The Dead Travel Fast (20 page)

“This entity is striving to regain its power; to do this it needs something. A very old thing that changes and grows with the centuries as it is augmented. But each iteration needs refreshing to empower its owner.”

Vassilis paused.

“Do you wish to ask a question?”

“Yes, what is this thing?”

“It is a necklace, a beautiful necklace. Its name when it was last active was The Throat of Ages. Charming, don’t you think it would make a good title for a movie? It has been made of bones over the millennia, both here and elsewhere, places you could never imagine.”

“And you expect me to believe a necklace could cause so much trouble?”

“Why not, an atom is not so big, but look what the splitting of the atom led to.”

“Bones are hardly nuclear fission.”

“No, not unmodified, but if you consider radioactive material as an analogy you would be getting closer. But forget that, concentrate on this. The power that can use the necklace is loose: it has harvested the bones it needs for the next iteration.”

Theodrakis saw it had grown darker and time seemed to have stopped as Vassilis continued to wind him into Hell.

“Fortunately, we now have the bones as without them the ritual cannot take place, so there is time: the necklace must be moved.”

“So why have you waited this long to move it, then?”

“Two reasons. The first is that we cannot touch it ourselves for reasons it would take too long to explain to you. Suffice it to return to the nuclear metaphor; for us it is toxic and it would either destroy us or even worse.”

“And what could be worse than that?”

“For us? Perhaps nothing, but it is possible that it might corrupt us and turn us to its power, which would be worse for you and your world amongst others. The risk is too great.”

“And your other reason?”

“There was no need. As long as the thing was confined in its tomb at Skendleby, the necklace was quite safe.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“It’s being done as we speak: Alekka is on the site now with Watkins, the archaeologist. He let the thing out in England, so he can attempt to correct that by being the one who will take the necklace to a safer hiding place.”

“But won’t this thing corrupt him?”

“Most certainly, if he were to keep it long enough, but Alekka will show him where it must go; he will have it for less than twenty minutes.”

“And so he will come to no harm?”

Vassilis laughed as if Theodrakis had said something particularly amusing.

“Oh dear me, yes, he will come to considerable harm.”

Outside the preternaturally black sky was riven by a flash of forked lightning which split the sea and a violent wind rose up as the storm broke. The noise was so great that Theodrakis almost failed to hear his phone ringing, but he managed to answer it.

“Theodrakis, its Giles. I think we may have a problem. When I got back to the bones, they’d been disturbed and I can’t be certain but I think there are some missing …”

Steve reached across for the fresh bottle of Mythos: he knew it was a mistake. He’d already downed three but the condensation on the glass felt so cool against his skin; he took a long swallow. In the twenty four hours since he’d run from Alekka he hadn’t been sober, he was too scared to be. Once he’d got the car going, his brain operated on its panic default setting: run. Without knowing how he got there, he found himself outside a scruffy apartment in Pythagoreio, a place near the airport where from time to time he rented a room to facilitate his short term liaisons, no questions asked.

He took a room, found an anonymous bar behind the harbour and drank until his heart stopped pounding. He’d woken up late afternoon scared and feeling like death, so headed out for a bar; not the same one, that might attract attention. Now he was sitting at a table under a shade watching the sun set over the path to the beach, phone turned off, trying not to think.

He was still sane enough to realise that thinking was a mistake and every time he tried it, the horrors returned. He should have listened to the warning Claire tried to give him yesterday.

“Hey, spinner, you coming to the party then?”

It took Steve some time to understand that the shouted question was directed at him, so in the meantime just stared in confusion at the large, florid-faced Brit in the Hawaiian shirt who was looking at him expecting an answer.

“Come on, you remember me: The Togster. Well, are you coming? Banksy here says there’ll be plenty of totty up for it, and if you’re desperate Brandi’s got the night off from Dougie and she’s got the hots for you.”

While he was speaking, memories of the cricket match began to reconstruct themselves in Steve’s scrambled brain. At length he recognised Toggers, the equally ghastly Banksy and the other two red-faced men in loud shirts and shorts, carrying beach towels. It was the only offer he had, so he finished his beer and joined them. On the way they passed groups of shabby, destitute men sitting on walls and benches: the casualties of the recession, of the bankers and politicians. Men who during the day queued for diminishing state handouts, jobs or just begged. Hopeless men who wanted work, but now lived on the fringe of the law and who were the first at every increasingly violent demonstration. Men who truly believed that the Devil is back amongst us. They stared, hollow-eyed and hostile, at the laughing, boozed up cricketers as they passed.

It was a private party on a stretch of beach where the remains of the ancient city walls join the sea, an area where the great and good throughout history had come to party, from Anthony and Cleopatra to Bill Clinton. They could hear the party long before they saw it and it was in full swing when they arrived. Steve was relieved at this; the walk had reminded him how little in terms of lifestyle, aspiration and values he had in common with his erstwhile teammates. There was a formidable sound system complete with DJ and a free bar.

Steve had just helped himself to a lethal cocktail which seemed to be the party special when he saw Brandi - wearing just heels and a see through blouse that appeared somehow to have become soaked through - unwrap herself from her overweight, sweaty dancing partner and sashay towards him.

“Hey, lover, long time no see.”

Her words were slurred; seemed she’d made an early start and had time to sample a few party specials.

“You’ve got away from Vassilis’s bitch daughter, lucky for us.”

Steve hadn’t time to reply; she lurched towards him and engulfed his face in wet, open-mouth kiss. Part of him responded,
but not enough to make him do something really stupid; he was trying to stay anonymous and fucking Brandi on the beach would place him at the centre of expat gossip. But he didn’t need to worry too much about how to respond, as he felt a hand on his shoulder and saw Brandi rapidly step back. Turning, he found himself staring at the pale, ravaged features of Antonis.

“I need to talk to you, Watkins; I think you have made a bad mistake.”

Steve was inclined to agree, and the more he stared at Antonis the stronger the agreement became. He was deathly white, his eyes dark stars in sunken craters. If anything he looked worse than he had when he was dying from loss of blood. Even in Steve’s alcohol-fuddled brain, it was clear that whatever DNA Antonis sprang from, it was breaking down. But the physical aspects, bad as they were, paled compared with the feeling of loss and despair Steve could feel pouring off him in waves. For the second time he felt sympathy for this repulsive creature and it was this, not fear, that conditioned his reply.

“OK, we can sit at one of those tables, do you want a drink?”

He realised how stupid this was as soon as he asked.

“What my sister sees in you I don’t know, especially when you ask such stupid questions, Watkins, and I don’t want to talk here, this is not a good place for me.”

Suffering obviously hadn’t improved his disposition and Steve snapped back,

“Well, it’s here or nowhere, plenty of people here. It makes me feel safer.”

“It’s far too late for you to ever feel safe again.”

“All the same, here or nowhere.”

“All right, but when you have heard what I have to say I don’t think you will feel so happy in this place.”

They moved to a table as far from the powerful speakers as possible. Steve could see Toggers and Banksy dancing with two young, prettyish, dark-haired girls, who he vaguely placed as Albanian sisters who waited at a bar in Karlovasi. It didn’t take much to figure out what commodity linked them so closely to the Togster. It was a sour world and about to get sourer; when had everything started to go wrong?

“You shouldn’t have left my sister like that; do you know what harm you have caused?”

“I know what harm it might have caused me: anyway, it’s none of your business.”

“All of it is my business; do you think you are a free agent here, Watkins? You, who are the puppet of my father. Do you know what a price my sister must pay because of her feelings for you?”

Antonis was shouting and as he furiously worked his jaws Steve thought he could see splits appearing in the skin around his cheeks.

“You are a man of no value, no character, a worthless piece of shit. Do you think we would have wasted breath on you if you hadn’t unleashed the demon in England and you didn’t still have a part to play? Can’t you see what’s happening to us? Look at me; soon I will be no more substantial than Father John. We may suspend time, but the laws of entropy still apply. Do you know the price my sister pays because of her foolish love for you? No, you see nothing but your wasteful little self, you are no better than those two animals over there making prostitutes of those girls.”

Steve was on edge. People were staring at them; Antonis’s appearance alone was hardly discreet but his rage was compelling. He’d been right, they should have talked someplace else. But he needed to make sense of what Antonis said about Alekka.

“What do you mean about Alekka? She attacked me.”

“You get nothing right, do you? Even saving me was a mistake; she would never attack you. In that, she is almost as stupid as you.”

Antonis controlled himself and finished quietly; he looked to be deteriorating by the minute.

“We have become the centre of attention; we must not talk here anymore. You leave now and I will meet you in one half hour in the bar you were in before.”

“How do you know what bar I was in?”

“And how much more naive can you become, Watkins? I would have joined you there but those creatures got to you first. We cannot leave together so you go now.”

He turned and walked towards the sea and Steve slunk away into the night. As the noise of the party diminished with distance, he found himself walking through groups of the dispossessed
men. This time they didn’t just stare; the insults they threw at him were easy to translate. But even without the words their anger was palpable, throbbing in the air.

A lean, dark-haired man with several days’ stubble deliberately blocked the path. Steve began to ask him to move over when he hawked and spat onto his shoes then stared into his eyes, hoping for a reaction. Steve ignored the sputum on his shoes and kept his eyes down; the man moved aside, making a scornful remark to his friends who laughed. Steve moved off as quickly as he could without panicking; he saw that some of the men had sticks and knives and one had a large coil of netting obviously liberated from a fishing boat. There was something in the air tonight; even through all his fear and alcohol he could sense it.

Back at the bar he sat at the same table wondering whether to stay or run: but where could he run to? And besides, he needed to hear what Antonis was going to say about Alekka. So he bought a drink and waited, but not for as long as he anticipated. Somewhere towards the beach there was shouting: baying voices raised in anger, and short moments later Antonis, unsteady on his feet, came stumbling out of the night towards him.

“Watkins, where is your car, we need to go from here.”

“It’s not here, what’s all that shouting?”

“The mob, they are behind me. You must hide me.”

“Why, what happened?”

Antonis began to move away, Steve grabbed hold of him.

“Tell me.”

“That woman Brandi was drunk, she grabbed hold of me; I was repelled and pushed her away, perhaps I was a little rough. Now let me go.”

Steve kept hold.

“Not till you tell me about Alekka.”

But there would never be time for that. A crowd of shouting men appeared, running at them from all directions. Antonis only had time to say,

“Now you have killed me, finished us all.”

Then they were all over him; Steve recognised them, saw the sticks and the rope, then he was pushed to the ground and Antonis was swept away. On his hands and knees, winded, he watched
them go; what could he do? He got to his feet and did the only thing he could think of: he rang Alekka. But there was no answer. The sounds from the lynching party were more distant but it sounded as if the crowd had grown. He could clearly hear shouts.

“We have got the Devil: now we finish it!”

They were moving up towards the castle of Logothetis and the graveyard, and after hovering indecisively he set off after them. Tracking them was no problem; the noise grew as more screaming Maenads and rioters joined the procession. He could see the leader’s torches cresting the rise.

He’d no idea what he could do, but he couldn’t walk away and he needed to know about Alekka. By the time he had caught up, near the graveyard at the foot of the castle, he’d sweated out most of the alcohol. The crowd was raging: a potent mix of fear, drink and desperation and someone was going to pay for it. Pay for their pain in agony and blood, and he didn’t dare get too close: they might turn on him. He’d heard Vassilis’s name cursed and if they linked him with Alekka he could be next.

He climbed a small rise behind the crowd; from there he could see men holding Antonis at the edge of a small grove of cypresses: they were stringing ropes from trees. He couldn’t hear Antonis from this distance, but could see he was trying to say something. He never got the chance, he was lifted off the ground and held upside down; nets were fixed to his ankles. Steve felt a sudden jolt from the terrible realisation of what was about to happen; he needed to vomit.

Then, to his relief, he saw them: cops, two of them pushing through the fringes of the baying mob. But that was as far as they got; they were surrounded by wild gesticulating figures shouting in their faces and turned back. The crowd parted to let them out jeering as they went. He heard an old crone shout.

“Don’t you want to see real justice, people’s law? Watch us kill the Devil in the old way.”

There was cheering from those near to her. Steve watched the police withdraw, then pause, and he waited for them to call for backup. But they didn’t; they shifted into a patch of darkness at the tower’s base and lit up. The baying from the grove was
augmented by a sound somewhere between a sob and a scream, and something in Steve snapped and he found himself hurtling towards the cops.

“What’re you doing? Get in there and stop it, you can see what’s happening.”

The older of the cops threw down the butt of his smoke; Steve could see strain etched into every line of the man’s perspiring face.

“This is none of your business, English; they are right, justice is being done.”

“That’s not justice, it’s murder.”

“You think so? Then tell me how you kill a thing that’s not alive.”

Steve, out of control, screamed at them.

“Listen, listen to that sound, it’s a man in agony. Jesus, how can you stand there? You’re cops, you have to help.”

They turned away, trying to ignore him.

“I know your commander. Theodrakis. I have his number, I’ll …”

He didn’t get any further. The younger cop grabbed him from behind and the elder took his jaw in one calloused hand, forcing him to meet his gaze. He could feel the fear pouring off them like sweat.

“Last chance, English, you go now or we will take you to that grove and tell the men with the knives that you are the one fucking the Devil’s sister, what do you …”

He never finished the sentence; the air was ripped apart by a screech of pain of such anguished volume that it cut straight through the howling and shouting. For a second there was silence, followed by some cheering; but not from the entire crowd. It seemed the atrocity of the death throes had shocked the humanity back into most of them. They began to melt away into the dark. Steve felt the rough hand release his face as the cops slipped away with the rapidly dispersing crowd and he fell to his knees.

In an instant the place was deserted; Steve could see the empty grove. It was a site beyond Hell. Great, black, birds appeared from nowhere and perched on all the branches of the scrappy trees in some parody of a funeral vigil.

Between the trees a burning brand left stuck in the earth flared
and flickered, picking out the details with a shimmering clarity that no horror movie ever could match. From Steve’s position the detail was occluded and shifting, but it was impossible not to recognise what was hanging there. He climbed unsteadily to his feet and stumbled across the deserted space. He couldn’t help himself. The nightmare hadn’t ended at Skendleby; he was still walking through it.