Authors: Peter Flannery
‘Mr Brennus,’ said Psimon. ‘I
have no desire to add to your troubles. I wouldn’t be calling you at all if I
didn’t think it was necessary.’ He paused allowing Steve to absorb what he was
saying. ‘But I really do need your help. And I’m not trying to intimidate you
either… I really can help sort things out with your wife and your little girl.’
‘How do you know about this?’
said Steve. ‘No one knows about this… Are you a friend of Paul’s? Did he put
you up to this?’ Steve knew he was ranting and he hated the sense of being in
the dark; of feeling so unnerved.
‘No one put me up to this, Mr
Brennus,’ said Psimon. ‘I will explain in more detail when we meet.’
Steve gave a hollow laugh. ‘And
what makes you think I’m willing to meet you?’ He was suddenly calm and more
annoyed than ever.
‘You will agree to meet me
because you will want to know what I know. And…’ said Psimon. ‘You really could
do with the money.’
There was a long and deeply
uncomfortable silence in which Steve tried to think of any way he could
possibly ignore this strange and infuriating guy on the other end of the
telephone. After almost a minute he knew there was not.
‘Where?’ he said… ‘When?’
*
Psimon put the phone down and
breathed a deep sigh of relief.
There, he had done it. He had
made the call; faced his fear.
It was the fear that made him
uncertain. It was the fear that clouded his view. For all his insight the fear
was like a black shadow that engulfed his mind. There were gaps in the shadow
and glimpses of what might lie beyond but the gaps were filled with pain and
what lay beyond seemed insubstantial. More like wishful thinking than concrete
reality. He drew his hands over his face. The trauma of the mysterious attack
was still evident in his trembling limbs but that was not the first time he had
experienced violence like that and he knew, with sickening certainty, that it
would not be the last. However, the growing intensity of the attacks was almost
more than he could bear. But bear it he must, for the next five days at least.
One way or another that would decide it.
Decide the manner of his death
that is…
Psimon rose from the chair and
limped through to the bathroom to examine his face in the mirror. His left eye
was badly swollen with a livid red mark across his temple. The spattering of
pockmarks was still intensely painful but even now they were beginning to fade.
A wave of exhaustion swept over him and he leaned heavily on the hand basin. He
had to remain strong; he had to remain focussed. It had taken many months to
plan the next five days, he could not lose it now. He was frightened and tired
and needed to get some sleep because tomorrow he was going to meet Steve
Brennus.
Steve Brennus, the man that he
hoped would kill him.
Chapter 4
Lucifer was satisfied.
Lucifer was sated.
One less voice of heresy in a world of lies.
Dressed in the filthy cassock and
cotta of an altar server Lucifer gazed at the inverted crucifix that hung
battered and splintered from the bare stone walls of his chapel. He was filled
with the glory of the chorus but slowly the ecstasy lifted from his mind. He
looked at the body of the heretic lying at his feet; the broken face, the
shattered knee, the smoking flesh. He bent down, removed the hose from the
shroud and sealed it with a plastic tie before lifting the body from the slick
and sticky paving stones. Soft hues from the stained-glass-window fell across
his massive form as, with apparent ease, he raised the man’s grotesquely
wrapped corpse high above the altar. The sleeves of his cassock fell back to
reveal powerful arms covered with a hatch work of scars, and lines of scripture
crudely tattooed or burned into the skin.
With something closer to control
than care, Lucifer laid the limp body on the altar. He pinched out the thick
tallow candles and stepped back from the great slab of marble. He genuflected
in the aisle between the short rows of crudely made pews then he rose from his
knee, crossed himself and retired.
Chapter 5
Wednesday March 2nd
Torture
Police have refused to confirm
that the body of a man found earlier this morning on the outskirts of
Liverpool, is that of the missing psychologist, Dr Marcus Bryant.
They have
also refused to comment on the cause of death or the nature of Dr Bryant’s
injuries. Although witnesses at the scene have reported signs of apparent
torture.
Steve Brennus picked his way up the wooded hillside of
Alderley Edge. He knew the Edge well and had been surprised that his mysterious
caller had chosen this particular location for their meeting. The path levelled
out and Steve paused beside a sandstone outcrop at the foot of which was a
shallow stone basin filled with water. Above the basin an inscription had been
carved into the rock, now weatherworn and barely visible but Steve knew what it
said…
Drink of this
and take thy fill
For the water falls
by the wizard’s will
Above the words one could just
make out the image of a wizard’s face. Steve smiled as he continued along the
woodland path. He had always loved the legend of Alderly Edge…
A hundred enchanted knights lying
beneath the hollow hill, sleeping in wizard-induced slumber. And beside each
knight a milk-white steed. A hundred knights, ready to ride out and defeat evil
in the hour of Britain’s greatest need.
Steve had spent endless days as a
child exploring the rocks and caves of the Edge searching for the secret gates
beyond which the knights were said to lie. He and Christine had brought Sally
here. They had raced down the forest tracks, stopping at every rock face to rap
on it with their ‘staffs’ to see if the golden gates of magic would appear.
They never did of course but the magic was not diminished.
A spasm of regret gripped Steve’s
chest at the thought of his wife and daughter. Waking without them had been the
most miserable experience but he did not know how to fix what he had done, and
he would not go back until he did. With an effort he pushed them from the
forefront of his mind and brought his attention back to the reason why he was
here.
‘Stormy Point, five o-clock,’ the
man called Psimon had said.
Stormy Point was a famous
prominence on the Edge where a jumble of sandstone boulders forged an opening
in the forested slopes to reveal the wide expanse of the Cheshire plain.
Another half mile saw Steve
drawing close to the agreed meeting place. Following his military training he
left the path and circled round through the undergrowth to come at the Point
from the opposite direction. If this guy was actually there he wanted to get a
good look at him before he made his presence known. Moving slowly now he
scrambled up a bank and, using a stunted holly bush for cover, he peered out
through a cleft in the rocks.
A young man sat on the rocks some
fifty yards away staring out across the plain, a mobile phone held to his ear.
Dressed in jeans, light walking boots and a brown corduroy jacket, he looked
too normal to be Steve’s mystery caller, too pleasant. Cautiously Steve shifted
his position to see if there was anyone else there…
Nope, no one.
He glanced down at his watch…
Five o-clock dead.
Steve looked back up and felt his
balls tighten with the cold chill of discovery. The young man was staring
directly at him, a strange smile on his ‘pleasant’ face. Steve cursed himself
as he realised he had just broken one of the primary rules of engagement… never
underestimate the enemy.
Forsaking any vestige of stealth
Steve came out from his hiding place and made his way across the open space.
The young man put away his mobile
phone and stood to meet him.
‘Psimon?’ said Steve as he came
within a yard or two. His manner was gruff almost menacing. Their phone
conversation was still fresh in his mind. This man had made mention of his
family and Steve was here to make damn sure that he meant them no harm.
Psimon held out his hand.
‘Mr Brennus,’ he said. ‘Thank you
for coming.’
Steve stepped forward and
hesitated before taking the young man’s hand. ‘You left me little choice,’ he
said.
Psimon smiled apologetically. He
released Steve’s hand and invited him to take a seat on the rocks. ‘Forgive
me,’ he said. ‘I wanted to make sure you would come.’
Steve remained standing for a
moment. Whatever he had been expecting this was not it. He placed great store
on first impressions and his instincts told him that this ‘Psimon’ was all
right… a typically nice guy. Slender build and tall, though not quite up to
Steve’s six-two. He wore his sandy brown hair casually long, and with his prominent
cheekbones and grey eyes he was essentially a good-looking young man. His face
was discoloured with some nasty bruising but that looked to be a week or two
old and would soon be gone.
No, not what he had been
expecting at all.
Despite the unsettling intrigue
of that first phone call Steve found Psimon’s demeanour to be gentle, almost
timid. Only his eyes suggested that there might be more. There was a strange
intensity to Psimon’s gaze but there was something else too; something that
Steve had seen many times before; something with which he was all to familiar…
fear.
Much of Steve’s apprehension
leeched away and he sat down on the bare ground just a few feet from Psimon.
Whatever trouble this kid was in Steve suspected that he would not have to sell
his soul to keep him safe. ‘
What was it?
’ he thought. ‘
Borrowed money
from the wrong people… selling dope on some thug’s turf in Manchester… some
kind of corporate trouble maybe…
’
‘Do you believe in psychics, Mr
Brennus?’ asked Psimon suddenly.
‘What do you mean?’ said Steve
momentarily thrown by the unexpected question. ‘Bending spoons or talking to
the dead?’
‘Mediums claim to be able to
speak to the dead,’ clarified Psimon. ‘While bending spoons comes under the
heading of ‘macro-psychokinesis.’
‘As opposed to micro…’
‘Psychokinesis,’ Psimon finished
for him. ‘Yes.’
‘Which is?’ queried Steve playing
along for the sake of it.
‘The ability to influence things
on a small scale… computers, electrical circuits, that kind of thing.’
‘You’re talking ESP.’
‘Yes.’
‘Moving things with your mind…
reading people’s thoughts… prophesying the future.’
‘They call it precognition,’ said
Psimon.
‘No,’ said Steve.
‘No, what?’ asked Psimon.
‘No, I don’t believe in psychics,’
said Steve with annoyance. ‘
If this was some kind of wind-up, some kind of
scam…
’
Psimon looked at Steve with his
deep grey eyes. ‘You’ve never had something happen to you that you can’t
explain?’ he asked.
‘Course I have,’ admitted Steve.
‘But that doesn’t mean it was supernatural.’
‘True,’ agreed Psimon.
There was a moment’s silence
between the two men.
‘My dad claimed to have had
psychic experiences,’ said Steve, somewhat irritated that he had been drawn
into this ridiculous conversation.
‘Are you calling your dad a liar
then?’ challenged Psimon.
‘No,’ replied Steve. ‘I believe
what he said happened. We just reached different conclusions about how it
happened.’
Psimon gave a satisfied nod. He
reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a brown envelope. He reached
across and laid it on the rock within arm’s reach of Steve.
‘What’s that?’ asked Steve.
‘There’s three thousand pounds in
there, Mr Brennus,’ said Psimon. ‘I will pay you another three thousand pounds
a day if you will accompany me while I go about my business and keep me safe
for the next five days.’
‘What happens in the next five
days?’ asked Steve.
‘I die,’ said Psimon and the fear
that Steve had perceived in him earlier was suddenly brimming in his eyes.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Steve
not at all certain that he wanted to know the answer.
‘I have two visions of my death,
Mr Brennus,’ said Psimon, his voice strained with the effort of speaking about
something which quite obviously terrified him. He looked away before going on…
‘One in which I drown in agony
and despair…’
‘And the other?’ asked Steve with
a sudden sense of foreboding.
Psimon turned back and there was
a kind of pleading in his eyes. ‘In the other... you stab me in the face with a
short-bladed knife.’
Steve felt a chill run down his
spine. ‘Not a chance,’ he stated with angry conviction.
But still Psimon looked at him.
‘Listen,’ said Steve rising to
his feet. ‘I can see you’re in trouble. I can see you’re frightened.’ He held
out the envelope of cash. ‘But my days of hurting people are over,’ he said,
wishing with all his heart that that was true.
‘But that’s why I need you,’
protested Psimon. ‘Because I don’t want anyone hurt over the next five days.’
‘You just said I was going to
fucking kill you!’ snapped Steve, beginning to lose his composure.
Psimon’s eyes pleaded with him
for a moment longer then with a tremulous sigh he lowered his eyes.
‘Listen,’ said Steve suddenly,
his distrust finally giving way to sympathy for this frightened kid. ‘You don’t
need me… the police maybe or a doctor.’
‘You mean a psychiatrist,’ said
Psimon and the expression in his eyes changed to one of disdain.
‘Well I don’t know,’ said Steve
sheepishly. ‘You seem a little…’
‘Nuts,’ said Psimon.
‘Well… yes,’ admitted Steve.
Psimon suddenly smiled and the
haughty expression faded from his eyes. The two men glanced at each other
furtively for a minute or two. Finally Psimon turned away looking out once more
over the rural landscape below them. Steve hovered beside him. Not wanting to
stay but not wanting to seem too hard-hearted either. The envelope of money felt
uncomfortable in his hand so he laid it down beside Psimon.