The Suicide Exhibition: The Never War (Never War 1) (28 page)

In the air, Sarah felt at ease and relaxed. She was in her element, in control. Even when she once found herself flying towards an incoming German bombing raid, she didn’t panic or feel real fear. But at night, alone at her flat, she was very afraid. Every light outside during the blackout was a UDT singling out her street in Hammersmith. Every shadow in the flat hid a walking corpse ready to lurch towards her, sunken eyes seeking her out – watching her as she slept, as she read or
wrote to her father, as she ate. As she undressed…

For weeks after her experiences in the burial mound, whenever she closed her eyes she saw the Ubermensch reaching out for her – hands burning. She’d wake suddenly, convinced she could smell the dry, brittle, dusty stench of ancient death and feel its hand on her throat. Desperate for Guy’s comforting arm round her shoulder, pulling her close to him – so close she could feel the warmth of his body tight against her own.

If he kept busy then Guy didn’t have time to think about how long it seemed to take to achieve anything. He didn’t have time to think about whether he would be making more of a difference to the war effort if he’d stayed in the Foreign Office. He didn’t have time to think about the fact there was still an Ubermensch somewhere in London, despite the efforts of the police. There were occasional reports of sightings, occasional deaths that could perhaps be attributed to the creature.

And he didn’t have time to think about the way Sarah Diamond looked away when he glanced at her, or lapsed into moments of awkward silence when they were together in a car or the plane.

An unexpected benefit of the desire to keep busy manifested itself at the British Museum. Elizabeth Archer had mentioned her frustration at not being able to keep up with the news while she was working in the vault beneath the museum’s Great Court. Davenport had got her a wireless set, but so far below ground it couldn’t receive a signal. Having spoken to an expert at one of the Y Stations that had detected a UDT transmission, Pentecross determined to make the wireless work.

He spent the best part of a day running a cable from a radio aerial above ground to the vault below. Elizabeth watched with a mixture of anticipation and amusement as he finally made the connection and turned on the wireless.

They waited for the valves to warm up, Guy ready to play with the tuning and hoping his efforts had not been in vain.

Elizabeth had been working on the bracelet Sarah had
found. It lay on her desk close to the wireless. Now cleaned of dust and cobwebs, it looked as good as new, the tracery of silver catching the light.

A burst of static crackled from the speaker, and Guy twisted the dial. The static faded, then came back – was that a good sign? Finally, a voice, faint but decipherable, emerged from behind the crackling.

‘Could be Alvar Lidell,’ Guy said. ‘I’ll see if I can get it clearer.’

‘No, go back. Turn the dial the other way, back to where it was.’

Guy did as she said. ‘But, why? I almost had the BBC then, I’m sure.’

‘Stop!’ Elizabeth’s tone was urgent. ‘Other way, just a touch.’

‘You want to listen to this?’ The wireless was popping and crackling incomprehensibly.

Elizabeth pointed to the desk. ‘Look.’

The bracelet was glowing. The silver was brilliant white, pulsing in time to the rise and fall of the static from the radio. As Guy watched, thin red tendrils edged out from inside the ring of metal – exploring the air around.

Elizabeth picked up a fountain pen and gently prodded the blunt end into the middle of the bracelet. She moved it to one side, into the mass of tendrils. At once, they wrapped themselves round the pen, gripping it tightly.

‘What’s it doing?’ Guy said, watching with anxious fascination as the filaments continued to curl round the pen.

‘Something to do with the radio waves,’ Elizabeth said. ‘We know the UDTs emit radio transmissions. This is the first confirmation that there is a direct link between the UDTs and the burial sites, the Ubermensch.’

She let go of the pen, and it stayed in position, held upright by the thin fingers of red. Then suddenly ink spattered across the desk, running along the thin tentacles, staining them blue.

‘They’ve burrowed through the barrel of the pen,’ she said. ‘Interesting.’

As she spoke, the tendrils withdrew. Ink dripped out on to the desk as the filaments disappeared back into the bracelet.

‘Seems they have no appetite for ink,’ Elizabeth observed.

‘What were they after?’ Guy wondered.

‘Oh I think we can guess. Just imagine if one of us had been wearing that.’

Guy looked down at the bracelet. The glow had faded and it lay still and inert in a spattered mess of ink.

In a vaulted chamber in Wewelsburg, one of the sleepers cried out. He sat up suddenly, eyes snapping open. An old man, face the texture of worn leather, he stared straight across the room.

By the time the nurse reached him, he had slumped back on the bed, eyes closed, asleep once more.

In a large house in Jermyn Street, the man the press had once called ‘the wickedest man in the world’ was holding a séance. Four people sat at a round table. A ring of lighter wood inside the rim of the table was inlaid with the letters of the alphabet and the numbers 0 to 9. In the centre of the polished wooden surface stood an upturned glass. For the moment, no one was touching it.

The two men and two women sat with their hands on the edge of the table, outside the letters and numbers. Heads down, eyes closed, quietly murmuring the incantations necessary before they took hold of the glass. The sound grew slowly from a murmur to a whisper, then from a whisper to a chant.

Another sound was added as the glass rattled against the wood. Gently at first, then more violently as if some unseen figure was shaking it roughly.

The four people looked up, exchanged puzzled looks. Their leader rose slowly to his feet.

Then the glass exploded, scattering fragments and splinters across the table.

Elizabeth was absorbed in the bracelet, re-examining it in every detail. Guy had turned off the wireless, not wanting to provoke another reaction.

‘I’ll put it inside an observation tank and try the radio again later,’ Elizabeth decided.

She didn’t look up, and after several minutes, Guy decided she had forgotten he was there. When he excused himself, she nodded without comment.

On the way out, he met Miss Manners coming in. ‘You’ll be lucky to get much response,’ he warned her. ‘The old lady’s rather preoccupied.’

‘I was looking for you, actually, Major Pentecross. Colonel Brinkman asked me to catch you. He wasn’t sure if you were coming back to the office this evening, and there’s a meeting tomorrow he’d like you to sit in on.’

Guy hadn’t realised it was getting so late. Evening was already drawing in as he left the museum with Miss Manners. She gave him the details of the meeting – more boring discussions about priorities and funding. He could see why Brinkman didn’t want to go.

‘Are you all right?’ Miss Manners was asking as they reached the road. ‘Guy?’

Her use of his Christian name pulled him back to reality. ‘Sorry. Had a rather… strange afternoon, that’s all.’

She listened patiently and without comment as he described the incident with the bracelet. When he was finished, Guy was breathing heavily. The whole thing had unsettled him more than he realised.

As Guy was talking they had walked back towards Oxford Street. At the corner of the Tottenham Court Road, Miss Manners said: ‘There’s a pub just up there that I used to go to with some associates. A long time ago, but I would hope it’s still standing.’

Guy smiled. ‘Are you asking me for a drink?’

She peered at him seriously over the top of her spectacles. ‘You look and sound as if you need one. But if you’d rather not…’

The pub was indeed still standing, although several of the buildings nearby on Windmill Street had been hit and were boarded up. Miss Manners led the way to a secluded booth towards the back of the main bar.

‘I can’t stay long,’ she said when Guy returned with her gin and tonic and a pint of bitter. ‘I need to get to the YMCA this evening.’

‘You staying there?’ Guy asked. As he said it, he remembered what Sarah had told him when they first met – about Miss Manners’ trip to the YMCA and her photography.

‘Heavens no. I need to collect some photographs they’ve developed for me.’

‘The YMCA? Not the local chemist’s?’

‘Yes.’ She raised her eyebrows at his bewilderment. ‘Before the war I used to photograph gardens mainly. Plants and flowers. Landscapes. Old houses too, especially if…’ She hesitated, and took a sip of her drink. ‘I like to think I became quite good at it,’ she said.

Guy nodded. ‘I should have guessed from the way you looked at those pictures of Suffolk that Sarah got taken from the air.’

She sipped at her drink. ‘Now I mainly photograph people.’

‘People? You mean, just anyone who looks interesting?’

She smiled. It wasn’t something Guy had seen happen often, but it transformed Miss Manners suddenly from stern, efficient secretary into an attractive young woman. ‘The YMCA organise a thing called “Snapshots from Home”, perhaps you’ve heard of it? When you were away on service?’

He shook his head. ‘So what does it entail?’

‘After your time perhaps. Servicemen abroad can fill in a form to ask for photographs of their loved ones. Family – wife, children. Even pets. The YMCA sorts out the forms and allocates them to local amateur photographers, like me.’

‘And you photograph the loved ones. Or pets.’

‘That’s right. The YMCA develop the films, and then I send the photographs back to the troops.’

Guy thought back to his own time away from home. You
certainly made good friends from the people you were with, but that was no substitute for home life. ‘I bet they really appreciate it,’ he said.

‘Oh they do,’ she agreed. ‘I get letters of thanks from all over the world. I keep them all,’ she added. ‘It’s so hard being away from the one you love.’

Guy wasn’t sure how or if to respond to this. But before he could decide, Miss Manners frowned. She seemed to stiffen, looking past Guy towards the bar.

‘We shouldn’t have come here,’ she said quietly. ‘And now it’s too late – he’s seen us.’

‘What?’ Guy turned to see who she meant. A large man was making his way towards them. He was broad-shouldered and bald, with a long face and cold, deep-set eyes. He wore a light grey suit and a bow tie which provided an elegance at odds with his thuggish demeanour.

Another man was with him, younger with a curl of dark hair hanging over one eye and a cruel set to his mouth. Two women watched anxiously from the bar. One was middle-aged and overweight, wearing a dress that might have suited her when she was younger and slimmer. The other was about the same age as the younger man – perhaps in her late twenties, wearing a plain grey skirt and jacket. Her dark hair was cut short like a schoolboy’s.

‘Who are they?’ Pentecross hissed as the two men approached – quite clearly heading for the booth where he and Miss Manners were sitting.

‘The young man is Rutherford. A very unpleasant character,’ she said quietly. She didn’t have time to tell him more before the men were within earshot.

‘If it isn’t the lovely Penelope,’ Rutherford said. His voice was a nasal twang that instantly irritated Guy.

‘Mr Rutherford,’ she replied calmly. ‘Not been called up yet, then?’

‘Flat feet,’ he said, grinning at the evident lie.

‘We have missed you, my dear,’ the older man said. His voice was surprisingly cultured, matching his suit rather than
his face.

‘I can’t honestly say the same.’

The man nodded to acknowledge the remark. ‘A new beau?’ he asked, looking at Guy.

‘We’re colleagues,’ Guy said. ‘Not that it’s any business of yours.’

The man ignored him, saying to Miss Manners: ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us?’

‘No,’ she said.

The man smiled. ‘How is life as an underpaid office assistant?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ she countered. ‘How is life as the wickedest man in the world?’

‘Between you and me, there’s a lot of competition these days.’ The man stretched his neck out, turning his head first one way then the other like a giant, bald turtle. ‘But before we leave you in peace, I just wanted to warn you, Penelope.’

‘Warn me?’

The man leaned forward, speaking in a low voice. ‘Don’t meddle with things you don’t comprehend. Don’t try to understand the sacred artefacts or rites. The Vril will not be trifled with, young lady. Remember that.’

‘The Vril?’ Guy echoed. ‘What do you mean?’

The man turned his head towards him, not moving the rest of his body. It should have looked awkward and clumsy, but there was something unpleasantly sinister about the movement.

‘I’m sure I don’t need to explain to
you
, Major Pentecross.’ He smiled at Guy’s obvious surprise at the use of his name. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Manners never did introduce us, did she?’

He straightened up and offered his hand. Guy instinctively shook it – the man’s grip was firm but his skin was cold and moist.

‘Aleister Crowley,’ the man said. ‘At your service.’

THEY SAT IN
silence for several moments after Crowley and the others had gone.

Miss Manners drained the rest of her drink. ‘Even his own mother called him “the Beast”. And she meant it.’

‘How did he know us?’ Guy wondered. ‘How did he know we were here?’

She stood up, reaching for her coat. ‘We should go. It may have been coincidence that he found us. Or maybe he’s having me watched. I wouldn’t put it past him.’

Guy followed her out. ‘I didn’t see anyone following us.’

‘He doesn’t have to follow people to know what they’re doing.’

‘And why would he want to know what
you’re
doing?’

The evening was drawing in and it was noticeably cooler. There was a hint of rain in the air.

‘I knew him,’ Miss Manners admitted. ‘I was one of his “set” for a while. Not a happy time. Not something I’m proud of.’

They had reached the corner of the Tottenham Court Road when a figure hurried up to them. It was the younger, short-haired woman who had been with Crowley. She looked round nervously as she approached.