A Room Full Of Bones

CHAPTER 28

Nelson is bracing himself for his contact with the light, but before he can reach it he feels a jolt, as if he has fallen through the air. His feet, he realises, are on the ground. Shingle, like a beach. It is a beach but the stones are black. The sea is black too, breaking in smooth round waves, like oil. Nelson doesn’t stop to wonder where he is or what he is doing; he starts to walk along the shore. He knows that it’s very important to move quickly. He mustn’t wait, he mustn’t look behind him. It is some minutes before he realises that someone is walking next to him. He sees the man’s shadow before he sees his face, a cloak flying up like great wings.

‘Hallo Harry,’ says Cathbad.

‘What are you doing?’ asks Judy, trying to keep her voice steady. Trying, in fact, to sound like a twenty-first-century police professional.

‘Setting a trap,’ says Len, breezily, coming closer. At this distance, the gun looks disconcertingly real. ‘And I must say, Detective Sergeant, you’re remarkably easy to trap. One text purporting to be from brainless Randolph and you turn up, without any back-up even! Were you wanting to rescue the damsel in distress? How very macho of you.’

‘Why did you send me the text?’ asks Judy, trying to back towards the gates. She’s only a few metres from her car, from safety, from back-up.

‘Stand still,’ barks Harris, in a voice that has no doubt subdued many a rampaging horse. Judy stands still. She puts her hand in her pocket, trying to find her phone. But it’s in her jeans pocket, impossible to find under the folds of the cagoule. Really, she’s made a complete mess of everything. She’s not fit to be the Senior Investigating Officer. If she dies, will the obituaries be kind to her? Will Darren be given her uniform and a folded union jack? What about Cathbad? Will anyone even tell him? Or will he know, with his famous druid’s sixth sense?

‘Such a shame,’ Harris is saying. ‘A tragic accident. Shot, no doubt, by those mysterious intruders spotted by Mr Randolph. I knew his drug trips would come in useful one day. What a brave policewoman. So young, too. So pretty.’ He leers at her.

‘I know everything,’ says Judy desperately. ‘About the drug smuggling, everything. I know you’re smuggling the drugs inside those poor horses. They’re literally mules aren’t they? You force them to swallow the drugs and sometimes they get terribly ill, like the horses I saw. Fancy and the other one. But you don’t care, do you? They’re not living creatures to you. They’re just tools.’

‘Very eloquent,’ says Harris, who sounds as if he’s smiling. ‘But who’s going to believe such a fairy tale? Poor Detective Sergeant, it sounds like you’ve been sniffing some of Randolph’s magic powder.’

‘I’ve written it all down in a report,’ lies Judy. ‘I’ve got proof. They found straw in some of the drugs; it can be traced back to the stables. I saw a condom in some horse manure. That can be traced too.’

But Judy hadn’t, at the time, realised the significance of the piece of rubber in the crap that had found its way onto Clough’s shoe. Realisation had come later. The horses had been forced to swallow drugs wrapped inside condoms. What had Clough said? Kinder Egg. Surprise every time.

‘Bullshit,’ says Harris. ‘Or should I say horse shit? You’ve got nothing on me.’

Judy lunges at him, meaning to knock the gun out of his hand. But Len Harris is too quick for her, he sidesteps and she falls sprawling in the mud. The next moment, she feels the cold muzzle of the gun pressed against her cheek. This is it. She closes her eyes, wondering why she isn’t thinking of Darren, Cathbad or her parents, but of Ranger, her old pony. Then, instead of the explosion, the nothingness, the triumphant entry into heaven (she isn’t sure which she is expecting), Len Harris is pushed aside by a force that comes from nowhere. Judy crouches on the floor, afraid to move.

‘For Christ’s sake Johnson,’ yells the force. ‘Run!’

It’s Clough.

The nurses and doctors swarm around Nelson’s bed. Michelle is pushed to the back. She can’t see anything except white coats. Someone brings a machine and it is clamped to Nelson’s chest.

‘We’re losing him,’ says one of the doctors.

Michelle stands pressed against the wall. She feels as if her own heart has left her body.

‘What are you doing here?’ Nelson asks.

‘Trying to save you,’ says Cathbad.

The black waves break against the beach. Black birds fill the sky.

‘It’s called a murmuration,’ says Cathbad.

‘What is?’

‘The birds gathering like that. Murmuration.’

‘What’s happening to me?’ asks Nelson.

‘I don’t know. Interesting isn’t it?’

The waves continue to break against the stones. The relentless tide.

Clough hauls Judy to her feet and they run, blindly, in the darkness. Judy has dropped her torch and has no idea which way they’re going. But Clough seems to know and that is enough for her. She runs behind him, the wind pummelling her face. Somewhere close by she can hear Len Harris staggering about. Please God, let them reach the gates before he does. It seems that God is listening; the huge gates loom up in front of them. Judy hears the gates rattle as Clough pulls at them.

‘Shit,’ she hears him say. ‘Shit.’

‘What is it?’

‘They’re locked.’

How can they be locked, thinks Judy. But Clough is pulling at her arm again. ‘Come on!’ They turn and run back towards the park and the trees and the ruins of the Smith mansion. Len Harris is nowhere to be seen. They run on, through the seemingly endless trees.

Romilly watches the Vicar carefully lift the creature from its plastic container. Terry used to be called the Vet because of his encyclopaedic knowledge of animals (and of drugs) but then the group decided that vets, though infinitely preferable to doctors, were not entirely blameless in regard to the animal kingdom. Didn’t vets attend horse races and support hunting? Well, they do round here at any rate. No one is quite sure how they came up with the priesthood instead, but it’s undoubtedly true that the name suits Terry who, in his pressed jeans and neat vnecked jumper, could be a trendy vicar on his day off. He even has little round glasses which he now takes off to rub his eyes.

‘It’s beautiful,’ says Romilly, looking at the snake in Terry’s gloved hands.

‘Yes,’ says Terry. ‘Vipera berus. Note the distinctive diamond patterning.’

‘And it’s properly poisonous?’

‘It’s not aggressive,’ says Terry, ‘but it’s poisonous all right. Could give someone a pretty nasty bite.’

Gently, Terry takes a padded envelope and places the snake inside. The parcel bugles obscenely.

‘That won’t hurt it,’ asks Romilly, ‘being wrapped up like that?’

Terry shakes his head. ‘They can survive for up to three days without food.’

‘Whose name is on the envelope?’

‘Michael Malone. He’s a lab technician. I got him from the website.’

The name means nothing to Romilly. She nods approvingly. A properly addressed parcel is more likely to reach its target. The plan is to drop the parcel through the door of the science block at midnight. They’ll be seen on CCTV but so much the better. They’ll be wearing masks and ski-jackets with ‘Animal Action’ written on the back. Romilly designed them herself.

‘My husband was terrified of snakes,’ she says now.

‘Lots of people are,’ says Terry, carefully sealing the envelope.

‘Could it kill someone?’ she asks.

Terry looks at her. ‘Are you hoping someone will die?’

‘Of course not! We just want to make our point.’

‘Yes,’ says Terry. ‘It could kill someone.’

Ruth feels Cathbad’s pulse. It’s very slow. Should she call a doctor? What about Cameron next door? Surely he and his public school chums know a few things about drugs. Ruth goes to the window. In the back garden the fire is still smouldering, an eerie orange glow in the darkness. She looks again, pressing her face against the glass. Someone is standing in her garden, looking down at the embers. A tall figure wearing a cloak and carrying a long staff. The figure moves and seems almost to vanish into the blackness, cloak swirling in the wind, covering its face. Ruth’s blood runs cold. It’s Bob Woonunga.

Judy and Clough run wildly, falling over branches, slipping on wet leaves. Judy has no idea where they are heading. She fixes her eyes on Clough’s black jacket with its reassuring reflective stripe. She falls and twists her ankle but Clough doesn’t look round. ‘Come on!’ he shouts. She hobbles after him. How big can the grounds be? Surely they should have reached a road or a track by now? Somewhere nearby there is a splintering crack like a tree falling. It’s crazy to be in the woods in the middle of the storm. But then the whole thing’s crazy, and somewhere, not far away, there’s a man with a gun. She stumbles on, a stitch burning in her side. She’s not sure if she can go on much longer.

Then, suddenly, the black jacket disappears. Where the hell is Clough? She stops, hearing her gasping breath even above the noise of the wind. She takes a few steps forward and then she’s falling, going head-over-heels in a chaos of loose stones and broken branches.

‘Come on Johnson,’ yells a familiar voice. ‘Get up.’ Judy lies on the ground, panting. She knows Clough saved her life and she’ll be forever grateful but, right now, she almost hates him. ‘Where are we?’ she says.

‘I think we’re on the racing track,’ says Clough. Judy realises that she’s lying on something soft. The all-weather track. And, very far off, she can see some lights.

‘Come on,’ says Clough again and, like two exhausted horses, they set off along the all-weather track. Behind them, the wind roars through the trees.

‘Where are we going?’ asks Nelson again.

‘I don’t know,’ says Cathbad again. He hums quietly to himself. Everything remains the same: sky, sea, beach. Is this a dream? wonders Nelson. But he can feel the stones beneath his feet, smell the sea, even the faint herbal scent emanating from Cathbad.

‘The flow,’ Cathbad is saying. ‘You have to trust to the flow.’

But Nelson has never been one to trust what he can’t see. He trudges along the beach, looking for a way out.

Bob is walking round the bonfire, occasionally raising his stick to the skies. What is he doing? Is he ill-wishing Cathbad? Is he pointing the bone? Or is he trying to save him? What about Nelson? Is Bob too trying to enter the Dreaming? Will he fight with Cathbad over Nelson’s lifeless body? It’s all nonsense, Ruth knows, but, somehow, here in the darkness with the wind roaring around the house, it doesn’t seem like nonsense.

Bob stops and looks up at the house. Ruth doesn’t know how visible she is, standing in the dark bedroom. She shrinks back against the wall. Bob continues his pacing, moving in and out of the light. Then he stops and is looking at something on the ground. What is it? Ruth presses her face against the window again. Oh God, it’s Flint. The ginger cat has appeared from nowhere and is rubbing around Bob’s ankles. Get away from him, Flint! She sends up a prayer to Mother Julian and her cat. Protect Flint. Don’t let him become one of Bob’s sinister Dreamtime creatures.

Cathbad stirs in his sleep. This is all your fault, Ruth wants to tell him. I should be sleeping peacefully with my baby in her cot and my cat on my feet. Instead she has entered some ghastly dream world where snakes and sacred animals prowl in the darkness and two of Ruth’s best friends lie between life and death. She crosses the landing to check on Kate. As she does so, she hears a noise downstairs. What is it? Has Bob broken in? Did Cathbad even lock the door? She stands frozen, prepared to defend her baby with her life. Cathbad will have to fend for himself. Then thunderous paws sound on the stairs and a reproachful meow greets her. Thank God. It was only Flint coming through the cat flap. Ruth picks up her cat and hugs him tightly.

The lights are getting brighter now. Judy can see the walls of the yard, the house rising up in the distance. Thank God. They’ve made it. Her ankle hurts, she’s wet through and she feels as if her heart is about to explode, but she’s curiously elated. They’ve made it through the dark woods and there, a few yards away, is shelter, a telephone, backup. The wind is still roaring but the rain seems to have stopped. She’s just about to turn to Clough to congratulate him, thank him, when the most terrifying noise fills the night. A kind of drawn-out moan, guttural and agonised. Judy stops, petrified. She hadn’t thought it possible to be any more frightened but now she feels as if her hair is standing straight up on end.

‘What the hell was that?’ she whispers.

‘Sounds like a donkey,’ says Clough briskly.

‘A donkey?’

‘Yeah, a donkey braying. Come on. We’ve got to keep moving.’

Why would there be a donkey at a racing stables, thinks Judy, but she jogs to keep up with Clough. She’s not about to let him out of her sight for a second. They are near the stable wall now and she can see the clock tower and the horse walker, monstrous in the moonlight. The light is coming from the cottage by the main gates.

‘Caroline’s cottage,’ pants Judy.

‘She’s a mate of Trace’s,’ says Clough. ‘She’ll help us.’

Judy is still not very well disposed towards Caroline but right now she’d trust anyone who isn’t actually pointing a gun at her. She thinks of warm houses, lights, telephones. She starts to run.

As their feet touch the tarmac, the security lights come on, almost blinding them. The terrible noise reverberates again. It’s only a donkey, Judy tells herself, but it gives her the horrors all the same. Surely the noise must have roused someone up at the house. Randolph? The mysterious Lady Smith? Surely, any moment now, Len Harris will appear and shoot them down like vermin. But no one appears. They run through the car park, past sports cars and jeeps (Judy is now sure that the blue Ferrari belongs to Len Harris), and seconds later they’re pressing the bell marked ‘Visitors Please Report Here’.

Caroline takes some time to come to the door but, when she does, she is fully dressed in outdoor clothes. She looks different, Judy thinks. Perhaps it’s because she has her hair up.

‘Police,’ gasps Judy. ‘Need to use your phone.’

‘The lines are down,’ says Caroline. ‘It’s the storm.’

‘I’ve got my phone,’ says Clough. ‘Can we come in?’

Caroline stands aside. ‘I’ll get you some tea,’ she says.

‘You’re soaked through.’

She ushers them into the sitting room. Clough stabs away at his phone but can’t get a signal; Judy has lost hers. She collapses in a chair, feeling that nothing much matters any more.

‘How did you find me?’ she asks Clough.

He looks up. ‘You sent me a text, didn’t you? I was checking my phone every few minutes. Thought there might be news about the boss. I never thought you’d come down here on your own like Nancy bloody Drew. Jesus, Johnson, how could you be so stupid?’

‘I don’t know,’ says Judy. ‘I thought I’d solved the case. I thought I could do it all myself.’ She tells him about the mules. Clough whistles silently. ‘Of course, half the horses come from the Middle East. The perfect cover. Brilliant.’

‘Glad you think so,’ says a voice from the doorway. Len Harris is standing there, next to Caroline. Both are holding guns.

The voices have started. Voices coming from the sea. Nelson knows that he mustn’t listen to them. If you listen, you are lost. If you answer the knock at the door, you are lost. He sets his mind against the soft, beguiling whispers from the deep. Michelle, Ruth, Laura, Rebecca, his mother. Always women’s voices. He mustn’t give way to them. He must keep walking along the beach, walking beside Cathbad. One foot in front of the other. But it’s hard, the hardest thing he has ever had to do.

‘This way,’ says Caroline politely. An effect slightly ruined by the gun, which she is pointing directly at Judy’s chest.

‘You’re making a big mistake,’ says Clough, blusteringly, to Len Harris.

‘No, you’ve made the mistake,’ says Harris. He doesn’t sound out of breath at all. Has he just run through the woods or did he have a car waiting outside the gates? It must have been Caroline, Caroline who locked the gates and then opened them again for Harris, driving him round to her house as calmly and efficiently as a taxi. Caroline, Trace’s friend, whom Clough said they could trust.

Harris is smiling now, his leathery gnome’s face transformed into something far less benign. A goblin or a troll perhaps. ‘You wandered into the yard,’ he is saying, ‘and, sadly, became the victim of a tragic accident.’

He looks at Caroline. ‘The walker?’ she says.

‘Perfect.’

‘This way,’ he points the gun. Judy and Clough have no choice but to follow. Clough considers turning on Harris and trying to force the gun out of his hand, but the trouble is, if it works, Caroline will probably shoot Judy. If it doesn’t work, Harris will definitely kill him. Both of them look like people who know how to handle guns. He curses himself for not arranging back-up. He curses Judy even more.

They cross the yard, silent except for the sound of the wind. Judy thinks about shouting for help but who would hear her? The horses? The cat? The donkey? She wonders where Randolph and Romilly are, not that they’d be much help. Their feet squelch in the mud as they approach the horse walker. What is Harris planning to do to them? Surely if he wanted to kill them he’d have done it by now. Or does he have something more exciting in mind?

Harris kicks open the door of the horse walker and Judy and Clough are pushed into one of the compartments. They hear the door being locked and footsteps going away. They look at each other. They are shut in a triangular wooden box, just wide enough, at its widest, for two people standing abreast. Clough hurls himself against the door. The wood creaks but holds.

‘Have you still got your phone?’ asks Judy.

‘No. That bastard took it.’

‘What are they going to do to us?’

‘I don’t know,’ says Clough grimly.

‘I can’t believe Caroline’s in it too.’

‘Nor can I. Trace told me that she was a real airy-fairy type, loved all the birds and the little animals, that sort of thing. Wait till I tell her.’

They are both silent, both thinking the same thing. Will Clough ever have the chance to tell his girlfriend about Caroline’s perfidy? Funnily enough, Judy finds it harder to imagine Clough being killed than it is to imagine her own death. Is this because she feels so guilty that, in some way, she thinks she deserves to die?

The sound of hoof-beats recalls Judy to life. She looks at Clough, who tightens his lips and clenches his fists. He looks quite formidable. All these years Judy has deplored her colleague’s Neanderthal tendencies; now she’s glad of them. The hooves come closer. Then the door is unlocked and Len Harris stands in front of them, gun in hand. Next to him is Caroline, holding a large black horse by the halter. The horse arches his neck and paws the ground, reminding Judy of Nelson.

‘We’ve brought The Necromancer to keep you company,’ says Harris. ‘So sad. Two policemen, sorry police people, trampled to death by a wild horse. And, believe me, he is wild.’

Judy believes him. Close up, The Necromancer looks huge and very frightening. His eyes roll and he stamps his great hooves. In a few seconds they will be trapped in a tiny space with him. Clough looks terrified, all his swagger gone. He flattens himself against the side of the compartment. Harris sends the horse forward with a slap on his rump. Caroline drops the halter and the massive animal is inches away from Judy. She can see his red nostrils and rolling, hysterical eye. She smells his woody animal smell, the scent she remembers from her own pony and which, oddly enough, still has the power to comfort her.

‘Have fun!’ shouts Harris. The walker starts to move forward. Judy falls to the floor. The great horse looms over her.