Holy Island Trilogy 03 - The Final Countdown (5 page)

Ella reached for Coral’s glass. ‘Right, if you’re not drinking, I’ll have it. Then I'm off to bed for an hour. Remember, I’m going back in to hell to find out what happens at the family gathering.’ The last word she almost spat out, before saying, ‘Those laxatives worked a treat on Jasmine. I’m doing a double shift in hell in order to cover for her. Poor bugger. She’ll be all right tomorrow, totally unaware of the service she has done mankind.’

She swallowed the whiskey then, giving them both a wave, she said, ‘Night, all…what’s left of it.’

‘Yeah, goodnight, Ella love. Sweet dreams,’ Coral replied, while Shelly continued to stare at a space on the wall.

‘Oh, they will be short and sweet an’ all. Might have time for one or two,’ Ella flung over her shoulder.

When she closed the door behind her, Coral turned back to Shelly. ‘OK,’ she said, then paused a moment when Shelly did not respond. A little louder, she said, ‘Shelly.’

Slowly Shelly lifted her head.

‘Like I already said, love, you’re with friends here. And again, we have all been through what you’re going through, but you’re not alone, Shelly. You have us.’

Shelly swallowed hard. ‘I know. I’m sorry. It's just as they say, it seemed like a good idea at the time.’

‘Feeling any better now?’

‘Not really.’ She intertwined her fingers and pressed them against her chest. ‘I…I can’t really say how I feel, actually.’ She looked up and into Coral’s eyes, and paused for a moment before going on. ‘Yes, I can. Dead. That’s how I feel, dead. Used and abused…dead!’

Coral nodded sadly. ‘Look, it will pass. One day, hopefully soon, you’ll wake up and want to fight back. Or…’

‘Or what?’ Shelly said, before Coral could go on.

Coral took a deep breath, then held her gaze steady with Shelly’s for a moment. Sometimes, some of the girls, or the boys, couldn’t take the truth that for some of them there was no way back. But Coral was betting on Shelly being strong enough to get there.

‘Or,’ Coral chewed on her bottom lip, ‘sometimes, Shelly, others have succeeded in killing themselves. Sadly, it doesn’t matter what we do. The damage is so bad that they can’t come back. Sometimes it's because they just aren’t strong enough to live with what they’ve been through.’

‘I know how they feel,’ Shelly muttered.

‘Yes, I know you do.’ Coral took hold of both of Shelly’s hands. ‘But I truly and honestly suspect that you are one of the strong ones… We need you. Shelly.’

Shelly gave her a puzzled look. ‘Why?’

‘We need you to be a soldier for us, Shelly. We need you to be brave and help us. I think you can do it, Shelly. I think you’re definitely one of the strong ones. ‘

Shelly gave a bitter laugh. ‘A soldier? Where do you think we are, in fucking Sunday school? Might as well say you want me for a sunbeam. For fuck's sake.’

‘I know you think you know it all, but trust me, you certainly don’t. Our network is growing by the day.’

Shelly stood up. ‘For fuck's sake, stop kidding yourself, will you? You don’t stand a chance.'

Coral smiled. ‘Oh yes, we do.’

CHAPTER TEN

Kirill Tarasov surveyed the room as he stepped through the doorway, his eyes angry slits as he looked around the elite of the world for friend or foe. Whichever he saw first would just have to say the wrong word and they would feel the full extent of his anger.

Everyone in the room was wearing evening dress. There was certainly no need of robes or the trappings of secret societies, no need of pagan sacrifices. They were who they were. The families, who had been secretly ruling the world for centuries, the hidden ones who walked amongst the people of the world as bankers, politicians, royalty, lawyers. Judges. These were the ones who made all the decisions, all the rules.

 Decisions and rules which benefited only themselves. And they were ruled by greed alone.

 He had just stepped out of a helicopter after a mad dash from London, where he’d rescued his oldest illegal son from the grasp of his jealous pathetic excuse for a legal son. The illegal, Mike Yorke, was now on his way, via stretcher, with two family doctors and three guards, to a room at the top of the hotel.

Spotting the shiny baldhead of the American, Slone, Tarasov was making his way towards him when suddenly the horn sounded. He clenched his fists. It would have to wait. Like everyone in the room, he stopped and faced the stage. Luxurious red velvet curtains opened. One golden chair was in the centre of the stage, and the historian, a very tall, thin man with wavy brown hair and eyes far too dark for his pale skin colour, was seated facing them.

As was tradition, the historian asked them all to be seated. He gave them a few minutes, and Tarasov found himself sitting between Prince Carl on his right and the Earl James Henry Simmonds on his left. Prince Carl he could take in small doses if he had to, but the Englishman, Simmonds, he hated.

Simmonds kept his eyes to the front, refusing to acknowledge him, as Prince Carl muttered a quiet, ‘Good evening.’

Tarasov nodded in response, crossing his right leg over his left and folding his arms in front of him.

As of tonight, he trusted very few of them. Any one of the twenty-odd family members could have known what his legal son had been up to, anyone of them could have helped him. And anyone of them could be laughing behind his back. Well, let them laugh. They had no idea who he really was, nor what was coming.

 He spotted his daughter Lovilla seated in the front row between Count Rene and Slone. As if sensing her father's eyes on her, Lovilla turned around and smiled at him.

What the bloody hell is she doing with them? Tarasov thought, acknowledging her smile with a short nod of his head. His frown deepened and he turned to look at Simmonds.

Simmonds must have seen the movement out the corner of his eye but he choose to ignore Tarasov, and whatever Tarasov was about to say to him was stopped by the historian declaring the extraordinary meeting open.

Five minutes into his speech was as far as he got before he was told to shut up by the American, Slone, who rose and turned to the other family members. ‘OK, you all heard him. It has to be done. Don’t even know why we had this meeting, anyhow. It was all worked out a long time ago, and things have been in place for centuries.’

Tarasov was immediately on his feet. ‘No!’ he yelled. ‘It's far too barbaric, a plan thought out over a thousand years ago when the world was a different place.’

‘A plan already in place.’ His daughter Lovilla jumped up and glared at him.

For a brief, barely noticeable moment, Tarasov stalled. Why am I surprised? he thought, before calmly saying, ‘Yes - and look at all the death and destruction around the world already.’ He ground his teeth together as Slone, who had turned his back to him, an insult in itself, shrugged his shoulders.

‘You knew it was happening. You’ve gone along with it for a long time, so why didn’t you say something before now? Suddenly developed a conscience, have you?’ Simmonds asked. His lips twisted in a sarcastic scowl.

Tarasov glared at him. ‘Perhaps.’

‘Perhaps! With your appetites?' He laughed.

‘Enough.’ Tarasov’s voice was loud in the hall.

 But Simmonds refused to be silenced. He went on, ‘Instead you choose to disturb all of our peace and harass us all, with this fucking stupid unwanted total waste of time meeting.’

The historian chewed on his lip. He’d actually been dreading this meeting. His own family had been linked with the families for generations, the role of historian passed down from father to son.

The very first historian had been a self-taught shepherd with no links to any aristocracy. He was a slave, nothing more, who through time had gained a small trifle of respect, which was passed on to his descendants. Although, throughout history, they could all have been wiped out at any time - the wrong word at the wrong moment, a whisper in an ear, was all it would have taken.  Each historian had taken heed of what his father had told him. They were, although not one of them, at least a part of them and the job had always paid very well indeed. And sometimes, just sometimes, when it suited them, they took notice of what he had to say.

Tonight, however, he knew was not going to be one of those nights. Tonight he would sit back and let them get on with it. He refused to take sides, knowing that he and his extended family would more than probably survive what was soon to come. Getting into an argument, taking sides and angering anyone of them, would jeopardize their very existence. If the peasants needed a champion, it was not going to be him.

He sat back and let them argue amongst themselves. When enough time had gone by, he rose. It took a few minutes, because quite a few of the arguments were becoming heated. A lot of them were standing up to emphasize their feelings, with more than one fist raised in anger, but finally silence fell.

He waited until they were all seated again, then he spoke. ‘It was written that the start of it all would be in 2011. There would be disaster after disaster, carrying through to 2012.’

‘A fucking fairy story.’ Someone yelled from the back of the room.

Before the historian could answer, Tarasov was back on his feet. ‘It was not written that most of the disasters would actually be started by us, nor the wars deliberately started to cut the population down, long before then. And the greed for oil.’

His last words were met with a few sniggers.

The historian frowned at him. In the sudden silence, a few heads nodded in agreement. One of them was Prince Carl, who rose to stand by Tarasov.

‘Yes. it was… More or less,’ Slone said.

‘Well, seeing as the fools sent to find the true Lindisfarne Gospels still haven’t found them, we’ll never know, will we?’ Prince Carl said.

‘We’ll find them!’ Slone shouted.

The historian sighed and sat back down. It was going to be a very long night.

In the end as he’d suspected, Tarasov and his friends were outvoted. The extermination camps were to be set up at the end of the week.

The cull was about to begin.

No one saw Ella behind the red velvet curtain, hidden in its deep folds. She waited until the historian left his seat, and then hurried to the kitchen, to wander amongst them five minutes later, an innocent slave bearing snacks on a golden tray.

LONDON

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The blade glinted in the streetlight, as it pressed hard against Smiler’s throat, so hard he was frightened to swallow. He froze in fear, his eyes wide and staring.

So this is it.

How it’s all gonna end.

For a moment sadness overcame his fear, then Snakes spoke.

‘Got you now, you fucking little prick,’ Snakes sneered at him, his eyes glinting with an evil pleasure.

Smiler gulped, feeling his skin tighten against the pressure. His fear stark in his bulging eyes, he knew that Snakes was capable of anything thinkable, and a whole lot more. And if he was going to kill him, it would be piece by painful piece.

 ‘You owe me big time, and now you’re gonna pay. That’s the fucking way of it, man.’ He laughed, the high-pitched giggle of a madman that would strike fear into the bravest of hearts.

When Smiler heard the hate in Snakes' voice, his legs began to shake, and he felt as if his heart was in his throat, stuck right there alongside the knife.

‘No,’ he muttered, terrified for his life. ‘Please, no. I’ll do anything you want.’

Snakes laughed again. ‘Huh, begging now, are we, you little bastard? It wasn’t that before, though, was it?’ He pressed the knife harder against Smiler’s throat. ‘No one takes the piss outta me, you ugly little twat…Pay time.’

Why did I come this way? Smiler was thinking. Why?

It’s my own fucking fault.

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

‘Move into the alleyway now, fuckface, or else… Move it, if you know what’s good for you.’

Snakes applied even more pressure on the knife.

Smiler never felt the knife slice his skin, until he felt a trickle of wetness run down his neck. It was the urge he needed to get moving. Now wondering, as the knife was transferred to his back, if he was ever going to get out of the alleyway alive, he turned and headed in that direction, passing people who never saw what was happening, or people who were pretending not to see what was happening.

When they had gone a few yards into the alleyway, Snakes said, ‘OK, freak, stop. Guess this is a good a place as any to do it. Sorry an' all that, but you know how it is on the street. Gotta keep my rep up.’ Smiler didn’t have to see the smile on Snakes' face, he could hear it in his voice.

For a brief moment he froze as, suddenly, he perversely welcomed the thrust of the blade.

A way out of this terrible existence.

Because that’s all I’ve ever done, is exist.

Really, I was just a fucking experiment!

Do it, he thought. Do it now.

Succeed where I’ve failed.

He was about to turn and beg Snakes to finish it for him.

The creep will be doing me a favour.

A way out.

Thank you!

But then, from nowhere, came something he hadn’t known he possessed until half an hour ago. The face of Aunt May, and a love of the life he’d experienced with both her and Mike Yorke, welled up in him again. That’s all he’d ever wanted, in his whole life, he knew that now, someone to care about him. And even though it had only been for a short time, he had found that care in Aunt May and Mike Yorke. And Tiny, he’d never dreamed that you could love a dog so much. Animals had been something to throw stones at, and laugh when they limped off. But that was before, when he was someone else, not as bad as Snakes, but that was the way he’d been heading. Before Mike Yorke and Aunt May. Now he suddenly realised just how much he cared about them all.

Too much to die, just because this bastard wants me to!

His resolve strengthening, and without thinking the consequences through, he suddenly shot his foot forward then back, kicking Snakes hard on his shin, before quickly spinning on his heel to face him. Snakes, shocked that Smiler had summoned up the nerve to defy him, was even more shocked a moment later to see what was rushing down the alleyway towards him.