Saxon's Bane (26 page)

In the pocket of Clare’s jeans, her mobile phone began to vibrate and she rolled on top of it, instinctively trying to smother the sound that she knew would follow. But the jangly music swelled with each unanswered ring, strident in its demand for attention. The Groper turned her over, rifling her pockets, and spilling the phone onto the floor alongside the envelope with the bone pieces. He tossed the envelope aside, wrinkling his nose in distaste, but grabbed at the phone, peering at its screen.

“It’s your boyfriend. Ah, bless.” He dropped the phone onto the floor, and the ringtone died as he ground the phone into fragments with his heel.

“We wouldn’t want you calling for help, now, would we?” The Groper smirked as he rose to leave. A look of indecision crossed his face as if the actor’s mask was slipping, and almost as an afterthought he bent to cut the twine binding her hands. “You can manage your legs yourself.” Now his voice sounded whinier, almost apologetic.

Hagman stood silhouetted in the door, with the goat’s head mask hanging from his other hand, its long sabre horns trailing towards the ground. The silhouette of his arm, the hanging robe, and the horns formed the rune of Algiz reversed and Clare fought back rising hysteria as the door closed. There was the sound of heavy duty locks being snapped shut on the far side.

Clare still had no power to scream, but the screams would come later. Who was it who’d spoken about the screaming time? Her own screaming time came after the sacrifice, she knew that. Olrun had shown her. But she couldn’t remember whether it was Fergus or Aegl who was going to be sacrificed. Clare focused on the thin line of light coming under the door, hoping that its beacon would illuminate the turmoil of pain in her head. That light hadn’t been part of the dream before, either.

F
ERGUS SAT OUTSIDE
the White Hart, enjoying a pint of ale with the choir. Some of them had carried the function room’s electric piano out into the sunshine, and were entertaining the May Day crowds with barbershop singing. The choir clustered around Julia Foulkes, who had brushed aside their protests and insisted on playing the piano “because Tony would have loved this.” Tony’s Labrador was tethered to her chair, its nose on its paws, eyes darting from point to point as if it was still hoping to see Tony stride out of the crowds. Julia played with fragile poise, a throwback to an Imperial age that prized resilience in adversity above all qualities. She appeared to draw energy from the crowd’s laughter as the Heavenly Twins sang Gilbert and Sullivan comic songs.

The maypole on the green had long since been swathed with multi-coloured ribbons by dancing children, and the bargain-hunting fervour of the crowds around the produce stalls was fading. Eadlin had left half an hour before to take her horses back to the stables, and the attraction of the moment was the pig roast that wafted rich smells over the grass. Fergus wondered if he was paranoid to wear Eadlin’s protective posy in his hat, and to sit with his stick resting against his leg. The village green on May Day must be the safest place in the world. All he needed was Clare’s company to enjoy it.

She’s around, Russell had assured him. Just a bit stressed after taking the Saxon. She’s probably still at the stone. Fergus tried Clare’s mobile again, but it rang through to voicemail, again, and he left another message, concern tightening his voice. He scanned the crowd for a glimpse of her, but he could see nobody he knew apart from Cynthia Lawrence, picking her way across the grass towards them and stumbling as her high heels sank into the turf. Cynthia nursed a bottle of champagne in the crook of her arm as if it was a baby.

“I won the Guess The Weight Of The Pig competition,” she called, beaming her triumph, then winced as a whine of electronic feedback cut across the music. Russell was having mixed success at mending the public address system. As Cynthia found a chair amongst them a drum started thumping out a steady marching beat around the corner in Green Man Lane, and there was a collective groan of “Oh, not again!” from the group around the piano. After a four beat introduction, an accordion struck up a tune, and the Jack-in-the-Green came dancing round the corner. The Heavenly Twins struggled on bravely for a few bars,

As we merrily dance and we sing, tra-la

We welcome the hope that they bring, tra-la 

Of a summer of roses and wine… 

but faltered to a halt, unable to compete. Julia Foulkes smiled her apology at their audience and closed the piano lid with graceful restraint.

“Some jokes become tiresome with repetition,” she muttered. At another group of tables, the morris dancers recognised the accordion as a call to perform, and streamed off the terrace. One of them let out a mighty, beer-fuelled belch as they squared up on the green, and lifted his ribboned hat in mock apology. Better out than in.

“Infuriating behaviour,” Cynthia spoke loudly enough for her words to carry onto the green. “They’ve had far too much to drink.”

“It looks as if someone’s giving it away.” Fergus nodded at one of the Jack’s attendants. The figure was dressed in a green hunchback costume like the old cartoon character of Punch, with foliage sown into his hat and clothes and his features obscured by greasepaint. He’d been prancing round the morris men for most of the afternoon, almost as if he was part of the dance.

“He’s called a bogeyman, and he’s got a firkin of beer under that hump,” one of the Heavenly Twins explained. “He hands out free beer to show there’s no hard feelings about the practical jokes. And brace yourself, Cynthia, he’s coming your way. I think he heard you.”

The bogeyman capered over to Cynthia’s table, and lifted her hand to his lips in mock salute.

“Oh, do go away.” Cynthia waved her hand at him imperiously, the way she’d shoo a persistent fly. The bogeyman grinned, exposing a line of teeth that shone white in the green-painted face. He pulled a plastic, disposable cup from a pouch, held it under a tube which ran over his shoulder from the firkin on his back, and offered her a squirt of beer.

“I do
not
drink beer, thank you.” Cynthia spoke with regal disdain. The bogeyman lifted his nose in the air, crooked an elbow as if to carry a handbag, and minced around her in a parody of her airs and graces. Even one or two of the choir laughed. In the middle of the laughter the bogeyman snatched Fergus’s cap from his head and placed it on his own to embellish the mockery. Fergus made a good-humoured cry of protest and lumbered after him, but the man was too nimble. The bogeyman danced away backwards, out onto the green, holding the cap out in front of him, taunting Fergus to come and grab it. Each time it was almost in reach it was whisked out of his grasp, always moving further away from the inn.

The joke became boring. Fergus stood still and looked around him, realising he had been drawn to the edge of the green near Green Man Lane. His stick was still by his chair. On the far side of the green the public address system made another feedback scream before the voice of John Webster interrupted the afternoon to announce that the May Queen would now draw the prizes for the raffle. Throughout the crowd heads either turned to watch the Vicar, or dropped to rummage for raffle ticket stubs. For a moment Fergus and the bogeyman stared at each other, alone in the crowd. The man’s eyes glared white, like the teeth, within the anonymous mask of greasepaint. Fergus threw up his hand in a dismissive gesture and turned back towards the inn.

“Keep it.”

In an instant the green figure was in front of him, its manner conciliatory as it filled another cup with ale and held it out to Fergus.

“No thanks.”

Now the cap was offered, see-sawing backwards and forwards in the opposite hand in a clear mime message.
Drink my beer and you can have your cap.
Reluctantly Fergus took the cup and sipped, finding the taste strong and salty. The creature’s hand mimed a palm-upwards, lifting motion, still holding the cap out of reach until the drink was finished. Only then did it bow theatrically, flash the teeth within the green mask, and return the cap. It was strangely comforting to wear Eadlin’s token again. Fergus ignored the bogeyman and stood looking for Clare from this new direction. If Russell and Eadlin had not been so emphatic that he should stay with the choir, he’d have gone looking for her. The heat of the sun was warm on his back, and he stifled a yawn as he watched.

There. A slender figure, shorts and sweatshirt, halfseen in the throng. It might be her. Fergus started to walk after her, weaving to try and keep her in sight. He could feel his heart racing.

The stumble was unexpected. It was like stepping off a curb that he didn’t know was there, and Fergus stood still for a moment, wondering why he was swaying. He hadn’t drunk that much. He tried to walk towards the crowd but his leg folded, dropping him onto one knee with a hand braced in the grass. From somewhere nearby a voice Fergus knew announced that over two hundred pounds had been raised towards the church tower restoration fund, but as he lifted his head the tower itself was starting to tilt. As his other leg buckled, his arm was dragged around the shoulder of the bogeyman, pulling him upright. The man stank of beer and sweat, and the metal edge of the barrel under the hump dug into Fergus’s arm.

“Had one too many, have we? Let me take you somewhere you can lie down quietly.” As Fergus was turned towards Green Man Lane he tried to cry out in protest, but the words emerged as meaningless mumblings. He felt a surge of hope as Mary Baxter hurried past towards the raffle draw, and he made another ineffectual attempt to call.

“Fergus Sheppard, look at the state of you. You should be ashamed of yourself.” Mary carried on past them without pausing. “And mind you don’t come into my house until you’ve sobered up.” Fergus’s cries became an inarticulate growl. His head felt too heavy to support and lolled forward, tipping his cap onto the ground. Eadlin’s flowers crumpled under his toes as he was dragged into the lane.

The Jack-in-the-Green followed them into the Green Man’s yard, masking their departure with its bulk. Fergus was dumped onto an old wooden Windsor chair, but slid sideways until he was grabbed by his shirt and hauled back into place. Somebody passed a rope around his chest, tying him to the chair’s back. The seat was screwed to two carrying poles like an antique sedan chair, and Fergus’s fuddled brain struggled to work out its purpose. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the bogeyman peering through a crack in the doors, watching to see if they were followed.

Jake Herne put an empty crate on end in front of Fergus, and sat looking at him with a smile of pure malevolence. His green-painted face and neck projected bizarrely from a white, sweat-saturated muscle shirt.

“How do you like my little cocktail? It’s useful with the girls.” Fergus heard the words but was starting to feel more detached than frightened. “Though sometimes they don’t remember how much fun they’ve had.” This was all happening in another place and to another person. His mind started to float off on its own meanderings until Herne slapped his face with his good hand.
That hurt. Must concentrate. Got to find Clare.

“Did you ever hear about revenge being a dish best served cold? Wrong. I’m going to take mine hot, very hot.” Herne enjoyed gloating. “You see, every year we burn the Jack-in-the-Green on the bonfire, and tonight we’re going to wrap you up nice and tight and put you inside it.”

A silent scream started to grow in one corner of Fergus’s mind. A gentle euphoria was spreading over the rest. His head had slumped forward and he watched, helpless, as a string of drool escaped his lower lip and landed on his trousers.

“The pity is that I’m going to have to knock you right out, so you won’t feel nearly as much pain as I’d like. That’s the trouble with these fast-acting drugs, they don’t last long enough. It will be a few hours before we light the bonfire, and we wouldn’t want you waking up and causing a fuss, would we?” Why did the bastard sound so reasonable? Herne’s face came into view as he ducked his head to make eye contact. “It’s going to mean getting up at dawn to clear up any bits of you that are left over, but it’ll be worth it.”

Fergus tried to speak, but the sound came out as a mumble.

“… mad…”

“Mad? Nah. I’ve found the best boss ever.” Herne leant forward so that his mouth was close to Fergus’s ear and the stink of his sweat filled his nostrils. “He gives me what I want, I only have to ask. I want to hurt that meddling priest, and He gives me the choirmaster. Even better than I’d hoped. I want to teach you a lesson, and you come to me so easy it’s like picking an apple.”

Fergus’s eyes closed. Didn’t want to look at Herne. Maybe sleep a bit. There was the sharp sting of another slap across his face, and he opened his eyes.

“One more thing. I’ve saved the best until last. Mister Hagman here has excelled himself today. He’s got your girlfriend safely locked up by the Blot Stone. She’s probably got a bit of a headache, but we’ve got a special night lined up for her.” Finally Fergus managed to push back the weight of sleep that was dragging him down, but his attempt to launch himself at Herne merely resulted in a pathetic moan and a lurch against the rope so that his backside started to slide off the seat. Herne heaved him back into place, and stood to pass another length of rope around his body.

“We’re going to celebrate High Beltane tonight, after the bonfire,” Herne continued, speaking over Fergus’s shoulder so the heat and smell of his breath brushed across Fergus’s face. “Just a few of us, the ones I can trust. And in case you didn’t know, High Beltane includes the Horned God coupling with the Goddess. Tonight your cute little friend is going to be worshipped as a goddess. So die knowing that I’m going to fuck your girl. I won’t even have to tie her up, just give her some of the stuff you’ve had. And when I’ve finished fucking her, I’ll drop her into that pond by the Blot Stone and hold her under. Who knows, maybe in a thousand years someone will dig her up like the Saxon and wonder how she died.”

Fergus’s mind processed the words, but his mind glowed dimly, like a dying torch. Someone was growling but the flickering bulb in his head was being smothered under a great weight of tiredness.

“Search him. Take his phone, wallet, anything metal and anything that would identify him.”

“Jake, I don’t like this.” Was that the bogeyman?

“You’re already in it up to your neck. When you’re done, cover him well with this, then the Jack. Make sure nothing shows. Then let’s go and get cleaned up.” A large blanket was dumped in Fergus’s field of view. The working part of his mind had shrunk to a terrified point of light even before the needle stabbed his arm.