away to her left. She had not slept for four nights. Two funerals in seven days had taken its toll—first George Houghton, then her brother, Robert. If it hadn’t been for her friends, Greg and Phoebe, holding her up, she would have collapsed to the floor at the foot of Robert’s empty casket. Allie, her father and reluctant mother had collaborated to present Robert’s sudden death as a consequence of his long-standing and well-known disability. It was a necessary lie that sat heavily with her and compromised her ability to properly grieve for him. And worst of all, it dishonored him.

She’d been sent on leave after barely one week in her new job and now depression had taken hold. Carr had insisted she would benefit from trauma counseling. It had been a week from Hell and Ellen Carr had recognized that.

Allie had completed all of her reports detailing events at the Festival and the Tor. Despite the difficulty in identifying the remains of Whitcombe and Wendell in the Tor cave due to the savagery of the striped lemur frenzy, Whitcombe’s DNA, along with Arthur Wendell’s, was arrogantly smothered all over the remains of Paula Armstrong. Reports from Connors and Strauss had explained how Whitcombe had impeded the investigations at Tottenham Court Road area, endangered Wilkinson’s life through his own actions and had sabotaged St. Clair’s instructions to the local police at Glastonbury.

The severely concussed but determined young PC Gordon, had awoken from the car accident at the foot of the Tor with enough awareness left to realize that no police backup had arrived for Allie and had rung for help. When the backup he instigated eventually arrived at the mist-shrouded summit of the Tor, they found a stunned DCI St. Clair staring into space and the floor of St. Michael’s Tower completely destroyed.

Archeologists were even now pawing over the tower and the underground chamber. Sensational documentaries would soon be aired and Allie supposed her father would be involved. It wouldn’t be long before tourists invaded the underground chamber and not one of them would care that her brother had lost his life there. Buying a brochure, a plastic Tor memento and a donut would be greater priorities.

She and her father had spoken briefly at Robert’s funeral, but had not spoken further about Michael. She’d had three subsequent calls from her father, but had not felt ready to respond. Her mother had not spoken to her at the funeral, nor since. Her accusatory glare had left Allie in no doubt as to whom she blamed for Robert’s death.

Robert. They had not been close, until the end. Robert, it seemed, always enjoyed some sort of exalted status at home. Her mother had consulted him about what Celtic legend-based children’s story elements excited him most and he was often invited to book launches where he was laughingly trotted out to the media as the ‘detailed research’ behind each new book. It had hurt her at the time, but she had said nothing. For all that, he had been loyal to her, even after the childhood incident at the Tor that she had somehow blocked from her memory for decades or had been blocked from her. She now admitted the possibility that other forces may have been at work. She realized he had in his own insular way, been deferential to her, but had never sought her company. A distance had grown between them, to the extent that she had been unaware of his interest in music and ‘blogging’ and consequently, she had not seen the danger to him from ancient forces that she now knew travelled with and fought against her family. No matter how you dressed it up, she had let him down in the ultimate way. His life had been forfeited in a game understood in a different time and realm, but which had, since time immemorial, touched the St. Clair family and seemed destined to do so in a future in which she did not care to be involved.

Her thoughts drifted to the problem of Mathew Connors. He had finally, and reluctantly in her view, explained his absences and aberrant behavior during the investigations as they chatted briefly at Sergeant George Houghton’s funeral. He claimed he had been suffering inexplicable blackouts for the past week and had been secretly seeking medical treatment. The confession might just have saved his career. But there was a greater issue. She had felt something radiating from him-something
angry and unfulfilled.
It had required an act of will for her to remain close to him during their two-minute chat. She had felt something tugging at her, pulling her away from him. Just a week ago she had accepted his good wishes on her promotion. Now, her skin crawled at the thought of working with him. She shivered and hugged herself. Maybe she was just spooked and suffering some kind of post-traumatic stress and perhaps it was just a matter of him receiving the proper medical treatment to resolve his issues.

Jet trails were already etched in the eastern sky above the city and the first of the full-bellied jumbos bound for nearby Heathrow had already passed low over suburban Putney. A motorbike roared across the bridge from Fulham. She stared at it, aware that her heart had jumped in hope just a little bit. She was reminded of the Ducati rats that had attacked her and Michael near Stonehenge. The media would never hear about all the empty cycle suits that lay draped over more than twenty broken, red motorcycles—the occupants never found.

She thought back to the standing ovation she had received upon entering the office Monday morning: Ellen Carr weeping openly, embracing her and apologizing quietly later for not being there for Allie when it counted. Apparently, a tiff with her partner from some big law firm had sent her into a spin. Allie had been gracious and humbled by her colleague’s acclamation. Even Rachel Strauss had sought her out afterwards to express her admiration. Maybe her friendship with Strauss might yet survive, provided Allie stayed in the force, but after seven days contemplation, she had serious doubts about that.

The world, she had learnt, was not as it seemed. There were forces at play about which 99.9 percent of humans knew absolutely nothing. She watched as two young rowers walked past her carrying their long watercraft overhead, a boy and a girl, perhaps sixteen years old, going about their daily lives in the naïve belief that ‘being good, decent, loving and honest’ would protect them and that the future for them would be bright, full of children and good times.
That is
, Allie thought,
if it was ok with those who ‘played the game.’ And if the one that could destroy the fabric of life for everyone on the planet never gained the upper hand
. She knew her father and her ancestors had played this game and of course, she would talk to her father about it all sometime, but not yet.

Blackness settled heavily over her. Sighing, she stood and shuffled along the embankment past the rowing clubs, threading her way through the cars, slim rowers and enormous pointed shells and the inevitable dog walkers. It was garbage morning and big black bags overflowing with household waste lined the short walk to her door.

A blanket of heavy, grey clouds appeared from the west and covered the sun, a chill breeze accompanying them.
That would be right
, she thought,
it would rain soon
. She passed the mangled wreck of her motorbike that still degraded a parking space in front of her apartment. A red Council sticker adorned one of the few pieces of undamaged metal. She would remove the wreck within the week. No more bike riding for her.

She slipped on the score of brochures, mail and newspapers that littered her entryway, not bothering to stoop to pick them up. She trudged up her narrow stairs, thought about making a coffee, but flopped into her lounge chair instead. The room was dark, the shutters closed, as they had been for the past week.

She dozed fitfully for an hour. She awoke to the sound of her email pinging on her laptop. She didn’t recall turning the thing on. Begrudgingly, she levered herself up out of the chair and walked to the tiny desk. She stopped short. A brilliant, long white feather lay on her keyboard. She picked it up, sure it had not been there the night before goose pimples rose on her skin. She opened the email. There was no name, just a message: