Catacombs of Terror! (14 page)

“It's intended that he should wield the sacrificial weapon.”

“Barry's going to kill someone? Give me a break. He's a golfer.”

“He has to prove himself to Them. If he doesn't do it, They'll kill him instead. It's traditional.”

“
Traditional?
That's
traditional
? Christmas is traditional. Or—I dunno, morris dancing. But compulsory participation in human sacrifice? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“The newest initiate has to carry out the killing. It's how They keep Their people under control. It's how initiates are bound to Them. Through guilt, through fear, acquiescence, and then . . . agreement. Eventually, enthusiasm. Or else.”

“Well, what in hell is Barry going to do? Is he going to do it? Kill someone with a knife, for Christ's sake? Look, how deep is he in?”

“He's in deep. Otherwise we wouldn't have the information we do. He wants to get out alive. I told you, he sensed that They were close to Their goal. He needed to stay involved to get the information we need to stop Them. But matters have escalated much faster than we could foresee. Which is why we decided to bring you into the equation.”

“Yeah, well. You know how glad I am about that. I assume Barry would rather not cold-bloodedly kill some innocent victim, would rather not get any more involved with these people than he already is?”

“That's correct.”

“And he's got this far, in order to get some information that will help unspecified outsiders—i.e.,
us
—to put the kibosh on the whole deal?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what in the name of fuck is this information? Because, Mister goddamn Stonehenge, we really fucking need it. No more messing about, okay? No more lecturing. We're going back down tonight. We three. We get Barry. We stop whatever it is that your subterranean mafia are doing. That's the plan, right? It ends with us being alive, yes? So, stop fucking about! What do you have?”

“I have a map.”

“A map?” I was incensed. “We're setting ourselves up against insane, time-travelling killers protected by flesh-eating pigs, and we're armed with a fucking
map
? Are you completely mad?”

Stonehenge was quiet. Calm. Stuff like that. He spoke gently, as if to a dumb kid.

“Have you ever tried to go anywhere you don't understand without a map?”

Okay. I was speechless for a time. Then I was speechless for another time after that. I stubbed my cigarette out harder than was necessary. I got up. I went to the bar. I bought another pint, and I didn't smile at the barman. I went back to our corner table. Colin and Stonehenge were still there, much to my annoyance. I mean, for fuck's sake. What did we have? An academic, a reporter, and a private investigator. And a sperm-donating golfer. Sooner or later I was going to wake up. In the meantime it was all I could do to stop myself chucking my pint at Stonehenge and leaving the fucking building. It gets like that sometimes with me. Especially when I've had enough of a stupid fairground ride that I didn't want to get on anyway and ends up costing a lot more than I'd thought. I sat down. Eventually I calmed down enough to put my elbows on the table, raise my hands, and sink my face into them.

“That isn't all I have,” said Stonehenge quietly. “We've also found out that there are vats of chloroethylene down there. Dry-cleaning fluid. Enormous containers of it. It's an extremely important part of Their alchemical processes.”

My face stayed in my hands. I mumbled through my fingers.

“Dry-cleaning fluid? Enormous vats of
dry-cleaning fluid
? Well, shit, okay. After the pigs I can take anything. Just tell me quickly though, um . . .
why
?”

I noticed that Kafka was just staring at the table. He wasn't writing anything down. He had the look of someone who was barely tolerating the situation.

“Cosmic rays are continually bombarding our planet. Cosmic rays are the reason for the vats. Chloroethylene slows the rays down enough for them to be measured, analysed, and ultimately understood. Then the resulting data can be used . . . . There's no time to explain, and I doubt you'd have the patience anyway. But if we can destroy the vats, we'll have stopped Them, at least temporarily. If we can get Barry out, we'll mess up Their plans badly. If we can get Their victim out, then we've really slowed Them down. And, Valpolicella, that will mean that you don't get arrested. No murder. No blame. No culprit.”

I looked up. This was the best news I'd heard for a day or so. No culprit? No big men in black uniforms kicking the door in? I was interested all over again.

“Mmm-hmm. Cosmic rays. From, er, the cosmos, presumably. Vats of dry-cleaning fluid. If you don't mind, I'll just ignore that for now. So, you have a map, presumably of the tunnels?” I asked. Stonehenge nodded. Colin looked up. I pushed on. “You know where these vats of cleaning fluid are?” Stonehenge nodded again. “You know where this, this . . . sacrifice is meant to take place?”

“I do.”

“Do you seriously think we can pull it off? You really think we can stop these maniacs?”

Stonehenge looked around the pub for almost longer than I could bear. Then he spoke. “Last night, I would probably have said no. But while you and Kafka were in the catacombs, I did some more work on the information Barry had managed to get. And because Karen was very excited about AFFA's progress, and because Barry was more than usually . . . er,
willing
. . . well, between us we managed to gather a significant amount of useful information—the locations of the vats, and of the sacrificial altar.”

“And a map of those fucking tunnels.”

“Yes. This is, as I said, Barry's last chance to escape Their clutches. He is utterly serious about getting out. He stole a map from Karen. It was a last ditch gambit. If he's found out . . . .”

“He's dead,” interrupted Kafka. “Like we are.”

I stared into space. Somewhere in my heart there was a jagged hole, torn open. Karen. Barry. Me. I guess I was maybe more upset than I thought.

“Excuse me, but this has been all too far-out. I have to go and buy something to smoke.” Kafka pointed with his thumb towards the cigarette machine by the stairs, but I glared at him. I needed to go away. The smokes were an excuse, sort of.

“I need a little time to let this, ah, information—sink in,” I said, “but I've got attached to you guys. Strangely. Against my better judgement. How's about we meet up in a couple of hours? There's a pub just up from Charlcombe. At the top of Lansdown Hill. I'll see you both there at four
P.M
. Okay?” I got up and walked to the door. I glanced back. I couldn't see Stonehenge's face, but I could see Kafka's. I was already out in the rain, but for some reason I thought Kafka had been smiling.

It felt good to be leaving the pub. Kafka and Stonehenge could talk about cosmic rays and I wouldn't need to bang my forehead on the table. I had a couple of hours to collect two guns. To stock up on whiskey and cocaine. But I wasn't going to think. No way. If I started doing any of that I would be getting on the next train out of town.

I was raising my eyes to the heavens, or somewhere with a nearby postcode. On the way up from the wet pavement to the wet sky, my eyes stopped. They stopped because they noticed a black camera twenty feet up a lamppost. Its lens was staring straight at me. I didn't stop walking. I remembered the speed of the visual mapping process. I considered myself to be of particular interest to ScryTech. Parts of me still ached from the advice I'd been given by those nice, smartly dressed men with the shiny shoes and the expensive car.

I ducked into a shop and very quickly picked up an umbrella before ducking out of it again. I figured being done for shoplifting wasn't something I should be worrying about. I was out of there and into a few other shops. I went through some places that had entrances front and back. I did my best to appear inconspicuous. The umbrella helped, once I was out in the rain again.

I did a pretty fast circuit of town, tagged along with some tour groups, and ended up getting on one of those open-topped double-decker buses that have recorded commentary in four languages about a whole load of tourist bullshit. I could have told the huddled tourists, steaming up the windows with their wet coats, a few things that weren't on the official itinerary. But I didn't. Yeah, well.

I got off at the Circus, one of the places that I'd noticed on the ScryTech map that
didn't
have CCTV. I walked over to the trees that grew above the grass in the centre. I thought about what Stonehenge had said about the place. Part of some giant sky-visible symbol. Whatever. There was a big metal manhole cover, or something like it, between the trees, right in the very centre of the Circus. The thought of what might be beneath the thin sheet of metal I was standing on gave me the creeps. Raindrops from the trees drummed on my new umbrella. I pulled out my mobile and dialled Kafka.

“Colin? It's Valpolicella. Are you still in the pub? Okay. When you leave, avoid the CCTV cameras. There's one right at the end of the lane. I didn't see it until it was too late. It got me, for sure. Don't let it get you. What? Yeah, yeah, but you can't be too careful. Look, if ScryTech do the CCTV for KHS then they could have your mug already. Yeah. Underground, maybe. No, I don't know for sure. I'm being cautious, okay? Yeah, I'm getting the, erm, implements next. I'm at the Circus. No, I don't think I was followed. What do you mean, at least it's stopped raining? Not here it hasn't. Yeah, yeah. See you at four
P.M
.”

I trudged up the hill, locating a couple of bottles of whiskey at a shop near my flat. I thought of nipping in, getting some dry clothes, but I decided not to. It was probably watched. Or bugged. Surveillance cameras are very, very small these days. Anyway, I didn't have much time. If I went to the flat I might fall asleep, and I couldn't afford that luxury. No way. I couldn't remember the last time I'd slept. A bad sign. I really needed that cocaine. And some speed, if I could get it. Staying awake was going to be a priority from now on. Yeah, speed was a far better bet. Lasted a whole lot longer. Pharmaceutical amphetamine, that would do it. I had a hunch that one of my contacts would be able to sort me out.

My first call was to one of my acquaintances I knew through the investigation business. She'd employed me to find out what her rat of a husband was up to. Well, he was up to a lot. Apart from affairs (two, consecutive, both women involved very happy to tell me exactly what kind of rat he was) and prostitutes (too many to keep track of, almost continual, all willing to talk to me for cash donations), he'd also killed a young guy in a hit-and-run and was paying a reasonable wedge to someone who'd happened to notice his registration. The blackmailer was a rat, too. But that didn't concern me. Not on the job description. Everything turned out peachy for my client, which was why she lived in a nice grand house. She'd been very grateful for my services. For a while anyway. She also offered a high-class line in drugs to select friends and—well, acquaintances. Like me.

She wasn't too happy about giving credit to a wet and tired private investigator, but I guess she figured it was better than me getting all upset on her doorstep. She had a pistol I could borrow, too. I had a hot cup of tea in a basically very chilly atmosphere before I got the hell out of there. I needed another gun and a lot of bullets. It was irritating.

Okay. It was after 3
P.M
. I needed to be quick. I had another contact in the area, a computer expert who was kind of a gun nut. He was the knucklehead who'd installed my system for the office a couple of years back. He was fascinated that I was an investigator. Amazed that I didn't carry a weapon as a usual thing.

He talked about guns a lot while he fiddled around with leads and hard drives and stuff like that. Very incautious talk, I remembered thinking at the time. Careless talk. I didn't like him much. In fact, I didn't like him at all. But I still had his card. It was in my wallet. So I knew where he lived. So that's where I went. It was a dismal looking place, a sort of 1960s detached house surrounded by dank conifers. His car was in the drive. I guessed he was in. I punched the doorbell a couple of times.

He came to the door wearing a dressing gown and a whole chinful of stubble. A moustache, too. I've always liked moustaches. In the same kind of way I like the familiar pools of vomit in the alleyway outside my office. He didn't seem to recognise me, so I flashed my card.

“Valpolicella. Private investigations. You installed my computer. Remember?”

He looked confused. “Um . . . yes . . . ” he said slowly. “It's Sunday, Mister Valpolicella. Is this an urgent matter? Something wrong with the system?”

“Aren't you going to ask me in? Out of the rain?”

He did, with reluctance. I stepped into the hall. Something about it reminded me of my flat, except it smelled worse. But that sort of thing's a matter of taste, I guess. I dreaded to think what his bedroom was like, if the hallway was anything to go by.

“Can I offer you anything? Tea? Coffee?”

“You can offer me something all right, but it's not that.”

“Is, er, something wrong with the, ah, computer?”

“Always. Everything. But that's not why I'm here. I seem to remember you talking about weapons. Guns, particularly. I take it you have an interest in guns? A big interest, I'd guess.”

He looked uncomfortable, to put it charitably. His moustache bristled. I winced, not too obviously I hope.

“I have, as you say, an, um, ah, an
interest
. . . ” he said, very carefully, “but all above board, all . . . .”

He had been going to say ‘legal.' But I guessed it wasn't.

“Take it easy,” I said flatly, “this isn't a bust or anything like that. Nothing to do with the law. Not yet, anyway. Not unless you want it to be. Guns aren't very popular with most people. I don't think the police take kindly to private arsenals.” I was completely unthreatening. Well, okay, not completely. “I want you to give me a pistol. Right now. I'm in a hurry.”