The Amulet (13 page)

I scrabbled around with her on the floor, both of us apologizing all the time. I kept one eye on the door, expecting at any moment to see Durban come to check on the woman.

"You're so kind," she said to me as I finally helped her upright, wincing as the old bones in her knees cracked loudly. Now that I saw her up close I had to revise her age upwards. Wrinkles hung slackly at her neck, and her hands were covered with liver spots. I was glad I hadn't given her a bigger shock; she didn't look like she would have survived it.

She looked me up and down,

"You know," she whispered, her voice conspiratorial, "it's so good to see a young man dressed properly. But you need a tie, dear. A nice sensible tie. Maybe I could take you shopping?"

I couldn't believe it-she was flirting with me. I muttered something non-committal and left before I burst into hysterical laughter. I managed to get to the car without Durban looking my way and I pretended to root around in the doughnut bag until the woman finally came out of the shop.

My heartbeat was up, my palms were sweaty, but I was enjoying myself, more than I had for a long time. I almost, but not quite, fought off an attack of the giggles.

The smell from the doughnut bag was cloying and sickly. I scrunched it up, doughnuts and all, and threw it in the back seat, where it joined the old newspapers, empty cigarette packets and soft-drink cans. In centuries to come someone like Doug would have a field day describing 'A Twentieth Century midden'.

When Durban got going I let them have a five second start before following on behind. Somewhere between Dalry and Kilwinning-I'm a bit vague on anywhere outside the city-they pulled into the drive of a large Victorian house sitting on its own in several hundred acres of land. The old Rover swished through the gates and, five seconds later, just as I got to them, the gates swung shut. Even from inside the car I could hear the satisfying clunk as they locked into place.

I drove past, only having time to notice that there were at least six cars in the driveway. A hundred yards down the road things opened out to open field once more. I did a tight three-point-turn in the road, went back, and looked for somewhere to park.

It took a few minutes, but I found the perfect spot: a mud track off the main road that ran into a disused yard adjoining one of the house's walls. I turned off the engine and rolled down the windows but there was no noise, just the warbling of birds and the soft rustling of the wind in the trees. I was instantly reminded of childhood conker hunting through sepulchral woodland. There is an oppressive feel to woodland that I've never gotten to grips with-concrete and street lamps were more my scene.

The wall was over six feet high, and I had to do a bit of scrambling to see over it, but what I found was encouraging. The garden of the house was heavily wooded-lots of places for a snoop to hide.

This was something I was used to-furtive lurking in gardens had become a bit of a specialty of mine. I clambered over the wall and began heading closer to the house. The ground was soggy underfoot but at least the rain had stopped.

The house was huge-well over a hundred years old and festooned with rampant, out-of-control ivy. It was on three levels, in granite, with a massive frontage of bay windows and a genuine Victorian conservatory off to my right.

I'm no botanist, but all the trees in the garden had an exotic, almost foreign feel to them, and various large statues dotted the grounds, like people frozen at a garden party. Whoever Durban was dealing with was obviously well off-very well off. Durban's old Rover, although stylish, was the least expensive car in the drive. From my vantage on the wall I could see at least two Bentleys and a Porsche.

The driveway gates were still closed and there was no sign of movement in the gardens. I decided to take my chance and move even closer.

It was at times like this that I wished I had some toys-devices to listen through windows, tracker bugs, all that James Bond stuff-but there wasn't usually much call for it in the West of Scotland. I made my way slowly through the bushes, trying to get as close as I dared to the front of the house. I could see light ahead of me, so I got on my hands and knees and crept closer. By parting a few rhododendron branches I could see in through the bay windows.

It looked like a cocktail party was going on, one of those sedate country house parties of the kind I never got invited to. The average age of the guests was somewhere around seventy and none of them seemed to be enjoying themselves very much.

At first Durban was the only one I recognized but the rest of them looked similarly well heeled and there must have been several tens of thousand pounds worth of jewelry on show.

Just then the fur-coated lady walked into view. She was giggling behind her hand like a schoolgirl, and the action suddenly made her younger, almost skittish. The smile on her face stayed with her until she walked out of my sight. It almost made me want to be in there with them.

The party seemed to be revolving around someone sitting in the corner of the room, just out of my sight. When the unseen person spoke, everyone else listened-a rapt expression on their faces, a mixture of deference and something else. I thought that maybe it was fear, but then again that might have been just my imagination.

I found a handy tree to lean against where I had a partial view of proceedings. I skidded on the damp bark, adding a new stain to my raincoat but eventually settled myself in and tried not to think about cigarettes.

It looked like I could be in for a wait. I contented myself with trying to guess the occupations of the people I could see.

There was the slim, suave, older man, a bit like Durban, but more ostentatious-silk handkerchief in the top pocket, suit from Saville Row, Rolex watch, gold cufflinks and diamond tiepin. Someone from the city? No, more probably an Edinburgh lawyer-there was something in his eyes that spoke of power. He had thin, almost feminine lips, and when he spoke he ran his tongue over his teeth as if savoring every word.

To his left there was a dowager duchess-all black lace and red silk, her hair pulled back severely into a bun, pince-nez poised delicately on a thin blade of a nose, top lip pulled down to hide protruding teeth. Her eyes were rheumy and ran with tears, bright sparkling droplets which were wiped daintily away with a small, black lace handkerchief.

I had her pegged as the widow of a country gentleman-one of the riding-shooting-fishing set.

Just at her shoulder there was the nouveau-riche businessman, looking out of place in such company. He had already drunk too much-I could see it in the reddening of his cheeks and the too careful way he had of picking up his glass. His suit nearly fitted him, and his tie was loud and garish. He laughed too much, and too loudly, but he didn't notice the disapproving looks he received from the others. Definitely a car-salesman, or a garage owner. I guessed the Porsche might be his.

And then there was Durban himself, completely at ease, one leg casually draped over the other, eyes watching everything in the room as he took delicate sips from his whisky glass.

The party continued at its own sedate pace, the unseen person stayed hidden, and I waited. Waiting is something you get good at in this job, and I had developed numerous mental games to keep my brain from going to sleep. I was working out the cube root of some ridiculously large number when things started to move and I had to pay attention.

The party began to split up and a light went on in the adjoining room. I just caught a glimpse of a huge mahogany dining table before the drapes were drawn in both rooms. I hadn't noticed it, but it had begun to get dark. As I looked up to the sky I felt the first spots of rain on my face. I debated returning to the car and waiting near the drive for the evening to end, but I had a feeling the festivities had yet to begin in earnest.

In the twilight I felt safe in having a cigarette, and as I smoked I could just hear the quiet murmur of conversation from the dining room.

I was there for another hour, up until eight o'clock, and was seriously damp by this time. The car was beginning to seem more and more inviting and I had just made up my mind to give up when a door opened at the side of the house and the party appeared.

I almost pinched myself to make sure that I was still awake. They were all robed, heavy black cloaks with pointed hoods, and they carried thick gray candles, hands cupped above them to protect their fragile sputtering light against the rain.

They walked slowly, sedately, and in the dim light it seemed that they were floating above the ground. I counted them as they made their way across the lawn into a heavier area of woodland-they numbered thirteen.

I got the cold shivers again-I remembered some of the stories from Dunlop's book and from the Internet-but I'd got five hundred a day, and that gave my client the right to a stiff upper lip. I followed at a safe distance.

We didn't have far to go. I reached a bend in the track we had been following and had just enough time to stop myself before I walked into a clearing.

It was a natural amphitheater, tall oaks surrounding a thirty-yard wide clearing. I noticed that great swathes of grass had been trampled down flat-this wasn't the first time they had done this.

Thick gnarled tree branches hung across the clearing, just above head height, branches that stuttered and twitched in the flickering candlelight.

They had arranged themselves into a loose circle. As one they bent to the ground, and at first I thought they were about to pray, but they only placed the candles at their feet. Their robes hung over their faces, throwing their heads into black shadow, and I had a sudden mental picture of the robes all falling to the ground, empty.

I had never felt more like running in my life. I had a cold, metallic taste in my mouth, and my palms tingled, pins and needles that seemed to dance just beneath the skin. If someone had put a whisky bottle in my hands at that point I believe I could have downed its contents in one, oblivion-seeking gulp. I tried to pull myself together and observe the action-that was what I was being paid for, after all.

When I looked back they were holding hands and facing inwards. One of them stood in the center-I couldn't see his face due to the darkness and the shadows, but I guessed this must be the one who had sat in the corner of the room. He started chanting and I could hear the foreign accent even through the incomprehensible speech.

Soon they had all joined in, but it still didn't help-I still couldn't make any sense out of it. It didn't sound like Latin; in fact, it didn't sound like anything I had ever heard. It reminded me of the harsh tongue of Mordor, but I couldn't imagine the well-heeled crowd in front of me as attendees of a Tolkien convention.

The circle broke, but only to allow one of the members to step into the center, before it formed again. A hood was thrown back and I saw it was the old lady from the petrol station. She took some papers from under her robe and held them in front of her. She started to read. Then she began to sing.

She was obviously a classically trained singer, maybe even an opera singer, but I doubted if the tune that came from her had ever been performed in any of the world's big theatres. It clashed in strange eerie discordance, running up and down scales that seemed first too flat, then too sharp. The air began to buzz around her, as if she was standing too close to a live power cable, and I think I saw the trees fade momentarily to reveal a greater darkness beyond, a darkness that seemed to writhe as if alive.

The song, if that's what it was, slowed to a deep chant, and the rest of the circle joined in once more. The chanting rose in pitch, becoming almost frenzied. The circle had begun to spin anti-clockwise, and I saw that they were all naked under the robes. I hoped it wasn't going to turn into an orgy-five hundred was not enough to make me watch this particular crowd in action.

It got cold quickly, and at first I thought it was only a night chill, but then I caught the smell-the dank festering odor that I'd noticed in MacIntyre's shop, and in my bedroom.

The circle stopped spinning and they all looked expectantly at the figure in the center. The figure there removed something from under his robes, and at first I couldn't make out what it was. Then I heard the noise-the pathetic, lost mewing of a small cat.

It struggled in his arms, but he had a tight hold. He raised it above his head in one hand, and I stopped breathing as the small creature fell quiet and still. He took something else from his robe-a thin, evil looking knife that glinted redly in the candlelight. With one fluid motion he gutted the small creature, first from chest to legs then across its body, letting its insides fall in hot steaming gobbets over his robes.

He stood stock still, hands still raised, and there was a moment of stillness. I realized I still held my breath and let it out slowly, noticing the small plume of steam as it hit the cold air. Suddenly he threw his head back.

The hood fell from his face and revealed a very old, obviously Arabian, man. Wrinkles ran like cracks across his face, deep fissures of black in the shadows. His teeth had all but rotted away, leaving only blackened stumps on the gums, and his nose was little more than a festering, rotting sore. But his eyes were alive. Clear, blue and shining as if with their own inner light.

He howled-a sound that shook the branches and echoed around in my head long after the actual noise had finished. A shiver passed across his face, like some small animal moving under his skin. He stretched. That's the best word I have for it, and I wish I didn't have to think of one. My brain was telling me to look away, but, like a car driver at a traffic accident, I couldn't take my eyes off him.

His head lengthened and broadened, becoming vast and red and pumpkin-like, putting out small bloody protrusions which burst like overripe fruit in a spray of gore, sending out blind, wriggling maggots which grew out like snakes, spreading fast, a multitude of them which writhed and crawled over his enlarged scalp. They flopped and quivered from his head in a seething mass, still anchored to his scalp.