Dark Angels (40 page)

Seeking clarification of this, I looked for my newly-found grandfather but he had gone, probably to the pub across the road to phone his associates as there was no mobile signal in this area. Every cell in my body seemed to ache, as I suddenly realised I was completely alone.

The hills around Kilmartin are wild and primeval; desperate to shake off this feeling of foreboding I began in earnest to examine the graves. Who were the fighting men buried here? The land surrounding Kilmartin belonged to the Campbell clan; Sir Neil Campbell had been the brother-in-law of Robert the Bruce, but the majority of the land belonged to the MacDonalds.

Maybe that explained the way I was feeling. The
MacDonalds and the Campbells have hated each other for centuries. In some parts of the Highlands, which are dominated by MacDonalds, there are signs up in public places, which state ‘No Campbells Allowed’ much like one would ban a dog.

The rocks and soil in Scotland give off a strange energy, as if they reflect the memories of the past. To understand this you only have to drive through Glencoe, known as the ‘Weeping Glen’. The crags themselves still resound with MacDonald tears after they were massacred as they slept by the Campbells.

There was still no sign of my grandfather; I had to trust him, he must have had his reasons for arranging the meeting here, presumably one that had something to do with those ancient fighting men and one that went beyond the need for secrecy.

Sitting on a tombstone, I racked my mind going over history lessons given in stuffy classrooms at school. Staring without blinking at the shape of the sword I did not notice the cold of the grave seeping through my jeans.

The point of the knife on my jugular pricked my skin, causing a tiny red bubble of blood to flow freely to the surface. I almost sensed the blade rise and fall as my blood pumped quickly round my body. An unknown assailant yanked my head back so that I was unable to see their face. A handful of my hair lay on the ground around my feet, like a piece of sheep’s wool caught on barbed wire.

Forcing my face down, the stone grazed my cheek. The rawness of the wound hurt as the tiny pieces of grit and lichen were rubbed in.

‘Are you giving into fate? Or do you want to fight? In other words–are you a lamb like your mother or a lion like your father?’

From behind me, a woman spoke, her cultured tones ringing throughout the burial place. Squinting my eyes until they hurt, I tried to see round corners. My heart punctured my ribs, making it difficult for me to hear my own thoughts.

The scent of my fear was acrid, and pungent like rancid vinegar, it choked me as it mixed with the fresh night air. Feeling warmth on my thighs I panicked that in my confusion I had wet myself. Struggling to assess the situation, pulling my head round to see, I felt my hair being ripped out, follicle by tiny follicle.

Fleetingly out of the corner of my eye, I saw that the heat, which had not diminished, was coming from a flaming torch. Bizarrely, I was relieved that I had not shamed myself.

Roughly yanked to my feet I was hauled and dragged across the graveyard to a ruin that housed yet more gravestones. A Hermès silk scarf was tied around my eyes. It smelled of stale Chanel No. 5. Rough hemp rope chafed and burned my wrists as my hands were tied behind a flat stone that had been excavated, and now stood upright against the wall. Just before the blindfold was applied, I saw the engraving on the stone, a cross of equal lengths, useless for torture–the cross of the Templars.

The ruin, which had no roof, was surprisingly warm. The wind carried the smell of the burning wood to me. Although I had not seen it, I sensed that there was a brazier, with a fire burning intensely.

Hands that were male, but soft and unused to manual work, ripped my shirt open. The palms felt clammy and feminine as the knife slit my bra. It popped open and my breasts swung free as the lingerie was cut from my body.

His face was close to mine as he worked; I could smell Rennies and expensive whisky on his breath. A big man, he towered over me, but I did not feel embarrassed standing there half naked in front of him for he had seen me that way before.

‘Why are you doing this?’ I asked. ‘Why, Fishy?’

Trembling as I spoke, I prayed that I was wrong, knowing all the while how unlikely that was.

‘You told me she didn’t need to see me–you promised you would take care of all of this.’ Droning and stamping like a two-year-old child, he loosened his grip on me as he spoke to his companion.

‘Whether she’s seen you or not will be of no consequence after tonight.’

The lady spoke and Fishy paid heed.

‘Why the fuck are you doing this?’ I screamed.

A heavy hand slapped me flat across the face making my ears ring, causing the blindfold to slip from my eyes.

‘You’re in the presence of a lady–don’t use language like that.’

‘Tell me, you fucker…why?’ Yelling at him I was hopeful that someone might hear.

‘They’re not always wrong, Brodie.’ Tiny pieces of his spit flecked my face as he snarled at me.

‘I don’t understand what you’re getting at. Who’s not always wrong?’

‘Of course you don’t understand what I’m getting at…but then I’ve never thought you were as bright as people gave you credit for. Makes sense you had someone helping you along all this time, smoothing the path. Still, notwithstanding that, even I thought you would have sussed me before now.’

‘Sussed you? Sussed you? Christ, Fishy, what do you mean?’

‘Think about it. Think about all that’s been happening to your poor old pal, Fishy. How the nasty coppers have made his life so horrible recently.’

The penny dropped. ‘The details on that child porn site? It was you. You were never set up, were you? You stupid bastard–you used your own credit card for that filth.’ I barely finished my sentence before he punched me in the guts stealing my breath.

‘Who sent you the photograph album, Fishy? Where did you get that from?’

‘I did. I sent it.’

Lady Bunny Arbuthnot, the widow, floated into view.

‘For his entertainment and edification. Unlike you, I think Richard has possibilities.’ Her manicured fingers caressed his face. She dug her forefinger into his cheek, drawing blood. He made no protest and I knew then that it would be no use appealing to Fishy.

‘But when you sent the photographs your husband was still alive.’

Her face hardened, emotions frozen in an icy mask.

‘He had become aware that Kailash was back. He was always obsessed with that whore. He had some
ridiculous thoughts of replacing me, so I needed an alternative companion.’

Bile rose in my throat as I saw her stroke Fishy’s crotch; to my disgust he was stiff.

‘So, are all paedophiles pretty much interchangeable to you? Do you just swap them around, one for another? Just tell me why–explain to me please–why–why I must die?’ I moved my head from side to side trying to sense her; fear stopped my heart when I did. The heated tongs were hovering just above my left breast.

I knew exactly who was pulling the strings here–and I also knew that Bunny MacGregor would hate to kill me without explaining her motivation. Her pleasure in murdering me would be diminished if I were not able to share, or to be a part of her master plan.

I remained motionless as Fishy untied my hands and then retied them so that I could move. I did not dare to do so because ‘the spider’ glowed red hot, centimetres above my nipple.

‘Did you send me that fucking thing?’ I spat at her.

My head bounced off the gravestone as Fishy smacked me in the mouth.

‘Shut up, Brodie! I warned you about swearing in front of the lady. I sent it to you and I took it from your room this morning.’

‘Are you aware of the significance of this place?’

With one hand on my ear Bunny MacGregor pulled me out into the graveyard again.

‘Look at these stones–do you have any idea what these men did?’

She twisted my ear so hard I had to answer ‘No’. As she released me, the side of my face stung as if I had been lashed. My best chance to remain alive would be to keep her talking until the others arrived.

‘When was the Battle of Bannockburn?’ she asked, twisting my ear again like some demented history teacher. The Battle of Bannockburn is probably the largest battle ever fought upon British soil. The Scots were outnumbered three to one, and at the last minute they secured victory and their independence. Scotland remained independent for 289 years until the crowns were joined through inheritance. Every Scottish school child knows it, and even in the middle of all this, my early history lessons stayed with me.

‘The Battle of Bannockburn was on the 24 June 1314,’ I stuttered.

‘St John’s Day, a very important day for these men.’

My liver was crushed as, bent double, Bunny MacGregor dragged me to the next site. Pushing me down she banged my head off the flat stone. Dragging me by the hair to the next grave she was slightly out of breath as she spoke again.

‘This man…’ she kicked me hard in the ribs; I feared that the toe of her pointed shoe had pierced the skin between the ridges of bone, ‘rode up through the Scottish ranks and onto the field at Bannockburn. The enemy were exhausted–when the English soldiers saw that a band of Knights Templar were fighting for Scottish freedom, they fled the field.’

Bunny MacGregor’s eyes flashed with fervour as she spoke.

‘The Knights Templar were the richest, most influential force…’

‘Not that powerful because they were wiped out,’ I hissed, interrupting her speech. There was blood pouring from the side of my mouth. The same shoe that had kicked my chest, now landed on my chin knocking me backwards.

‘Whilst it may be true that on the 13 October 1307, Pope Clement V issued orders for the arrest of the knights, some had warning–and escaped.’

Bunny MacGregor circled me as I lay on the ground, inhaling the sweet smell of the burning pine logs, unable to wipe the moist grass stuck to my face, tickling and aggravating my wounds.

‘Of course the Pope was in the pocket of Philip IV. The knights who had escaped the torture had nowhere to run–except Scotland.’

‘Why?’ I asked, desperate to buy time.

‘You ignorant peasant. Before the reformation, the Papal Bull overrode the law of the land, that’s why Henry VIII had to ask the Pope’s permission to get married to Anne Boleyn. When Henry refused to obey Papal orders he was excommunicated.’

Pulling my eyelids open was difficult, for it was as if my eyeballs were made of slow-setting concrete. I blinked several times, to clear the blood on my eyeballs, trying to see Bunny MacGregor. Dressed like part of the hunting set, her dreary green quilted jacket was set off by the jewel-like colours in the patterns on the Hermès scarf, which now poked cheerily out of her pocket. Severely thin, Bunny still looked elegant in spite
of her exertions: immaculately groomed, her white hair was too afraid to move. As was I, lying half naked in a graveyard in the middle of nowhere, while my tormentor was lecturing me on world history. I spat out a piece of my tooth on the grass.

‘Of course this place is nothing now–but then it was easily accessible by sea, and the Templars were great sailors you know.’

‘They discovered America,’ said Fishy, and Lady MacGregor threw him a condescending nod. I tried to spit on his shoe but ended up coughing blood instead.

‘Of course he’s quite correct–Columbus used Sir Henry Sinclair’s Templar maps–proof of this fact is Rosslyn Chapel built 100 years before Columbus discovered America. The ornate stone friezes show corn on the cob and other vegetables indigenous to that land.’

I must have passed out for a second or two, her hand was cold and skeletal as it hit my face.

‘For self preservation these warrior monks had to forego their oath of celibacy–did you see on the gravestones that they intermarried with the great clans? They kept their knowledge and wealth intact–from these roots Scotland has been led.

‘When Robert the Bruce died, he asked that his heart be buried in Jerusalem–trusted nobles set off to the Holy Land to carry out his wishes. On 25 March 1330 at the battle of Tebas de Ardales, the Scots riding vanguard were surrounded. Lord Douglas, who carried the casket containing the Bruce’s heart around
his neck, took it off and threw it into the battle shouting:

‘All of them died except one–and he retrieved the heart from the battlefield and buried it in Melrose Abbey. In the nineteenth century Robert the Bruce’s body was dug up and it was said that his leg bones were crossed under his skull–and that’s a Templar sign.’

Fishy bent down, and whispered into my face.

‘Is it any wonder that they still run this little country–they run the world! In the American Presidential Campaign, George Bush and John Kerry both belonged to the Skull and Bones society–are you starting to see the connections?’

Bunny MacGregor bent down, and placed the knife on my jugular again.

‘Stand up–carefully,’ she hissed.

I did as I was told.

‘But I still don’t know what all of this has to do with me–or the other girls.’

Staring into her eyes I did not hear him approach.

‘Let her go, Bunny–take me.’ Lord MacGregor stood with his hands in the air.

‘Where are the others?’ I screamed at him, for the knowledge was beginning to dawn on me. In spite of the force she put into her kick I barely felt it as it landed on my chin, either I was concussed or impervious to
pain. More likely it was what she said next that numbed me as I prepared to stare God in the face.

‘You fool…but as they say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.’

Bunny MacGregor turned to her father-in-law.

‘You tell her what you’ve done.’

He could not look me in the eye and I knew then that no one else was coming. Bunny had cancelled the others and had come in their stead with Fishy in her shadow.

‘Take me,’ Lord MacGregor implored again.