The Cross

Chapter Thirty-Six

Oxford

The following evening

Night had already fallen by the time Chloe arrived at her father’s place with a bottle of his favourite Bordeaux to celebrate the fact that his discovery was making the news.

‘You mean your discovery, honey,’ Matt Dempsey said, uncorking the bottle in the kitchen and setting it aside to breathe. The smell of tomato and basil and minced steak and garlic was filling the whole downstairs, and his apron was covered with cooking splashes.

‘I still can’t believe it’s from outer space, Dad,’ Chloe said, crossing the hallway to peer in through the open study door. The cross was in its new home, a glass tank perched on his desk.

‘Neither could Fred, at first. You should have seen his face, honey. He ran it through the spectroscope three times.’

‘So the spectroscope gives you …’

‘A complete mineralogical analysis of the material,’ Matt said. ‘And it certainly looks like we’re right. Whatever kind of rock your cross is made from, it didn’t come from this planet.’

‘Amazing. So where’d it come from?’

Matt chuckled and shook his head. ‘It’s still early days. It’ll take a lot more verification before anything can be officially confirmed. That means showing our findings to a bunch of people. So for starters, I’m taking it to London next week to show it to some of the guys at the Royal Astronomical Society.’

‘Exciting times.’

‘A little too exciting,’ Matt said. ‘I kind of wish I hadn’t let Fred talk me into calling the media in on it so soon. I hate seeing my name splashed all over the papers.’

‘You can’t be a recluse forever, Dad.’

‘Hey, I am not a recluse.’

The discussion carried them through until they were sitting down to a plate of Matt’s home-cooked meatballs with rice, which Chloe knew was the only dish he could produce.

‘The thing is, of course,’ Matt said as he poured the wine, ‘the lump of rock could have been here for tens of thousands, even millions of years, almost certainly after a prehistoric meteor shower, before it just happened to be picked up. Its finder probably just liked the look of it. Maybe he was the stonemason who sculpted it into a cross. In short, its extra terrestrial origin can’t be anything other than pure coincidence.’

‘That’s a relief. I thought you were going to tell me that it landed here like that.’

Matt laughed. ‘Now that would be something, wouldn’t it? Sorry to disappoint you. It wasn’t sculpted into that shape until the fifth century or so. But, you know, it would still have been a highly unusual find, even if it had been any ordinary bit of rock.’ He reached into his back pocket and pulled out the folded sketch he’d made of the cross. ‘I’ve arrived at a rough translation of the inscriptions. Wrote it down here to show you. Makes interesting reading.’

Chloe laid down her knife and fork, unfolded the paper, and read his translation out loud. ‘“He who wields this cross of power shall gain protection from the dark revenants of Deamhan, drinkers and plunderers of the life of Man. May the Divine Virtue of our Lord descend upon thee and hold thee safe.”’

She looked up. ‘Whoa. Freaky. Who are the revenants of Deamhan?’

‘Deamhan sounds like …?’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘Demon?’

‘You got it. Ancient Gaelic for Auld Nick himself. Aka, the Devil. For whatever reason, this particular cross must have been regarded as a special sort of talisman to ward off evil spirits.’

‘Drinkers of human life? Like, vampires?’ She chuckled.

Her father shrugged. ‘Those were deeply superstitious times, Chloe. Our scientific age has rightly taught us to disregard a lot of things, but certain phenomena must have seemed very real to the folks of that era. They looked to the early Christian church for protection, just as their pagan ancestors had looked to their gods and idols. One religion growing out of the previous one.’

‘Well, here’s to our strange and wonderful cross,’ she said, raising her glass.

‘To the cross.’ They clinked.

When the meatballs were finished, Matt disappeared into the kitchen to prepare dessert and turned on some loud opera music. ‘What are we having?’ Chloe yelled through the door over the din.

‘Ice cream,’ he called back. ‘Chocolate, your favourite.’

Leaving her father to potter about and sing along tune-lessly with the opera, Chloe ran up to the first floor to use the bathroom. As an afterthought, she trotted up the winding stairs to the spare loft bedroom she slept in when she was visiting. From up here, right at the top of the house, you couldn’t hear the operatic din from downstairs. Chloe walked over to the bed and unzipped the bag she’d dumped on the duvet. Inside was the air pistol she’d wanted to show her dad, to alleviate his concerns about her shooting.

She removed the long, futuristic-looking pistol from its pouch. With its plastic anatomical grip and counter-balance, bright blue anodised aluminium body and electronic trigger attachment, the thing was more like a fantasy toy or a ray gun out of Star Trek than any sort of threatening firearm. He’d soon see that there was nothing to be concerned about. She twirled it around her finger and started heading back down the stairs to rejoin him.

As he opened the kitchen cupboard and fetched out a couple of bowls, Matt Dempsey was feeling more contented than he had in years, and without touching more than a glass or two of wine. It was just so good to be able to spend time like this with his daughter, and he was so proud to see her doing well and pursuing what she—

The dreamy smile fell from his face as a loud crash came from behind him. At first he thought a shelf had come down.

It hadn’t.

He stared, petrified, as a man came smashing through the back door into the kitchen. A man with a shaven head. A long, dirty coat. And, in his gloved fist, a massive sword whose blade he was using to chop and slice his way through the remains of the door.

Matt barely had time to yell ‘Who are you?’ before the man strode into the house, grabbed him tightly around the neck and slammed him with incredible strength against the wall.

‘Where is it?’ His voice was a hissing rasp and his breath stank like rotten meat. Matt gaped in horror at the man’s teeth. Sharpened to points. Like fangs. Like the teeth of a monster.

‘Where is what? I don’t know what you’re—’

The terrible mouth opened again to rasp at him. ‘The cross. Where is the cross?’

Matt had read once that you should never confront a home invader. Let them have what they wanted. Even if it was an artifact of inestimable historic value. Even if you had no possible understanding of why they should want to take it from you. Just let them have it, so they’d leave you alone.

He thought of his daughter. Pointed towards the study door. ‘There. In the glass case on the desk. Take it and go!’

An iron fist closed around his collar. Still clutching the enormous sword, the man dragged Matt bodily out of the kitchen and across the hallway to the study door, kicking it open with a violent crash. The jagged smile widened as he spotted the glass case on the desk with the cross inside. He hurled Matt to the floor, knocking the wind out of him. Raised the sword to the height of his left shoulder and sliced the broad blade diagonally down to shatter the glass case into a million spinning shards. Reaching greedily inside, he grabbed the cross and thrust it into the pocket of his coat.

Then turned back towards Matt and raised the sword again.

‘You have what you wanted,’ Matt gasped, tasting blood on his lips. ‘Now go. For the love of God, go and leave us in peace!’

The man bared his teeth.

Matt realised he was smiling.

‘Us?’ the man said.