Evil Star

ST MEREDITH’S

The church was beyond Shoreditch, in a forgotten backwater of London that really wasn’t likeyou are

London at all. At school, Matt had learned about the Blitz – when German bombers had destroyed great chunks of the city, particularly in the East End. What the teachers hadn’t told him was that the blank spaces and rubble had been replaced with modern, concrete office blocks, multistorey car parks, cheap, tacky shops and – cutting between them – wide, anonymous highways that carried an endless stream of traffic with a lot of noise but not a great deal of speed.

He had been brought here by taxi, dropped off at the end of Moore Street, which turned out to be a grubby lane running between a pub and a launderette. The church stood at the bottom end, looking sad and out of place. It had been bombed too. A new steeple had been added at some time in the last twenty years and it didn’t quite match the stone pillars and arched doorways below. St Meredith’s was surprisingly large and at one time must have been quite grand, standing at the centre of a thriving community. But the community had moved on and the church looked forlorn and slightly abandoned.

Once again, Matt wondered why the bookseller, William Morton, had chosen this place for their meeting. But at least they would have no difficulty recognizing each other. There were few people around – and certainly no sign of the hundred armed policeman that the Assistant Commissioner had promised. As Matt made his way down the lane, the door of the pub opened and a bearded man with a broken nose stepped unsteadily out. It was only twelve o’clock but he was already drunk. Or perhaps he was still hung over from the night before. Matt quickened his pace. There was a mobile phone in his pocket and Richard Cole was only a few minutes away if he needed help. Matt wasn’t afraid. He just wanted to get this over with and go back to ordinary life.

He walked up to the front door of the church, wondering if he would even be able to get in. The door was very solid and somehow gave the impression of being locked. He reached out and lifted the handle. It was cold and heavy in his hand. It turned reluctantly, with a creaking sound. The door swung open and Matt stepped forward, passing from bright daylight to a strange, shadow-filled interior. The sun was shut out. The sound of the traffic disappeared. Matt had left the door open but it swung closed behind him. The boom of the wood hitting the frame echoed through the empty space.

He was standing at the end of the nave, which stretched out to an altar some distance away. There were no electric lights in the church and the stained glass windows were either too dusty or too darkly coloured to let in any light. But there were about a thousand candles illuminating the way forward, flickering together in little crowds, gathered round the chapels and alcoves that lined the sides of the building. As Matt’s eyes got used to the gloom, he made out various figures, older men and women, kneeling in the pews or hunched up in front of the tombstones, looking like ghosts that had somehow drifted up from the catacombs below.

He swallowed. He was liking this less and less and he wished now that he had insisted on Richard coming with him. The journalist had wanted to, but Fabian and the other members of the Nexus had dissuaded him. Matt was to enter alone. That was what they had agreed with William Morton and if they broke faith, they may never see him again.

Matt looked around but there was no sign of the bookseller. He remembered the face he had seen on the DVD. At least he would know what he looked like when Morton chose to reveal himself. Where was he? Hiding somewhere in the shadows, perhaps. Well, that made sense. He would check that Matt was alone. If someone had come with him, there would be other ways out of the church. Morton could slip away without ever being seen.

Matt continued down towards the altar, passing a carved wooden pulpit shaped like an eagle. The priest would address the congregation from above its outspread wings. The walls of the church were lined with paintings. A saint shot full of arrows. Another broken on a wheel. A crucifixion. Why did religion have to be so dark and cruel?

As he arrived at the apse, just in front of the altar where the east and west wings of the church spread out, forming a cross, a man stood up and gestured to him. The man had been sitting in a pew, his head half hidden in his hands. Matt recognized him at once. He was overweight, with silver hair in tufts on either side of a round, bald head, ruddy cheeks and small, watery eyes. The man was wearing a crumpled suit and no tie. There was a package, wrapped in brown paper, in his hands.

“Matthew Freeman?” he asked.

“I’m Matt.” Matt never used his full name.

“You know who I am?”

“William Morton.”

The bookseller appeared to be a very different man from the one Matt had seen in the television interview. Something had cut through his arrogance and self-regard: both physically and mentally he seemed to have shrunk. Now that they were closer, Matt could see that he hadn’t shaved. Silver stubble was spreading across his cheeks and down to his neck. And he probably hadn’t changed his clothes in days. He smelled bad. He was sweating.

“You’re very young.” Morton blinked a couple of times. “You’re just a child.”

“What were you expecting?” Matt didn’t try to keep the annoyance out of his voice. He didn’t like being called a child. He still didn’t know what this was all about.

“They didn’t tell you?” Morton asked.

“They told me you had a book. A diary…” Matt glanced at the brown-paper package and Morton drew it closer to him, holding it more tightly. “Is that it?”

Morton didn’t answer.

“They said you wanted to meet me,” Matt went on. “They want to buy it from you.”

“I know what they want!” Morton glanced left and right. Suddenly he was suspicious. “You came here alone?” he hissed.

“Yes.”

“Come this way…”

Before Matt could say anything, Morton scurried along the length of the pew and began to move down the side of the church, leaving the other worshippers behind. Matt followed slowly. It occurred to him that the bookseller might be a little mad. But at the same time he knew it was worse than that. He thought back to the farmer, Tom Burgess, who had spoken to him outside the nuclear reactor at Lesser Malling and had later died. He had been just the same. As he walked into the darkness in the furthest corner of the church, Matt realized that William Morton was scared out of his wits.

Morton waited for him to catch up, then began to speak, the words tumbling over each other in a low gabble. There was nobody else around in this part of the church. Presumably that was why he had chosen it.

“I should never have bought the diary,” he said. “But I knew what it was, you see. I’d heard of the Old Ones. I knew a little of their history… not very much, of course. Nobody knew very much. But when I saw the diary in a market in Cordoba, I recognized it immediately. There were people who said it didn’t even exist. And many more who thought that the author – St Joseph of Cordoba – was mad. The Mad Monk. That’s what they called him.

“And there it was! Incredibly. Waiting for me to pick it up. The only written history of the Old Ones. Raven’s Gate. And the Five!” As he spoke this last word his eyes widened and he stared at Matt. “It was all there,” he went on. “The beginning of the world, our world. The first great war. It was only won by a trick…”

“Is that the diary, there?” Matt asked a second time. This was all moving too quickly for him.

“I thought it would be worth a fortune!” Morton whispered. “It’s what every bookseller dreams of… finding a first edition, or the only copy of a book that has been lost to the world. And this was much, much more than that. I went on television and I told everyone what I had in my hands. I boasted – and that was the most stupid mistake I could have made.”

“Why?”

“Because…”

Somewhere in the church, someone dropped a hymn-book. It fell to the floor with a thunderous echo and Morton’s eyes whipped round as if a shot had been fired. Matt could see the sinews bulging on the side of his neck. The bookseller looked as if he was on the edge of a heart attack. He waited a moment until everything was silent again.

“I should have been more careful,” he continued, speaking in a whisper. “I should have read the diary first. Maybe then I would have understood.”

“Understood what?”

“It’s evil!” Morton took out a handkerchief and wiped it across his brow. “Have you ever read a horror story, Matt? One that you can’t get out of your mind? One that stays and torments you when you want to go to sleep? The diary is like that, only worse. It speaks of creatures that’ll come into this world, of events that will take place. I don’t understand it all. But what I do understand won’t leave me alone. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. My life has been turned upside down.”

“Then why don’t you just sell it? You’ve been offered millions of pounds.”

“And you think I’ll live to enjoy a penny of it?” Morton laughed briefly. “Since I read the diary, I’ve had nightmares. Horrible nightmares. And then I wake up and I think they’re all over but they’re not. Because they’re real. The shadows that I have seen, reaching out for me, aren’t just in my imagination. Look…!”

He pulled back a sleeve and Matt winced. It looked as if Morton had tried to cut his wrists. There were half a dozen mauve lines, recent wounds, criss-crossing each other a couple of centimetres from his hand.

“You did that…?” Matt asked.

“Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t. I don’t remember! I wake up in the morning and they’re just there. Cuts and bruises. Blood on the sheets! And I’m in pain…” He rubbed his eyes, fighting for control. “And that’s not all. Oh no! I don’t see things properly any more. Ever since I read the book, all I see are the shadows and the darkness. People walking in the street are dead to me. Even the animals, the dogs and the cats… they look at me as if they’re going to leap out and…”

Once again he was forced to stop.

“And things happen,” he continued. “Just now! Coming here today. A car nearly ran me down. It was as if the driver hadn’t seen me – or had seen me and didn’t care. Do you think I’m going mad? Well, ask yourself what happened to my house. It burned down. I was there. The fire just started, all on its own. It came from nowhere! The doors slammed shut. The telephones stopped working. Do you see what I’m saying? Do you understand? The house wanted to kill me. It wanted me dead.”

Matt knew that at least part of this was true. The Nexus had already told him about the fire.

“I am a condemned man,” Morton said. “I have the diary. I’ve read all its secrets. And now it won’t let me live.”

“Then why don’t you just get rid of it?” Matt shrugged. “Why don’t you set fire to it or something?”

Morton nodded. “I’ve thought of that. Of course I have. But there’s the money!” He licked his lips and it was then that Matt saw the true horror of Morton’s predicament. He was being torn between fear and greed. It was a constant battle and it was destroying him. “Two million pounds! It’s more than I’ve ever earned. I can’t just throw it away. How would I be able to live with myself? No! I’ll sell it. That’s what I am. A bookseller. I’ll sell it and I’ll take the money and then it’ll leave me alone.”

“You have to sell it to us,” Matt said.

“I know. I know. That’s why I agreed to meet you. Four boys and a girl. They’re in the diary. You’re one of them. One of the Five.”

“Everyone calls me that,” Matt interrupted. “But I don’t even know what it means. Ever since I got tangled up in all this, I’ve been trying to find a way out. I’m sorry, Mr Morton. I know you want me to prove something to you. But I can’t.”

Morton shook his head, refusing to believe what Matt had just told him. “I know about the first gate,” he said.

“Raven’s Gate.”

“There’s a second gate. It’s all in here…”

“Then give it to me.” Suddenly Matt was tired. “If you really want to get rid of the diary and I’m the only person you’ll give it to, that’s fine. Give it to me. You’ll get your money. And then maybe we can both go home and forget all about it.”

Morton nodded and for a brief moment Matt thought it was all over. Morton would hand over the package and he and Richard would be on the next train to… wherever. But, of course, it wasn’t going to be as easy as that.

“I have to be sure that you are who you say you are,” Morton rasped. “You have to prove it to me!”

Matt’s head swam. “I’ve already told you. I can’t do that.”

“Yes, you can!” Morton was gripping the book so tightly that his fingers had turned white. He looked quickly around the church, once again making sure they weren’t overheard. “Do you see the door?” he asked.

“What door?”

“There!” Morton twitched his head and Matt looked past him to a strange, wooden door set in the stone wall. What was strange about it? It took him a few moments to work it out. It was too small, about half the size of all the other doors in the church. He assumed it must lead out into the street. It was set below a stained-glass window with gloomy paintings on either side. Looking more closely, he saw that there was something carved into the wood. A symbol. It was a pentagram; a star with five points.

“What about it?” Matt asked.

“It’s why I chose this place to meet. It’s in the diary.”

“That’s not possible.” Matt tried to work it out. The diary had been written in the sixteenth century, over four hundred years ago. Parts of this church were older. Parts of it were quite modern. Either way, how could the monk have known about the existence of a single door?

“Of course it’s not possible,” Morton agreed. “But it doesn’t matter. I want you to go through the door and I want you to bring me something from the other side. It doesn’t matter what it is. Whatever you choose will prove to me that you are… who they say you are.”

“What’s on the other side?”

“You tell me. Bring me whatever you find. I’ll wait for you here.”

“Why don’t you come with me?”

Morton laughed but without a shred of warmth or humour. “You really do know nothing,” he said. Suddenly his voice was urgent again. “We don’t have time to argue. Do as I say. Do it now. Or I’ll leave and you’ll never hear from me again.”

Matt sighed. He didn’t understand any of it. But there was no point in answering back. He wanted this to be over. This was the only way. He glanced one last time at the bookseller, then went over to the door. Slowly, he reached out, his hand resting on the iron handle. It was only now that he saw that although the door was too small for the church, it was perfectly in proportion to his own height.

It had been built for a child.

He turned the handle. Opened the door. And stepped through.

While Matt and William Morton had been talking, neither of them had heard the front door of the church open again. Nor had they seen the man who had come in. He was dirty, dressed in rags, with a beard and a broken nose. Matt had noticed him in Moore Street when he had come out of the pub, pretending to be drunk.

The man stood for a moment, allowing his eyes to become used to the gloom, then moved down the apse. It didn’t take him long to find the bookseller. Morton was standing next to a half-sized door, shifting his ample weight from one foot to the other as if he was waiting to go into the dentist’s. There was a square parcel, wrapped in brown paper, held in one hand.

The diary.

It seemed that the boy had gone. But the boy wasn’t important. The man with the broken nose had been paid to kill Morton and take the book. If the boy was there, he would die too. But he wasn’t and the man was secretly pleased. Killing children was occasionally necessary but always unpleasant.

He reached into the pocket of his raincoat and took something out. The knife was only about ten centimetres long but that didn’t matter. The man knew how to use it. He could kill with a knife half that size.

The man looked at the altar ahead of him and briefly crossed himself, using the blade of the knife. The point touched his head, his chest, both his shoulders.

Then, with a smile, he moved forward.

It was too hot.

That was Matt’s first thought. When he had gone into the church, it had been a normal, London summer’s day. That is, it had been sunny but cool and most people had been glad it wasn’t raining. He had only been in the church for a few minutes but in that time the sun seemed to have intensified. And the sky was the wrong colour. It was a vivid, Mediterranean blue. All the clouds had disappeared.

And that wasn’t the only thing that was wrong.

Matt hadn’t been sure what he would find on the other side of the door. He had been half expecting to step back out into Moore Street. Instead he was in a cloister, a covered walkway forming a square around a courtyard with a fountain in the middle. Well, there was nothing surprising about that. Lots of churches had cloisters. It was where the priests went to walk and to think about their next sermon or whatever.

But this cloister was completely different from the church. It looked older – and more beautiful. The pillars of the arches were more ornate. And the fountain was really lovely, carved from some sort of white stone, with crystal-clear water splashing down from one basin to another. Matt knew almost nothing about art or architecture but even he could see that there was something about the fountain that wasn’t quite English. The same was true of the whole cloister. He cast his eyes from the perfectly mown grass to the brilliant flowers tumbling out of huge terracotta pots. How could a church as shabby and as neglected as St Meredith’s have managed to hold on to a courtyard as perfect as this?

He looked back at the church he’d just left. And that was another thing. Was he going mad or was the brickwork somehow different on the outside? There was a square tower rising up above him but no sign of a steeple, modern or otherwise. Well, perhaps it was hidden by the angle of the wall. But even so, Matt had to fight to stop himself thinking an absurd thought.

This was a completely different building from the one he’d just come out of.

No.

It was some sort of illusion. William Morton was deliberately trying to trick him.

The bookseller had told him to bring something back with him. It didn’t matter what and he didn’t care. All Matt wanted to do was to get out of here, to get back onto familiar ground. He walked forward and plucked a bright, mauve flower from one of the pots. He felt stupid, holding a flower, but he couldn’t see anything else and he didn’t want to spend any more time here searching. He turned round and was about to walk back when someone stepped in front of him. It was a young man, dressed in a brown robe. A monk.

And there was Matt, in his jeans and hooded sweatshirt, caught picking flowers in the middle of the cloister.

“Hi!” Matt didn’t know what to say. He held up the flower. “I was told to get this. It’s for a friend.”

The monk spoke to him. But not in English. Listening to the strange language, Matt thought it might be Spanish or Italian. The monk didn’t sound angry. He was trying to be friendly – although he was obviously puzzled.

“Do you speak English?” Matt asked.

The monk held up a finger and a thumb, almost touching. The universal symbol for “a little”.

“I have to go,” Matt said. He pointed at the door. “I have a friend…”

The monk didn’t try to stop him. Matt opened the door and went through.

He was back in St Meredith’s.

But William Morton wasn’t there.

Matt looked around, feeling increasingly foolish with the flower in his hand. It seemed that the bookseller had been playing a trick on him. While Matt had been out in the cloister, Morton had made his getaway. He had never intended to hand over the diary. It was all for nothing.

And then the woman screamed.

She screamed once, her voice so loud and high-pitched that surely it must have been heard all over Shoreditch. The scream flew up into the church, to be joined by a second and then a third, each scream becoming an echo of the other. Matt turned and saw her, an old woman wrapped up in black, standing a few metres away, pointing. At the same time, he saw the blood on the cold, stone floor.

He ran forward.

William Morton was lying on his back, one hand clamped to his stomach, trying to hold shut the wound made by the knife. There was a lot of blood. At first Matt thought he must be dead. The woman was still screaming. None of the other worshippers had come near, although Matt could hear them whispering, murmuring, afraid to show themselves. Then the bookseller opened his eyes and saw Matt, saw what Matt was holding. Despite everything, he smiled to himself. It was as if Matt had brought flowers to the funeral he was about to have.

“You are…” he began.

Just two words. Then he died.

At the same time, the doors were flung open and half a dozen men ran in. Matt looked up and saw police uniforms. So the Nexus hadn’t been lying to him. There really had been a protective ring around the church. It was just that it hadn’t worked. The police had arrived too late.

He was surrounded. More people were screaming. The police were trying to keep them back. Other officers came through the door. Matt recognized one of them. It was the Assistant Commissioner. He looked grim.

Richard Cole arrived a few minutes later, bursting in with Fabian. By now the body had been covered. The congregation had left. More policemen had come. Matt was sitting on his own, holding the flower, which had already begun to wilt. He was very still. There was blood on one of his trainers.

“Are you OK?” Richard asked. His face was filled with horror.

“Yeah. Sure.” Matt wondered if he was in shock. He didn’t feel anything. “I didn’t get the diary,” he said. “Whoever killed him took it.”

“How did they know he was here?” Fabian muttered. “Nobody knew about the meeting. He told only us.”

“Somebody knew,” Matt said. He waved a hand in the direction of the dead man. “They took the diary. He had it with him when we met but just now I looked and it wasn’t there.”

“To hell with the diary,” Richard said. “You were with him. You could have been killed too.” He paused and frowned. “What happened?” he asked. “Did you see who it was?”

“No. I was out in the cloister. He made me get him this.” Matt held up the flower.

Now it was Fabian’s turn to look puzzled. “What cloister?” he asked.

“The church has a cloister,” Matt said. “Morton asked me to go there. He said it was some sort of test, but I think he was lying.”

“This church has no cloister,” Fabian said.

“It’s through there.” Matt looked in the direction of the door.

“Let’s go out,” Richard said. “You need some air.”

“There is no cloister,” Fabian insisted.

Angrily, Matt stood up and walked over to the door. “It’s through here,” he said.

He opened the door. And stopped dead.

There was no cloister on the other side. There were no flowers, no fountain and no monks. Instead, he found himself looking at an alleyway lined with dustbins and, on the other side, a grimy backyard filled with rubble and broken concrete.

He looked at the flower in his hand and then threw it down as if it were scalding him. It lay, floating in a puddle, the only colour in a world of grey.