Blood Red City (32 page)

‘What an opportune visit,' he said, smiling like a predatory animal. ‘We were just about to hold a ceremony in the cellar. There was a time when you'd have been welcome to join us.'

It was clear she was not invited now.

‘I wanted to see Jane. Just for a few moments.' She almost added ‘if that's all right', but she wasn't going to ask his permission.

Crowley's face fell. ‘Oh, but that is such a shame. Jane is preparing for the ceremony. I really don't think she can be disturbed just now.'

‘Then perhaps I can wait. And see her afterwards.'

His expression darkened, just for an unguarded instant. Then he was all smiles again. ‘But of course. We might be quite a while, and I have no idea how tired she may be afterwards. You know how exhausting these sessions can be. But please, wait in the drawing room. Help yourself to a drink, if you like.'

She left the door open enough to be able to see Crowley and his people heading towards the cellar. He had made it clear that Miss Manners was not welcome. She wondered why that was – she'd seen it all before. And worse. She waited until she could hear the faint intonation of the chanting coming from below, then made her way to the door down to the cellar.

There was no way of knowing if everyone was down there, so she went carefully and quietly, easing the heavy door open. The sound of the chanting immediately increased in volume. She knew that because of the way the stairway turned as it descended she could not be seen from below until she was halfway down the steps. She went as far as she dared and listened for a few moments. Crowley was holding forth – reciting words of power in a guttural, indecipherable tone.

The scene below when she peered cautiously round the corner of the stairway was everything she had expected. The candles arranged round the edge of the chamber. The robed acolytes gathered in a semicircle before the altar stone. Crowley standing on the dais before the altar. And Jane, wearing a white robe so thin and so tight that it hid nothing of her body's form, stretched out on the altar, staring up at the ceiling.

Except … there was something different. It took her a few moments to notice, but something about the way Jane moved her head, the way her shoulders flexed drew Miss Manners' eye – and she saw that her friend was manacled to the altar, thick chains holding her down.

Perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps it was just another of Crowley's sadistic games. But it unsettled her. Miss Manners crept back up the steps and returned to the drawing room, where she waited. Soon she would know. If Crowley let her see Jane, then she could ask if everything was all right. If he didn't let her see the woman …

He still wore his robes when he returned, all apologies. ‘I am so sorry. Jane really is very tired. I'm sure you understand.'

She forced a smile as false as Crowley's. ‘Absolutely. I'll come back another day. But do please tell her I called.'

He almost managed to hide his relief. ‘I will, yes, of course. Let me see you out.'

‘There's no need. I know the way.'

He watched her to the front door. She glanced back as she went out, and saw that Crowley had turned and was heading back into the house. Hearing the door shut, he would know she was gone.

She waited in the hall, forcing herself to stand still, counting slowly to ten, before she slipped back along the hallway and down to the cellar.

The candles were still burning, casting an uncertain light across everything. Jane was still there, lying on the altar just as before, wrists and ankles enclosed in bands of dull metal.

‘My God, Jane – are you all right?'

Jane struggled to raise her head slightly. ‘Penelope? What are you doing here?' Her voice was flat, uninflected.

‘I came to see you. Why's he keeping you like this?' She tested the chains, but they were too firmly secured for her to see a way of breaking or removing them.

‘I tried to leave. I had … something to do.'

‘And he's keeping you here? Like this?'

‘For the moment.'

Miss Manners leaned over her, stroked her forehead and was surprised how cool Jane felt. ‘I'll get help. I'll come back for you, I promise.'

‘Thank you. Penelope?'

‘Yes?'

‘I haven't told him. But, your friend Pentecross … I heard a message. I keep hearing a message.'

Miss Manners nodded. ‘It's all right. We know. We heard it too.'

‘It mentioned an axe. Like the one I saw before.'

‘We think there are three of them. Look, I'd better go before Crowley or someone finds me down here. But I'll come back. Soon. I promise.'

‘Three axes? Is that what
they
want?'

‘Yes, we think so. They have one. Another is in Stalingrad, if the message can be believed.'

‘And the third?'

‘It's all right. Don't worry.' She put her hand to her friend's cheek. ‘We have the third one safe. They won't get it.'

Jane's eyes slowly closed. ‘That's good. Keep it safe. And come back for me, Penelope. Please come back for me.'

‘Of course I will.'

She stayed for another few moments, but Jane seemed to be asleep. Her lips moved slightly, as if she was speaking to someone in a dream.

 

CHAPTER 32

The last hints of sunlight were fading from the sky when the warden called. He was polite, deferential, but insistent. The woman who answered the door could see several more air raid wardens in the street outside. One was knocking at the next house. She went to find Crowley.

‘We're hopeful it won't take long,' the warden said. ‘Just got to make sure the thing's safe.'

‘We've not had a raid here for months,' Crowley pointed out. The Blitz was over, and air raids on London were sporadic and infrequent now.

‘God knows when it was dropped. But it's a big one.' The warden shrugged. ‘Could take out most of the street, so the UXB lads reckon anyway.'

There was a steady stream of people coming out of the other houses on Jermyn Street now. The warden glanced back over his shoulder at them. ‘We've told people if they wait in the pub in the next street, we'll let you know when it's safe to come back.'

‘And do you have any idea when that might be?'

‘A few hours at least. But before morning, I'm sure. Good excuse for a couple of pints, if you ask me.'

‘And if we don't feel like a couple of pints?'

‘Then it's your funeral. Maybe literally.'

Crowley's head turned from side to side as he considered. Finally, he nodded. ‘You'll let us know as soon as it's safe.'

‘Don't worry, I don't want to be out here any longer than I have to be. Might even join you for a pint if I get a minute.'

‘There's something to look forward to,' Crowley murmured as he went back inside. It was inconvenient, but it couldn't be helped. And the man was right – an unexploded bomb wasn't something to be taken lightly.

‘What about Jane?' one of the girls asked as she headed after the others. ‘I haven't seen her today.'

‘I'll check,' he assured her. They didn't know that Jane was spending all her time down in the cellars now – the price of her attempted desertion. And a safeguard against what she had become. Well, she would probably be safer down in the cellar than anywhere else. The chances of the bomb going off, or causing any damage to the house if it did must be slight. Even so, he collected several of his most treasured books and put them in a leather briefcase to take with him.

*   *   *

‘Was she with them?'

Miss Manners shook her head. ‘No, Jane must still be inside.'

She and Alban were watching from across the road, hidden in the alleyway between two houses. The people leaving the houses were barely more than silhouettes in the fading light.

‘No way of knowing if everyone's out,' Alban said. ‘But at least we know Crowley isn't there any more.'

‘I didn't see Rutherford,' Miss Manners said. ‘He's a thoroughly unpleasant character.'

‘Yes,' Alban agreed. ‘But don't worry about him. He's…' He hesitated, choosing his words. ‘He's no longer involved.'

‘No longer involved in what?' Miss Manners asked, catching the tone in Alban's voice.

‘In anything. If you take my meaning.' He stepped out of the alleyway and checked the street. ‘Looks like it's all clear.'

It was the work of only a few moments for Alban to pick the lock on the front door. He stepped back to let Miss Manners precede him into the house. Alban produced a torch from his pocket, so they didn't need to put the lights on. She led the way to the door down to the cellar. The place was in darkness, but Alban's torch illuminated the stone steps leading down.

At the foot of the stairs, he shone the torch round the chamber and whistled. ‘You could store a lot of wine down here, you know.'

‘This way.'

Miss Manners set off towards the altar. Alban followed, shining the torch ahead of her. Only when he stepped up on to the raised dais did he see that there was a woman stretched out on the stone.

‘Penelope?' the woman said, raising her head slightly as they approached. ‘Is that you?' She blinked, dazzled by the torchlight after so long in the dark.

‘It's all right. I told you I'd come back. We've come to get you away from here.'

‘But – Crowley?'

‘Out of the way for now,' Alban said. He examined the chains and manacles holding the woman down. ‘Hold the torch for me, and I'll see if I can pick the locks.'

He had expected she would need help standing, let alone getting up the steep steps. But as soon as she was free Jane Roylston seemed to recover her strength.

‘I'll take you to your room,' Miss Manners said. ‘If we have time?' she checked with Alban.

He nodded. ‘Good idea. She can't go out dressed like that. She'll need shoes at least, and a coat probably.'

He waited in the hallway. It wasn't long before the two women were back again, Jane now wearing a Macintosh, buttoned up with the belt pulled tight at her waist.

‘I'll lock up,' Alban said, as they left the house. ‘We'll give it an hour or so, then tell the warden that the bomb's been defused and everyone can come back again.' He grinned, suddenly looking like a mischievous schoolboy. ‘Crowley will be livid.'

Sarah was waiting in the car a couple of streets away. Miss Manners opened the door for Jane to get in the back, then climbed in beside her.

‘Do you know Sarah Diamond?'

Jane nodded. ‘I think we've met. Or if not, I've certainly seen you.'

Sarah smiled a welcome, and put the car into gear.

‘My place is so small,' Miss Manners said, ‘and if Crowley comes looking for you it'll be one of the first places he tries. But Sarah has a spare room in her flat.'

Sarah glanced back. ‘You're welcome to stay as long as you want,' she said.

‘Thank you. You're very kind.'

‘It's no problem,' Sarah assured her. ‘And don't worry – you'll be quite safe.'

*   *   *

They were getting closer to their prey. They could sense it. They knew that the final key was being dealt with. That just left the key they were seeking, and they crept closer. Every day, their anticipation grew. Soon they would have what they needed.

A dark, bulbous shape clawed its way across a field of rubble. It clambered through a shattered window and into what had been a factory. From inside it stared back out across the devastated landscape, watching the humans picking their way through the debris. There were two soldiers, rifles clutched in their hands, alert for any sound, knowing that death could strike from anywhere at any time. They were probably looking for food.

Behind them, a small shape rose up from the cratered ground, watching the men as they moved cautiously forwards.

The girl was an orphan, her mother killed a few days earlier by men like these. She was too young to tell the difference between Germans and Russians. Too young to care. Men with guns were the enemy. Men with guns had left her alone in this world of death and destruction.

She kept a knife in her boot. Slid it carefully out as she hurried after the men, careful to make no sound. She was only small, but she was strong and every kill made her stronger yet.

The first man turned as she approached. His expression switched from fear to relief to the faintest smile as he saw it was just a child. A girl, no more than maybe nine years old, face grimy with dust and dirt, fair hair lank and darkened by sweat and blood.

Then surprise, and finally fear again as the knife blade gleamed in the pale September sunlight. It was the one thing she kept clean. His grunt of sudden pain as the blade entered his stomach was loud enough for the other man to swing round, his rifle raised.

The girl twisted the knife savagely, her face frowning with the effort. Then she ripped it out again, her hand and arm spattered red.

He had time for one shot. It went wide, hammering into the remains of a wall a hundred yards behind the girl. She hurled herself forwards, catching the soldier off balance, knocking him to the ground. He landed on his back, his head cracked into the rubble blurring his vision.

But he could feel her weight on top of him as he struggled to bring up the rifle again. Could see her unfocused silhouette, arm raised. Could feel the thump of the impact as the blade sliced into his chest, again and again and again.

In the shadows opposite, a dark creature squatted malevolently watching through a single darkened eye. The setting sun caught the mist rising from the soldier's chest, and stained the ruined landscape red.

 

CHAPTER 33

One way to get to Russia was on an Arctic convoy, delivering military supplies from the UK to Archangel or Murmansk. But after the disastrous losses suffered by convoy PQ17 in July 1942, Guy wasn't convinced this was the safest or the most comfortable route.