Relics (25 page)

James Cutler dug his hand into the ice bucket and dropped more of the frozen squares into the whiskey tumbler before pouring a generous measure of Johnny Walker.

He drank deeply, allowing the amber fluid to burn its way to his stomach. The land developer had drunk three or four scotches at the restaurant an hour or so earlier, and he wondered how he had managed to remain so stone-cold sober. He didn’t even feel a hint of light-headedness. He poured himself another drink, wondering how long it would take him to get smashed.

Even though the liquor inside him was warm and the central heating was on full-blast he still felt cold. As if icy fingers were tickling the back of his neck. He took his drink and sat down facing the television set. He didn’t bother to turn the set on but merely gazed at the blank screen, sipping his drink a little too hastily.

Beside him his dog, Rebel, a red setter, lay with its head raised as if listening to something in the distance.

Cutler reached down with one hand and stroked the animal’s head, surprised when it growled.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ he said, withdrawing his hand an inch or two.

The dog’s ears had pricked up and it was now looking round, its head jerking from side to side. Finally it contented itself with glaring at the sitting room door.

Cutler looked at the dog a moment longer, sipping more of his drink.

‘You’re a temperamental so-and-so tonight,’ he said, patting the dog again, more cautiously this time.

Again the animal growled, low in its throat. It got to its feet, padded across to the door, and stood facing it, its growls gradually building into barks.

Cutler frowned and rose from his chair.

‘What the hell is the matter, Rebel?’ he asked as if he actually expected the dog to tell him.

Once more he felt those icy fingers at the back of his neck but with more cause now. His dog wouldn’t behave this way unless it had a reason.

The animal was now barking, growling and whimpering by turns. It stood unmoving by the door as Cutler approached. He pulled the door open, expecting the setter to run out, but it remained where it was, looking out into the darkened hall and the front door beyond.

He himself looked at the wood-panelled door, then back at the large bay window with its curtains still undrawn. Cutler suddenly felt very vulnerable.

And frightened.

Couldn’t dogs sense the presence of others? he thought.

They could tell when there was an intruder about.

An intruder.

Or a murderer perhaps?

The thought struck Cutler like a thunderbolt and he moved away from the door towards the windows, hastily drawing the curtains across, shutting out the darkness of the night.

His house stood on the outskirts of Longfield, surrounded by two acres of grounds. He was, in short, isolated. Cut off. And, with what had been happening recently to those who worked for him, the land developer felt suddenly afraid.

The dog had now moved out into the hall slightly, still growling.

Cutler followed it, moving slowly in the gloom, his ears alert for any sound from outside the house.

He listened intently but heard nothing. Still the setter growled, its lips sliding back over its canine teeth.

Cutler glanced to his right, up the stairs, then to his left, towards the dining room. The dog seemed intent on the front door and now, as he watched, it began to bark frenziedly, the sound echoing in the stillness of the house.

The land developer crossed to the door, one hand resting on the lock.

Should he let the dog out? Let it chase whoever was out there?

But if he did open the door . . .

He swallowed hard, looking down at the setter, which was now barking loudly, its body stiff. The only part of it moving was its head.

Open the door? he asked himself.

He finally slid back the bolt and pulled it open, letting the setter scurry out into the night. He slammed the door quickly behind it and stood with his back to it, shaking. If there was a burglar or prowler out there, then Rebel would soon see them off, he thought, trying to reassure himself.

The barking ceased abruptly and silence descended once again.

Cutler listened, waiting for the noise to continue.

Nothing.

Maybe the dog had been unable to find anyone. Perhaps it was even now trotting back towards the house. Cutler glanced at the phone on the hall table and wondered if he should call the police. If he did, what would he tell them? That his dog had been barking at sounds he himself could not hear? It was scarcely a good enough reason to bring two panda cars screeching to his door. He closed his eyes for a moment, surrounded by the darkness, wondering what to do.

He heard his dog yelp wildly and his blood froze.

The cry died away on the breeze which swirled around the house.

Cutler looked across at the phone once more.

Should he phone?

What if the killer were outside?

He had a right to be protected.

Again he hesitated, peering out of the window beside the door in an effort to see where the dog had got to. The darkness was impenetrable. The light switch which controlled the porch lamp was close to his hand. If he put that on he would be able to see. He flicked the switch.

As the front path was bathed in light, Cutler sucked in a strangled breath.

His dog was lying about ten yards from the house in a spreading pool of blood.

Its head had almost been severed. It hung at an impossible angle, twisted to one side to reveal a jawbone which was shattered into crimson mush. Both eyes had been tom out, leaving only the weeping sockets, and Cutler noticed that one of the dog’s long ears had also been ripped away by its killer. The ear lay discarded a couple of feet away. The body was still twitching spasmodically, one rear leg quivering insanely as the last muscular movements racked it.

Cutler turned immediately, snapping off the porch light, and dived for the phone. He snatched it up and dialled three nines.

The line was dead.

Shaking uncontrollably he dialled again, not stopping to think that the lines had most likely been cut.

With a final despairing moan he threw the receiver down and blundered into the sitting room, slamming the door behind him, his breath now coming in short gasps.

He heard scratching outside the front door, the sound gradually building until a series of loud bangs rang through the house.

Cutler looked around desperately for something with which to defend himself.

The bangs became blows of sledgehammer proportions and the land developer heard the strain of cracking wood.

He ran from the sitting room, through the kitchen, and unlocked the back door.

If he could just get to his car . . .

The garage was about thirty feet from the house at the end of a long tarmac drive.

With the sound of the splintering front door still echoing through the night he plunged on towards the garage, slipping once on the grass. He rolled over and sprang to his feet, not daring to look back. The cold air rasped in his throat as he gulped down huge lungfuls. Finally, with a whimper of relief, he reached the garage. Only then did he afford himself a look back over his shoulder.

No one was following him.

He flung open the garage door and scurried around to the driver’s side of the Jensen, fumbling in his pockets.

He’d left the keys in the house.

His heart seemed to accelerate to an impossible speed, hammering madly against his ribs.

He tugged on the car door in his anger and fear, knowing that he had no choice but to go back for the keys. Clenching his teeth he turned and sprinted back across the grass towards the open back door, the sound of splintering wood still loud in his ears.

Another few moments and the intruder would be inside.

Cutler crashed into the kitchen table in his haste, bruising his hip. He ignored the pain, intent only on finding his car keys, on escaping with his life.

He looked around frantically for the keys, aware that the front door could not hold out for much longer. Each hammer blow rained upon it brought his would-be killer closer.

‘Oh God,’ he grunted. Where had he put the bloody keys?

A huge lump of wood was torn from the door, clattering into the hall. Cutler spun round, his eyes darting back and forth.

He saw the keys on the drinks trolley and snatched them up, hurtling back out through the hall and the kitchen.

The front door finally crashed inwards and the intruder blundered into the hallway, catching sight of the fleeing land developer.

He knew without turning round that he was being pursued but that knowledge only spurred him on to greater effort and, seconds later, he was outside again, sprinting towards the garage, praying that this time he didn’t slip and fall.

Behind him, his attacker followed.

Cutler reached the garage. Only then did he turn and look back.

The sight he saw nearly caused him to drop his keys.

The would-be killer was within twenty feet of him.

Cutler smelled the noxious odour, saw the blood, felt the searing cold.

He kicked open the side door of the garage, dashed through and slammed it behind him, slipping the bolt, praying that it would keep the intruder at bay long enough for him to get away.

His hands shaking madly, Cutler struggled to push the key into the lock on the car door.

There was a deafening crash as the first powerful blow landed against the garage door. It was followed by many more.

Murmuring to himself, Cutler struggled with the keys again.

They fell from his grasp but he hurriedly snatched them up and rammed the appropriate one into the lock. In an instant he was behind the steering wheel.

As he jammed in the ignition key he heard the side door of the garage beginning to give.

It would only be a matter of seconds now.

He twisted the key savagely, stepping on the accelerator simultaneously. The engine roared into life and he rammed the Jensen into gear, but his foot slipped off the clutch and the car stalled.

On the verge of hysteria now, he started the engine once more, the loud roar drowning out all other sounds.

Cutler didn’t even bother opening the main doors. He merely ducked low behind the wheel and put his foot down.

The Jensen shot forward as if fired from a cannon, smashing through the double doors and out into the night, skidding on the tarmac for precious seconds as Cutler struggled to control the vehicle.

He heard and felt a tremendous thud which seemed to rock the entire car and, for a second, he thought with delight that he’d managed to run his attacker down.

It took him a second to realize that the thud had come from above.

There was someone on the roof.

He braked hard, trying to dislodge the attacker, but as he did so, a powerful hand swung down towards the driver’s window.

Glass exploded inwards under the impact and Cutler shrieked as he felt the slivers cutting his skin. The scream was silenced a moment later as the hand fastened itself around his throat.

He swerved, running the car onto his front lawn, skidding to a halt, both hands now clutching at his assailant’s arm and at the hand which was throttling him.

His attacker slid from the roof of the car without releasing the strangling grip on Cutler’s throat.

He felt himself being pulled towards the broken window and, for one bizarre moment, he thought his assailant was going to try to pull him through the tiny opening.

Instead he saw another hand reaching in, clawing at his face, at his eyes. Sharp nails started digging into the soft flesh of his lids, curving inwards to scrape the sensitive orbs themselves.

Pain enveloped him and he struggled even more fiercely, but his frantic movements only seemed to inflame the attacker more.

Cutler felt his head being turned to an impossible angle, felt the muscles and bones creaking and popping.

Then suddenly, he was staring into the face of his attacker.

Horror such as he had never felt before overwhelmed him and he felt sharp pain stabbing at his heart.

He managed one final scream.

Gripping his head like a bottle top, the killer twisted with incredible ferocity.

The bones in Cutler’s neck cracked with a strident shriek, the muscles tearing like paper as the killer continued to twist.

Cutler slumped forward, his head turned completely around, facing backwards.

Without a second’s hesitation, the assailant tore open the car door and dragged the body from the confines of the vehicle, which already reeked of excrement and blood.

The killer stood over the corpse for a moment, then fell upon it.

There was much still to be done.

‘His heart is black,

His blood is cold,

Returning to destroy our World.

Warrior

WHEN THE LEAVES DIE ON THE TREES THEN THEY FEAR HIM. WHEN THE WIND IS COLD THEY FEAR HIM. AND THEY KNOW THAT ONLY THE DEATHS OF OTHERS CAN STOP HIM RISING SO THEY KILL. THEY KILL IN HIS NAME BUT THEY KILL IN FEAR OF HIM AND HIS POWER WHICH IS SUCH TO SPLIT THE WORLD IN TWO. NONE CAN STAND AGAINST HIM FOR NONE POSSESS SUCH POWER AS HE. SAVE ONE. THEY KNOW LITTLE OF THIS OTHER. OF THE ONE WHO IS ALWAYS WITH HIM. THE ONE WHO SEEKS LIVING BODIES NOT DEAD ONES. THE ONE WHO LIVES IN OTHER MENS MINDS. I HAVE PLACED THIS KNOWLEDGE IN MANY PLACES. HIDDEN. FOR 1 SERVE HIM AND I CARRY THE SECRETS.

THE LEAVES ARE DYING ON THE TREES. THE YEAR IS AT AN END. THEY MUST KILL AGAIN.

DAGDA COMES.

Kim sat back from the notebook and exhaled deeply. Wallace stood beside her, looking down at the words which she had so painstakingly transcribed from the stone tablets.

‘Who the hell is Dagda?’ said Wallace, glancing at the notes once more.