He felt cold, thick fluid being splashed on him.
He smelled the petrol as it covered his skin.
‘No,’ he bellowed. ‘For God’s sake, please don’t. Please.’ His voice cracked as it rose in pitch. More of the reeking petrol was doused over him. It matted the hair on his chest and ran down over his pubic hair and penis, dripping from his feet.
Tears of helplessness and terror welled up in his eyes.
‘You can’t do this, please,’ he wailed.
The first figure struck a match and held it up in front of him, the tiny yellow flame glowing brightly.
‘No,’ Connelly screamed, his yell so loud it seemed his lungs would burst.
‘Thank you for your help,’ said the figure, and tossed the match at him.
The petrol ignited immediately, a loud whump filling the room as it consumed Connelly’s body, which twisted insanely on the ropes as he screamed in uncontrollable agony.
From those watching there was movement. They stood and, as one, began to applaud. There was some laughter.
Connelly’s body continued to burn.
Fifty
It was raining outside, a thin veil of rain that was blown by the wind so that it appeared to undulate in the air like gossamer curtains. Droplets of fluid formed on the window and trickled down, puddling on the sills.
Donna Ward glanced distractedly out of the window for a second, her mind racing, her hand on her book.
The pages were stiffened with age and the tome smelt fusty, like a damp cloth left to dry on a radiator. Some of the words on the pages were faint, barely legible. Donna had squinted at them as she’d read. Some of the words did not even make sense to her but, through the confusion, she’d been able to salvage enough to piece together roughly the contents.
If not for the help of the librarian she might not even have found the book.
After checking into The Holiday Inn, Edinburgh, she had travelled to the library indicated in Ward’s notes and diary, not really sure what she sought. The library was large and, rather than hunt through the endless rows of volumes dating as far back as 1530, she had sought the help of the librarian. The woman was in her mid-thirties, dressed in a black trouser suit and white sweater. She was a little overweight, her hands a touch too pudgy when she reached for various books and took them from the shelves. The badge she wore on one lapel proclaimed that her name was Molly. She seemed eager to help and selected half a dozen books for Donna to look at concerning The Hell Fire Club. She herself knew little or nothing about the organisation, and Donna wished she could have happened upon someone as knowledgeable on the subject as Mahoney had been.
This time she was on her own.
There were only a handful of other people in the library reference section; the normal air of peace and quiet one would expect in such a place seemed to have become an unnatural silence. Donna glanced round at the other occupants of the room but they were all hunched over their chosen books, seated at the wooden desks. Every so often the sound of a dropped pencil or pen would break the solitude, but apart from that the only sound was that of the wind outside, whipping around the building, hurling rain at the windows so hard it sounded as if thousands of tiny pebbles were being bounced off the glass.
Donna returned to the book, bending closer to make out the words:
Initiates into these clubs did undertake to join in deeds most foule to Christian Man. Some such as cannot bee described. The Acts demanded of them were as different as those Clubs themselves. Of the Clubs in existence there were the Mohocles The Blasters, The Bucks, The Bloods and, most vile of all The Sons of Midnight. These Heathen groups practised rites som would pray God not to here.
Donna flicked ahead a few pages but could see no way of hastening her search for the information she sought. She continued to read;
Those who joined were forced to fornicate in the presence of others. Some would beat the women afterwards. But these vile tasks were as welcome to them for they knew no love of God nor worship of Him. Only the pleasure of the flesh and pleasing their Masters was their joy. They killed too and found pleasure in it. After fornication with a woman then the one who would join would show his love of the Unholy by taking a child and killing it. The skull he would keep in his abode. A sign and an offering to those he wanted to join. Som would kill the unborn child or children of women and som ript open their bellys to take the child as offering. The skull of that child would always be theres. A sign of their villainy and proofe of their love of Evil.
Donna chewed her lip contemplatively as she read, forced to run her index finger beneath the words, so jumbled and irregularly formed were they on the faded page.
All these Evils are set down in great and Anciente Bookes called Grimoires. These books much prized by thes societys were filld with incantations and secrets known only to those who trod the dark pathes. Each club had a GRIMOIRE and where in every member would write his name as to show love of Evil and to show kinship with others of Evil.
Donna fumbled in her handbag, looking for a piece of paper and a pen. She found a notepad from the Shelbourne and scribbled the word Grimoire down.
She wondered where they kept the dictionaries.
The hand on her shoulder made her jump.
She turned to see Molly standing there.
‘Sorry if I startled you,’ she said, smiling. ‘I just wondered how you were getting on.’ She nodded towards the books in front of Donna.
‘I’m okay,’ she said, her heart slowing slightly. She administered herself a swift mental rebuke for nervousness. ‘I need a dictionary, please.’
Molly nodded and hurried off to fetch one, returning a moment later. She handed it to Donna and stood by her as she flipped through it, running her finger down the columns of words until she found what she sought.
GRIMOIRE;
(Archaic) (Grim-wah) Old Norman French word; (i) A Book of Spells and invocations.
(ii)
A book supposedly used for contacting Devils and Demons. Usually ascribed to Witches or Satanists.
She re-read the definition, then closed the book and handed it back to Molly who smiled.
‘Can I help you with anything else?’ she wanted to know.
Donna ran a hand through her hair and sighed wearily. Her shoulders felt stiff and she could feel the beginnings of a headache gnawing at her skull.
‘No thanks,’ Donna said gratefully. ‘I think I’ve finished.’
She glanced at the books in front of her, then at her watch.
It was approaching 4.15 p.m. She’d been in the library for close to four hours now.
All the reading and yet she wasn’t even sure she’d made any progress. Because she wasn’t sure what She was looking for. She knew more about The Hell Fire Club; she was certain that was what her husband had been working on. She knew that members had to fornicate and kill a child to gain entry. She knew that they relied on a book called a Grimoire for their contact with Evil.
Donna sat back.
In the cold light of day it all seemed so ridiculous.
Contact with Evil.
Hell Fire Club.
What had any of this to do with her husband’s death or affair, she asked herself?
Perhaps she should be reading about infidelity instead of impiety. Widowhood instead of Wizardry.
And yet there were things wrong somewhere. Nagging doubts in her mind.
The police were convinced that her husband had
not
been murdered.
She
wasn’t
convinced.
Why had masked men broken into her house? What had they been looking for?
Who were the men in the photo with Chris? Why did one of them look like a man who had supposedly been dead for over two hundred years?
Why had she been chased and nearly killed in Ireland?
Why had Mahoney withdrawn his offer to help so suddenly and unexpectedly?
Why? Why? Her life was turning into a series of unanswered questions.
Donna rubbed her eyes and got to her feet, picking up the piece of paper and putting it in her handbag.
On her way out of the library she thanked Molly for her help.
Donna hesitated on the steps of the library, looking out into the rain, seeing people caught in the downpour hurrying past. The cold wind closed around her like an icy fist, chilling her to the bone.
There had to be an answer to all this somewhere. She just wasn’t sure where to find it.
Not yet.
Fifty-One
Julie Craig heard the car pull up in the driveway and hurried across to the landing window to look out.
She saw the Jaguar parked there but couldn’t make out the identity of its occupant. The man was alone; he looked alternately towards the house and then down, as if searching for something on the dashboard.
She saw him rub one hand across his forehead, as if wiping away perspiration. Still he remained seated behind the steering wheel of the Jag.
Should she go downstairs, outside and ask him what he wanted? No. Let
him
make the first move. She was suddenly aware how ridiculous she was becoming. Why should there be anything sinister about him? She tried to think more rationally, to dismiss the darker possibilities from her mind, but after what had happened here in the past week or so she found the worrying thoughts came more easily. After all, hadn’t men broken into the house? He might be one of them, come during the day to catch her off guard.
She watched as the man swung himself out of the car.
He was dressed in a suit that looked as if it needed pressing. Indeed, as he shut the car door, he brushed at one sleeve as if to remove wrinkles as well as fluff. She watched as he stood beside the car for a moment looking up towards the house.
She stepped back a pace and watched as he looked across at the Fiesta then at the house once more.
He began walking towards it and she saw that he had one hand inside his jacket, as if reaching for something.
She moved to the head of the stairs and looked down into the hallway, listening to his footsteps approaching the front door.
He rang the bell.
Julie froze, gripped the banister tightly and waited.
He rang again and waited.
She moved quickly but cautiously down the stairs and stood close to the front door, edging towards the spy-hole, squinting through it.
The man she saw on the other side was in his late thirties, his hair receding slightly, but what hair he did have was thick and lustrous and reached the collar of his shirt. He was thin-faced, a little pale.
He shifted from one foot to the other as he waited for the door to be answered.
As Julie saw him reach for the doorbell a third time she opened the door and eased it back to the extent of the chain.
The man peered through the gap and smiled politely at her.
‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you. I was wondering if I could speak to Mrs Ward. Mrs Donna Ward.’
Julie eyed him suspiciously for a moment.
‘My name is Neville Dowd,’ he continued. ‘Sorry, I should have introduced myself first.’ He smiled warmly.
There seemed to be no threat in his manner.
Julie nodded a greeting.