David Wallace

ISLAND OF FOG AND DEATH

To Joan,

for everything.

Chapter 1

Britannia: Land of the Deceangli tribe, Pridie Ides Martius in the year 823 ad urbe condita

The ancient forest was uneasy. The birds, the rodents, the insects, all of them sensed that something unnatural was happening. The light was odd. The smell of the air was weird. The forest seemed to crackle with sinister energy. The focus of the phenomenon was a small clearing where an ash tree had toppled to tear a gash in the leafy canopy, and where lush ferns were taking advantage of dappled sunlight reaching the forest floor. Tiny spheres of energy hovered, sparked, repelled and attracted each other in a random dance.

Some hours passed.

The randomness of the dance steadily diminished. Tiny energy packets, attracting each other, were forming larger parcels, and these in turn were overcoming repulsive forces to grow, dance more slowly, and merge into something greater. The pungent smell of ozone filled the clearing, and reactions with nitrogen and carbon compounds caused flickering chemiluminescence and consumed nitrogen and oxygen gases out of the atmosphere, disturbing the balance and blackening leaves.

A low rumble became audible to those forest creatures that had not fled. The ground trembled and soil loosened. There was a sudden sharp rise in pitch, culminating in an unnatural scream, and the luminescent blobs of energy abruptly coalesced into a huge glowing sphere, which blew outwards with a loud crack. The soil had all but liquefied around the roots of younger trees, and the force of the explosion sent them tumbling away.

Silence and darkness fell.

A single beech tree still stood, surrounded by a clearing that was now considerably larger. A squirrel clung, trembling, to a limb of that tree, looking down at the forest floor. Although the mysterious energy had vanished, something had been left behind. Something the squirrel sensed was unnatural, and which left it shaking in fright. Surrounding trees were too far to leap. The squirrel’s beech had long been stripped of food sources. Its claws gripped the bark of a tree branch and the squirrel quivered with the effort of trying to remain as still as possible, hoping not to be noticed.

It took nearly three days for the squirrel’s hunger to drive fear of the unknown from its brain, and it cautiously descended the trunk. It held a vague memory of something dangerous down here, a memory that had been driven back by its need to eat. Close to the ground, it looked round warily for signs of danger, darting a little way up and then back down the tree, tilting its head to and fro. Seeing nothing alarming, the squirrel darted across the leaf mould towards a tree at the edge of the clearing.

As it reached the bottom of the trunk, something long and black suddenly lashed out with such force that the squirrel burst apart in a splash of gore,

Tendrils wrapped themselves around pieces of squirrel, and drew them slowly into a patch of ferns and sharp, sharp teeth.

Chapter 2

Britannia: North-west of Canovium, Nones Iulius in the year 825 ad urbe condita

A group of men made their way carefully and slowly across the foggy floor of the ancient forest of the Deceangli. They were taking exaggerated steps, lifting their feet well off the ground, and placing them down with great care to avoid cracking twigs and rustling leaves. In this they were very successful, because the forest was totally silent. The men were clearly warriors, all carrying swords and axes, and some carrying bows. They were dressed in a variety of garments, of wool or leather, but all of a dull brown that it made it difficult to pick them out against the backdrop of the forest. They were fanned out in a dozen pairs, forming a wide arc roughly a Roman mile across. And they were hunting something.

A low whistle cut through the silence, and the whole troop stopped and waited. Their chief whistled again, a warble at a higher pitch, and his men made their way back towards him.

“Your whistling through that bush on your face is going to draw something to us, Chief,” someone grumbled.

“Quit your whining, Bix, it’s more likely that shiny head of yours will gleam in the sunlight and give away our position,” the chief responded. There were quiet chuckles all round. It was not just that Bix and Barba were constantly poking fun at each other’s hair. Or lack of it, in Bix’s case. It was also that – despite this being the height of summer – the ancient forest was cold, gloomy and foggy. Sunlight? What sunlight?

Barba had gathered the men into a broad clearing where the fallen trunks of ash and alder trees lay scattered near a solitary birch. He stood quietly for a few moments, studying a blackened patch in the centre of the clearing, wondering at the cause. He stirred it with a toe. It was not fire.

“I hate this place,” Bix grumbled. “Ain’t natural. It shouldn’t be this cold, and that fog just don’t smell right. And where are the animals and birds? Haven’t seen one since we left the Auxiliaries’ fortlet!”

“That baby-faced Batavian decurion was wise to ask for help,” said Barba. “We’ve seen no sign of missing peasants, no birds, no animals, no nothing. Shit, Bix, I can’t even see or hear any insects. I tell you, I’m inclined to follow the Batavians’ lead, and also ask for help.” He sighed. “We can tell ourselves we’re doing the hunting in this forest, but let’s face it, the opposite is the case. The place has been stripped bare of every living thing except trees. We’re the only prey left.”

“I wasn’t going to mention feeling we’re being watched. You feel it too?”

“Yes.”

Without lifting his eyes from the blackened ground, Barba observed, “Cei and Naldo aren’t back.”

“Here they are now,” Bix said, inclining his head towards the far side of the clearing.

“That’s Cei,” replied Barba. “Incapable of moving quietly.” He looked up, and softly asked, “So, Cei, where’s Naldo?”

Cei looked back, confused, and said, “Right behind – shit! Where is he?” He cupped his hands round his mouth and called out, “Naldo! Come on, you slug! Where are you?”

The men winced at the noise, and Podri hissed, “Quiet, fool.”

“No need for stealth now,” said Barba. “I’d say that thing knows exactly where we are, and has done since we left the Batavians behind.” He rose to his feet. “Right. Enough is enough. We’re low on food and there’s bugger all to hunt, so it’s time to go.”

“But Naldo—?” Cei started.

“We’ll see if we can pick up some trace.” Barba pointed to one of his men. “Cato, you and Garros double-time it to the rear and help Bod and Scarface break camp. Trust me, I don’t intend to be far behind you. The rest of you – skirmish order, ten pace spacing, sharp things out and we’ll backtrack Cei.”

Barba drew a Roman spatha with his right hand, while a double-headed axe filled his left. His men produced a variety of swords, some simple spathae and some Celtic long-swords with animal shaped bone handles. They spread into line and started forward.

As they left the clearing, the combination of fog and trees reduced visibility. Barba called out, “Close up! Keep your neighbours in view!”

“But don’t get so close you stick each other,” Bix added, which drew nervous laughter from the troops.

After a few dozen paces, it was Bix the Bald who again spoke up. “Chief! Over here! Blood!”

“Give me a perimeter,” said Barba, moving over to join Bix as the rest of the troops formed into a circle with weapons facing out. “Artio! Watch your front, man! Never mind what I’m doing, just watch your front!”

Barba dropped to one knee by a dark stain on the earth, brushing his waist-length beard to one side, and growled, “It’s blood, all right, and an unhealthy lot of it. But no body.” He stood and looked all round. “Everyone, look for tracks leading away, and call out if you see any. Naldo isn’t small, so it can’t possibly carry him off without a trace.”

Nobody called out.

“Shit! Where did it go?” Cei said.

Barba leaned against the trunk of a tree, bowing his head, and muttering a few words commending Naldo to the intercession of his gods. Something hit the sleeve of his jerkin. He looked at it and frowned. “Blood,” he murmured. He looked up into the tree, and saw it: dark, wet stains on the branches.

“It went up!” he shouted. He realised then that leaves high in the trees just a few dozen paces off to the north were whispering, yet there was no wind. “It’s in the trees! Going north!”

The half dozen men with bows were already notching arrows to strings. The whole troop turned north and started running, looking up into the leafy canopy above, whooping and shouting to each other. Barba let them run for a minute, then let loose a piercing whistle.

“Let it go, lads. It’s faster and it knows where it’s going. If we go on, it’ll pick us off one by one. Back to camp! Let’s get out of here.” His men drifted back to him. “March order, keep closed up, watch each other’s backs.”

Bix fell into step beside him. “This is bad, boss. The lads want to catch it. This thing needs to be ended, and the boys are gutted that we’re turning tail.”

“I know, old friend. But we need help to do it. A couple of regiments, I’d say. We need to seal off its escape routes, and pin it back. We won’t do it with a double handful of scouts, no matter how good we are at what we do.”

“But—”

“We set out with thirty-two men, Bix. The best in the whole damned province. Maybe the whole empire. There are twenty-three of us today. It took out nine of my men, and we haven’t so much as set eyes on the fucker. We haven’t come close. We don’t even know what it is!”

“Fucking flying invisible man-eating squirrel?”

Barba snorted. “That’s good. We’ll be back to gut this magical squirrel. Make sure the lads all know. We’ll be back, with more men, and better intelligence.” He scratched his beard pensively. “I’ll tell you what else, Bix. When we get back to the Batavians, we’re going to find us a wise man.”

Bix stopped dead, a look of shock on his face. “A wise man? Do you mean what I think you mean?”

“Probably. Depends what you think I mean.”

“You know what the Romans think of fucking Druids, you stupid hairy bastard! Do you want to get us all fucking crucified?”

Barba chuckled. “Well, my bald little friend, we’d better make sure the Romans don’t find out, hadn’t we?”

The column of warriors vanished in a swirl of fog, under the watchful eyes of something in the trees behind them.

Chapter 3

Lutzen, Saxony: 6 November 1632 by the Gregorian calendar

The big man lying on the ground suddenly blinked awake. He instantly knew something was wrong, because the noise of battle had faded into silence and the sharp sulphurous smell of burnt powder had disappeared. Strange.

He sat up, and was surprised to find that his wounds no longer ached. He looked around himself, confused, but could see nothing but the white smoke of gunnery and the fog. The damned fog, that had delayed the army of the Protestant Union and gave the Imperials and the Catholic League time to entrench along the Leipzig road.

He poked a finger into a hole in the left sleeve of his moose hide coat. It sank in and he felt warm, wet blood and broken bones, but no pain. When he pulled the finger back out, it was clean and dry. Strange, again. He wondered if he was dead.

“Leather has its deficiencies when employed as armour,” said a soft voice.

Startled, he looked up and saw a tall, thin, grey-haired man with a surprisingly large dog.

“A Polish trooper put a ball in my shoulder, so I can’t wear plate—” He stopped abruptly. “That is not important. Tell me, am I dead? What is this place?”

The older man smiled. “The answers are, ‘Not yet,’ and, ‘We stand – well, to be accurate, I stand and you lie – on the battlefield of Lutzen.’”

“Then where has the battle gone?”

“It remains all around us.”

“Cease your riddles, man, and tell me plainly, what has happened!”

The older man looked thoughtful, as if trying to find a good way to explain. “Think of it like this… Time is a river, ever flowing by, and you and I have stepped away to stand on the bank for a few moments.”

“What?”

“Or perhaps… Yes, this will work: consider that we occupy the space between the tick and the tock of the universe’s clock.”

“Are you saying that you have stopped time? That cannot be possible! If that were possible, we would all be doing it!”

“No, I am saying that we are taking a brief sojourn outside of time as—” He waved a hand. “As everyone else is experiencing it.”

“You make my brain hurt!”

“On the contrary, my lord, while you tarry with me outside time, you feel no pain. Your brain does not hurt in the slightest. Neither does your arm, your chest, or your back, which have all suffered grievous wounds.” He shook his head, as if amazed. “Leading a cavalry charge yourself, if I may say so, is a little self-indulgent when your army needs leadership more than it needs heroics.”

The wounded man rose to his feet and looked all round. “My right wing was in peril of collapse. My judgement was that this was a moment for heroics! If the men see their king slinking away, their hope would slink away with him!” He peered into the fog. “How do they fare? Are we destined to be defeated? Or the reverse?”

“You were wise to make Bernhard of Saxe-Weimar your second. He will conceal your death from the bulk of the army, lest they lose heart and, as you put it a moment ago, slink away. Bernhard will stand firm. It will be a very sanguinary affair, but he will overrun the Imperial artillery at dusk, and then it will be Wallenstein who slinks away, to Leipzig.”

“Excellent! But wait… I am doomed to die, then? So, what are we doing here? Is this God’s antechamber?”

“We are all doomed to die, my lord, sooner or later. We are here because I am minded to offer you a new position.”

The wounded man drew himself to his full height, and with all the dignity at his command, he said, “I do not want for position, sir. I already have all the position any God-fearing man could want.”

“For the next second or two,” the old man replied. “A god-fearing Catholic dragoon stands poised in the act of blowing your brains out. This is the day and the hour of your death.”

The wounded man sat down heavily. “So, I am reduced to choosing your position, am I, or dying on this battlefield?”

“Yes,” was the blunt reply. “In two hours’ time, your men will find your dead body, stripped of your fine moose hide jacket and leggings by the enemy. The only question remaining is, will it be your body, or will it merely be identified as your body?”

“Who are you? Who are you to be able to be able to offer me life or death? Are you some emissary of the Almighty?”

The dog and the old man exchanged a look that the wounded man could not interpret.

“A magician, then.”

The old man smiled. “The cataphracts of my youth would be amazed by your artillery. They would, I am sure, immediately think of magic as the obvious explanation for your ability to hurl cast iron balls such an unnatural distance.”

The wounded man snorted in derision. “Magic has nothing to do with it! The sciences of alchemy and natural philosophy have been mastered and only the ignorant would think of magic.”

“Ah, thank you, you have made my point in a most telling manner.”

“I see what you are hinting at,” the wounded man said with a sigh. “Your mastery of natural philosophy is so far beyond mine that your actions are, for all practical purposes, indistinguishable from magic. Who are you, man?”

“In my youth,” the old man said gravely, “I was named Flavius Belisarius.”

“Belisarius? The Byzantine general? Impossible! That would make you—”

“More than one thousand years old? Yes, indeed it would. So, you will have no difficulty understanding how tired I am. It is long past time for me to retire, and finally to die.”

The wounded man shook his head, but looking at the fog surrounding them, he realised that he believed this strange man. “What position is it that you offer me?” he asked.

Belisarius grinned. “I need someone to look after my dog.” He patted its head affectionately. “Hey, boy, meet your new guardian. This is Gustav. Gustav, meet Tash.”

Gustav thought nothing else could surprise him, but the dog looked him in the eye, and inside his head he distinctly heard, “Hey, Gustav. Got anything to eat?”

Chapter 4

Corner of Hongfeng Road and Jinxiu East Road, Shanghai, China, eight years ago

It was hot and sticky, humid and oppressive. The air was dusty and heavy with fumes from the incessant Shanghai traffic. A westerner was walking along the pavement, ignored by Shanghai’s cosmopolitan residents, but gawped at with either curiosity or hostility by visitors from the countryside. She had olive skin and jet black, frizzy hair that the humidity had rendered untameable. Her skinny frame was clad in black, baggy clothes, and she was wishing she had had the sense to wear a colour that did not absorb the light and heat quite so well. She was walking, and wishing also that she had had the sense to catch a bus. It might have been hot and armpit-fragrant, but at least she would not have been walking. She was making for the China Europe International Business School, and wondering to herself – again – why on earth she had chosen to walk the long way round from her apartment. She halted to wait for the traffic lights to change so that she could head up Hongfeng Road towards her first lecture of the day.

The lights seemed to be taking an age to turn in her favour. The pavement adjacent to the junction was becoming increasingly crowded, and motorists waiting for a green light were becoming increasingly impatient. She knew from experience that the interval granted by the idiosyncratic traffic lights for pedestrians to cross was all too short, so she wormed her way through towards the front of the crowd. She kept her head down, watching where she was putting her feet – she had concluded that Shanghai was a city of spitters – and she had headphones in her ears and a CD in her Sony Discman. So, she neither saw nor heard anything amiss. But, somehow, she felt it.

The crowd started to surge forward. The lights had not quite changed in their favour, but seasoned pedestrians knew that the ones to watch were those controlling the motor vehicles, not the flow of pedestrians. So, the surge was not quite synchronised with the lights. A taxi driver, impatient to get round the junction, raced for the corner in defiance of the changing traffic lights, and instantly had to slam on his brakes and slap his car’s horn because of the pedestrians in the roadway.

The girl in black, somehow, knew something bad was happening. She felt a lurch in the pit of her stomach and a flash of light behind her eyes, illuminating an image of a taxi hitting a small boy with a splash of blood. She blinked and the image was gone, but somehow…

She stepped quickly forward, and there, ahead of her, was a laughing boy running onto the road. And there off to the side, a taxi driver’s face twisted in anguish as his car skidded, wheels locked, straight at the boy. She acted reflexively, not consciously. She grabbed the boy round the waist and pulled him off to the side, away from the taxi, and to safety. She felt the thud of the taxi hitting her in the side. Somehow, she rolled across its hood and found herself face down on the tarmac of the road. Her headphones came off and for the first time her ears registered shouts and screams, the squeal of tyres and brakes, and the crunch of cars hitting cars.

Dazed, she rolled over and looked around in confusion, not quite sure of what had just happened. Then the image of the laughing boy surfaced once more and she looked for him. She found she could not stand and crawled to the front of the taxi. Suddenly, people were clustered around her, asking was she hurt, did she need help. A man in an expensive looking suit asked, in perfect English, “Please remain still, miss, and tell me where does it hurt?”

She blinked, found it hard to get her answer together in English, and replied in standard Mandarin. “I believe I am unhurt.”

The man switched to Mandarin too. “That may be shock. I am a doctor, and if you have no objections I can check you quickly for broken bones.”

She nodded. As the doctor ran his hands down her limbs and gently palpitated her rib cage, she asked, “The boy?”

“Unhurt.”

Another voice cut in. “Come, come, please step away, all of you, please step away. Let the medical technicians through. Are you a doctor, sir?”

The doctor answered, “Yes, I am. This young lady does not appear to have any serious injuries, but I recommend the ambulance gets her to the emergency room for x-rays and tests. There may be minor fractures and possibly a concussion.”

A man in the blue uniform of Public Security Bureau loomed over her. He glanced at the doctor, and asked if she spoke Chinese. He looked down at her, and said, “Miss, can you please tell me what happened here?”

With the doctor’s help, she managed to sit up. “The car – I think the driver drove through the traffic light as it turned red. It was going very fast and I saw the boy running ahead of everyone else on the crossing. I just reacted. I ran forward and pulled him out of the way.”

“Yes,” said the policeman. “That is what other people are saying, too. You moved very fast! You had the boy out of the car’s way before half these people realised what was happening. I think the boy owes you his life.”

The policeman gestured to one side, where she saw the boy in a bear-hug in the arms of a hysterical elderly woman – his grandmother, she guessed – who was alternately weeping and scolding over him. The elderly woman caught her eye, and pointed, babbling away in words that the young woman could not understand.

“What is she saying?” she asked the doctor. “I don’t understand her dialect.”

“She is from the countryside. I doubt if she speaks Mandarin. That is probably Huizhou dialect that she is speaking. Her accent is strange, and I am only getting a few words. She is rambling about a mother goddess.”

The old woman was jabbing a finger repeatedly in the direction of the young one, and addressing herself to the doctor.

“She is saying something about her prayers to Guanyin having brought you here. That is a goddess of mercy, in the old Taoist beliefs. And she keeps mentioning Peiyang Niangniang, who is a mother goddess according to superstitious country dwellers.” The doctor grinned. “So, it seems that you are a goddess!”

The policeman intervened. “Goddess or not, we will need a statement for our investigation. When the hospital releases you, please come to Zhangqiang Police Station in Longdong Avenue to sign a statement. Can I have your name?”

“Let me write it for you,” she said.

He handed over his notebook, and she wrote: ‘Peri Carlton’.

* * *

Captain Li Lixia glanced out of the window of her office, and the dark sky and street lamps told her it was later than she had realised. She stood up and stretched, and walked around her tiny room. Almost time to head for home. Just one last thing to do: the evening mail bag would have arrived a couple of hours ago, so she walked to the mail point in the corridor outside to see if anything had come in for her.

There was her weekly beige envelope from the Public Security Bureau. Captain Li’s duties included liaising with the Shanghai civil authorities to ensure the security of her building and the staff working there. The building was one of several in the Pudong New Area and greater Shanghai used by the People’s Liberation Army. This one housed a secretive unit administered by the Third Department of the PLA Joint Staff Department. The sensitive nature of the work carried out here was of interest to foreign intelligence agencies, so naturally the presence of foreigners in the vicinity was of interest to Captain Li.

She opened the envelope and quickly scanned its contents. There were lists from the PSB’s Entry-Exit Department, of newly registered foreigners, departing ones, and re-registering ones. She put it aside for the morning. Then there were summaries of incidents – crimes, accidents or other occurrences that had come to the attention of the PSB. There were few of them this week. Some lost – probably stolen – passports; the usual pickpocket reports; a couple of hotel rooms ransacked; and a British student who had saved the life of a boy crossing a busy road.

“Well, good for you, Miss—” she said aloud. She read the name again and frowned in concentration as she worked on the pronunciation. The letters ‘R’ and ‘L’ were especially hard to render flawlessly. “Miss Peri Carlton.”

The summary was sloppy, and she shook her head in disgust. First the British woman was a ‘student’, but two sentences later she was an employee of the British Government. Li sat at her computer and tapped a few keys to get into the PSB database, logged in, and started browsing the reports.

Miss Carlton, it seemed, really was a student, attending the China Europe International Business School, but the courses she was enrolled in were being paid for by the British Department of Trade and Industry. She was a government employee, too. Li pondered that, and decided it was plausible.

Miss Carlton was a fluent Mandarin speaker, and had opted to take courses exclusively in Mandarin although there were English language options available.

“Why are you making life difficult for yourself, Miss Carlton?” she said aloud. But she guessed the answer. Miss Carlton wanted an immersive experience because her first objective was the language skill, not the business skill. “Are you—” she started, then switched to English. “Are you a spook Miss Carlton? I bet you are a spook.” She made a note to open a file on the girl.

She read some of the witness statements, enough to know that nobody had seen anything of the little boy’s rescue. Curious. She came to the grandmother’s superstitious ramblings about goddesses. Bizarre. There was a witness statement from the traffic division supervisor, describing what had been caught on the CCTV camera monitoring the road junction. Basically, it said little more than, there was a car, it blew through a red light, and we should prosecute the driver.

Her curiosity aroused, she started poking around the PSB’s traffic video archives. It was an unfamiliar system, but she managed to find what she was looking for, and played back the few minutes of video, before and after the incident, that the traffic division had archived as evidence for the prosecution of the taxi driver. She frowned, and played it back four more times before figuring out how to move through frame by frame.

She sat back in her chair, unwilling to believe what she had seen. There was a frame showing the boy running out ahead of his grandmother, and Miss Carlton back on the pavement, standing still. In the next frame, the British girl had an arm wrapped around the boy and was starting to pull him away. She had moved a good four, maybe five, metres between frames. She knew it was common for video to be recorded at 24 or 30 frames per second, meaning that the girl had covered the distance at well over one hundred metres per second.

Li turned back to the grandmother’s statement, and this time, she paid closer attention. Setting aside the nonsense about praying to Guanyin, the goddess of mercy, and Peiyang Niangniang, the protector of children, it seemed that the woman knew it had been divine intervention because, she said, the girl had a blue aura, which only supernatural beings ever had.

Li shook her head, impatient with herself. Superstitious nonsense!

And yet… more than one hundred metres per second from a standing start? Ten times faster than the best Olympic athletes? She opened a file on Miss Peri Carlton.

Chapter 5

London, England: 30 March, Last Year

A woman sat alone in a corner of a wine bar near Carnaby Street with a large glass of chilled amber-coloured Samos Anthemis. She was attracting glances from the bar’s male customers, some admiring, some speculative, and some hungry. Her long blonde hair was too golden to be natural, and it fell straight down beyond bare shoulders to frame the deep vee shape of her dress and an amount of bronzed flesh that strayed just beyond the tantalising. Her skin tone, her generous breasts and her pouting lips were obviously all fake. She looked like a fine tribute to the cosmetic surgeons’ trade in that unsubtle way that suggests either ‘trophy wife’ or ‘porn star’. The absence of any rings on her fingers suggested the latter was more likely than the former. Naturally, at first glance she looked considerably younger than she really was. She took the tiniest of sips from her glass, and moistened her full lips with it, enjoying both the sweet flavour she remembered from her youth and the effect on her observers of her pink tongue swiping across her red lips. Men were complete idiots.

A mobile phone rang, playing the opening bars of Demis Roussos’ ‘Forever and Ever’. She looked surprised, and rummaged in her bag to find the handset. She turned away from the bar and seemed to fold in on herself, shrinking down, hunching her shoulders, abruptly ending her performance.

She put the phone to her ear and answered it in Greek. “Hi, this is Helene.”

“My little Lene, it has been such a long time,” was the reply, also in Greek, in a deep gravelly voice. “Why do I never see you? Where are you these days?”

“Uli! I am so happy to hear from you! You sound more like Orson Wells than ever! How are you?”

“Ah, Lene, Lene. Always evading the question. Seriously, I am not making small talk, my love. I ask because you may be able to do a small favour for me. If you have some free time, and you are not at the other end of the Earth, of course.”

“For you, Uli? I would fly right around the world for you, you know that.”

“Ah, Lene. You almost convince me that you are sincere.”

“Only almost? I must be slipping.”

“No, it’s that we know each other too well.” The man laughed. “So, are you receptive to an offer?”

“What is it, then? You want someone killed? Seduced? Robbed?” The woman laughed. “I am receptive, Uli, but I don’t know what you can offer that I might need. So, tell me all.”

He laughed in return. “I know what you need, Lene, you need excitement.”

“Perhaps, perhaps. Tell me about the excitement you offer me.”

“A little bit of acting, a little bit – no, a very large bit – of seducing, and who knows, probably a little bit of death and destruction too.”

“You have my interest. Go on.”

“I hate to admit it, but someone beat my people to an artefact that I have been hoping to find for a very long time.”

“You want this artefact?”

“Not exactly. This artefact contains information that could lead to something the Roman Army buried in England. I have been interested in finding it for a long time. It occurs to me that this someone who possesses it can save me the trouble of looking for what was buried. If you were to – let us say – get close to this person, you can help him to disinter what I really want. And there you have it – acting, seduction, stealing, death and destruction. What more could a lady desire?”

“Well,” she said slowly, “I see the acting and seduction, but how much death and destruction are we talking about? It would need to be a lot.”

“It would be. Once the buried thing gets out, there will be chaos.”

“I know you, Uli. I know what you want. You want the chaos, don’t you?”

“Yes.” He paused, as if hesitant to go on. “Chaos is the midwife of opportunity, and I am the ultimate opportunist.”

She laughed. “‘The midwife of opportunity?’ Come on Uli, be honest with me, you’ve wanted to say that for a long time, haven’t you! I bet you rehearsed that phrase in front of the mirror before you called me. How long ago did you think it up? Years?”

“As I said, darling Lene, we know each other too well. Guilty. I did rehearse it, but be honest with me, it is rather good, isn’t it?”

“I admit it, Uli, it does sound good.”

“So you are in?”

“Well, it just so happens that I am between projects. And bored. This could be fun. So yes, I’m in. Email me with all of the target’s details, and I’ll get him in my sights.” She laughed again. “The poor man won’t know if he’s coming or going. Well, as it happens, you know me, Uli. You can be sure he’ll be coming! Ciao, darling, I’ll call you later.”

“Ciao,” the man chuckled.

The phone went dead. The woman dropped the handset into her bag, a broad smile on her face. Then she straightened out, lifted her head, pushed her chest forward, took a large mouthful of her wine, emitted some potent pheromones and resumed her performance. She was again the centre of the male customers’ attention, and she breathed in deeply, savouring the scent of male arousal and snacking on the energy of their lust.

Another mobile phone rang, this one playing the opening bars of Donna Summer’s ‘I Feel Love’. The woman extracted it from her bag, glanced at the screen, and hit the green ‘answer’ button. In a high-pitched Essex-accented voice, she said, “Hi, this is Tori Amore.”

She listened, and then laughed, apparently delighted. “Marcel! Sweetheart! How’s things with you?” She noted with approval that just about everyone in the bar was hanging on every word. She carried on,

“What can I do you for, babe?”

There was a pause. Then, “Ooh, Marcel, that does sound like quite a project! What? Marbella?”

There was another pause. “And who are you gettin’ in as the headline name? Oh, Sophie? Yeah, cool, she’s got those gorgeous fuck-me eyes. Sophie’s great! And Tanya? That’s terriff, babe.”

There was another long pause. “Airline uniforms? Cool! Who’s supplying the lingerie?” She mentally broadcast an image of herself writhing in crimson lingerie to infiltrate the minds of all the men in the bar.

“And what’s that? A gang bang? That turns into an orgy? Fantastic climax, as the actress said to the bishop!” She laughed as she broadcast images of herself, naked, breasts swaying, astride a generic male that the men in the room could fantasise as themselves. The temperature in the bar was rising with the sexual energy, and she breathed in the delicious smell of men in heat.

“Yeah, Marcel, I can still do that thing with my hips, and my tongue, all day long if necessary.”

Male customers were wriggling uncomfortably in their chairs and bar stools, as the woman listened to the caller, and drew the raw energy that charged the atmosphere into herself with a sigh of contentment.

“I know, babe, I know what you want,” she said, letting a tone of regret enter her voice. “But Marcel, listen, I just signed up for a new gig as a favour to a really old, really dear, friend. Sorry, babe, but I’m off the menu for a bit. Yeah, I know, I’m gutted. But if a girl don’t have integrity what does she have? Tell you what, babe, why don’t you give me a call in June? We can see what we can do then, right? Yeah, very good Marcel, we’ll see who I can do then. Cheers, babe, see ya!”

She ended the call and dropped the phone back into her bag. She inhaled deeply, caught the faint scent of semen, and smiled at a very embarrassed looking man in a suit who was trying to cross his legs awkwardly.

“Men,” she said to no-one in particular. “Complete idiots.”

A glass was set down on the table in front of her. She looked up and saw a young man, blushing deeply, standing there.

“Um,” he started, seeming tongue-tied. “Um, ah, I wondered…” He shrugged and somehow managed to blush even redder. “Would you like to have some, er, some lunch with me? My treat.”

She looked at the glass. She could see from the colour that he’d brought her white wine, but it smelled of oaky, indifferent chardonnay, which she detested. She looked back up at him, and smiled sweetly.

“Oh, you are a sweetheart, you really are,” she said. “But no, sorry. I’ve only just eaten.”

She swallowed the last of her Samian wine, and walked out of the door.

Chapter 6

Bristol, England: 4 April, Last Year

Maxwell Coupar checked his watch for the umpteenth time. He was waiting for someone, and her lateness was irritating him, though he did not let it show. Instead, he was performing for the audience of passers-by, who kept glancing his direction in recognition of his status as a minor celebrity. He was dressed in brown tweed that was old fashioned enough to make a deliberate statement, and this, with his lopsided grin and floppy brown hair, was distinctive enough that people knew he was someone, even if they struggled to recall his name. He heard the odd whisper of, “It is him! It’s the history man off the telly!” and even the occasional, but erroneous, “Isn’t that the actor? Him on Bridget Jones?” But he stood his ground, smiling at anyone who looked his way, projecting an air of infinite patience. At last he saw her coming.

“Darling!” he exclaimed, stretching the vowels and both arms into an expansive greeting. “My darling Amanda! How are you, my love?”

The woman reciprocated with a big hug and the ritual near-miss double cheek peck of the English. “Maxwell, darling! It’s lovely to see you again.”

“Thank you for sparing the time to meet me,” said Maxwell. Although he smiled his endearing lopsided smile as he said it, Amanda knew he was annoyed that she was late. Good, she thought, he’ll be on the back foot now. He leaned in close, conspiratorially, and asked, “And where are you taking me for lunch, angel?”

She flashed him a knowing smile. “Broke again, Max?”

“Maxwell,” he corrected. “And you’re the one with the tax-deductible expense account, right?”

“Over here,” she responded with a smile, and led the way to a coffee shop. “I’m afraid my time is short, dear.” The message was clear: he was not important enough for her to lavish that expense account on him. She gestured to a table in an alcove of the coffee shop. “Grab that table, darling, and I’ll get in some coffee and toasties.”

As soon as she looked away, his expression slipped into a scowl as he thought, she’s going to make this difficult. He quickly restored the look of boyish enthusiasm as he sat. He caught sight of a pretty young lady looking at him curiously, certain she should know who he was, so he helped her out with the trademark gesture of pushing his long hair behind one ear while flashing the lopsided smile. He was pleased to see recognition dawn in her eyes as they shared a smile. Then Amanda returned bearing two large cups of cappuccino and a number.

“They’ll bring some food in a few minutes,” she said. “Now, Maxie, darling, you said you had something new for me?”

“Maxwell,” he corrected. “And, oh boy, do I have a proposition for you!”

She smiled sweetly, and said, “I think that’s exactly what you said when you sold me on your Colchester series.”

“Really? Well, you know what they say – you can’t keep a good cliché down.”

“I’m still annoyed by that Colchester thing, you know. We lost quite a lot of money on it.”

He faked a look of astonishment. “Surely not! I mean, the BBC did take it up, and PBS America.”

“We sold them an eight-part series, delivered them a four-parter, that was padded out with footage of 16 Air Assault Brigade and locals in fancy dress. They stuck it on after bloody midnight, Maxwell, and nobody watched past the first part. Six other networks pulled out of their deals. We had to give away rights to show some old ‘History Man’ episodes to repair the reputational damage. So yes, we lost on it. Hearing you have another proposition doesn’t fill me with joy.”

“Well, even so,” he said, looking like a puppy that had been kicked. “It was hardly my fault. It was an innovative piece of historical detective work. I couldn’t foresee that some leads wouldn’t pan out, or that we wouldn’t get permission for a fresh dig.”

“So at great expense, we posed a bunch of questions, couldn’t answer them, and padded it out by comparing a modern combined arms brigade with the Cohors Primae Vangionum.”

“Wow! I’m pleased you remembered the name.”

“I sat right behind you in lectures, remember? I let you copy my notes when you skipped tutorials. You have an annoying habit of forgetting that other people studied history too.”

A waitress delivered toasted cheese and ham sandwiches, and Amanda took a big bite. “So,” she started round a mouthful of food. “What’s the proposition this time?”

Maxwell looked at his toasted sandwich with an expression of distaste, and pushed it one side. “It’s a piece of historical detective work.”

Amanda almost choked. “Again?”

“Trust me, you’ll like this. We have a much firmer starting point than we had before. My team just excavated a new site in Bath—”

“Bath? There’s nothing new in Bath. It’s been done to death, Max.”

“Maxwell. And this is new. A sinkhole opened, and we managed to get in there before the yokels from the local University. We found some exciting stuff!”

“You’re a historian, so you think anything’s exciting provided it’s old enough. Define ‘exciting’ in a way that someone living in this century might recognise.”

“Okay, let’s get a bit of context first. You know how people like Julius Caesar made it fashionable to write stuff down about military campaigns?”

“Of course, the Gallic Wars. Same lectures, remember?”

“Of course. Well, the glory boys of the Roman Army of course were the Legions. Well off Romans would fall over each other to buy stuff about the Legions, because of course they were all Roman citizens. So we know a lot about the Legions. But of course the Roman Army wasn’t just the Legions.”

“I know. The Auxilia and Foederati outnumbered the Legions.”

“There wasn’t much of a market for memoires of the Auxiliaries, because of course they weren’t Roman citizens, they were strictly second-class. As a result, while modern historians know a lot about the Legions, they know very little about the Auxiliaries. Very few facts, just a lot of assumptions.”

“You found an Auxiliary’s memoires, didn’t you.”

Maxwell winced, and complained, “You’ve ruined my big reveal.” Then he shot her a smug smile. “But, while that’s exciting, that’s not all.”

Amanda rolled her eyes. “Get on with it, then”

He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “There are some tantalising hints at a mystery.

“Many years ago, and by that, I mean a few centuries ago, a manuscript escaped the dissolution of the monasteries and somehow didn’t get used as kindling. It was also dull enough not to be stolen. It was a copy of a list of Roman Army assets from the first century. In that list were all the Romans’ bases, including the big fort at Canovium, modern Caerhun, in North Wales. Alongside it there were four little satellite fortlets, used as patrol bases, a couple of days march away. Now the interesting thing is that the list uses the singular for three of these, but for the fourth it seems to use the plural. To date, everyone assumed that this was a copyist’s mistake.”

Amanda started to look genuinely interested. “Go on,” she said.

“The Bath documents mention the author being sent beyond Canovium to the forts – in the plural – by a river crossing. He helped dismantle the iron fort of Barba Magna, and move it to the west.” Maxwell sat back, and waited for Amanda’s reaction.

“Barba Magna? Big Beardy? Who’s he, and what’s an iron fort?” she asked.

“This is where it gets really interesting,” said Maxwell. “The only references I’ve come across to a Barba Magna in Roman Britain suggest he was the leader of a band of Gallic numeri exploratorum reporting directly to the provincial governor. The numeri were like the Roman equivalent of the SAS – they were ultra-tough, super-secret, used for special or highly sensitive operations, and the stuff of legend. We know next to nothing about them. As to what they meant by ‘iron fort’, I haven’t a clue. Nobody would really build a fort out of iron, so I’d guess it was just a nickname for a very strong patrol camp.”

“Actually, this might be interesting,” said Amanda, thoughtfully.

“Interesting? That’s quite an understatement! Think about it! At the very least, we have the makings of a ‘day in the life’ profile of the Auxiliaries. On top of that, we have a mystery to explore. Why would a crack SAS style unit be deployed in north Wales? It would have to be important, and probably highly sensitive. Why would they direct the building of a second forward operating base, where there was one already? Probably for a ramp-up in Roman forces for a campaign. A campaign that isn’t mentioned in known historical records! That suggests that whatever was going on, it was kept highly, highly secret! This ‘iron fort’ – what, exactly, was it? And why was it taken apart at Barba’s direction and moved to the west? That suggests a rolling campaign, moving from Canovium into a forward operating base that was rolled to the west, pushing some enemy or other ahead of it.”

Amanda opened her mouth to speak, but Maxwell held up a hand, and quickly added, “I know what you’re going to say, that I’ve just spouted some assumptions, and all I have are questions with no factual answers. All I want is the chance to get those answers. If I get enough, then I have a very strong multi-part series for you: new insight into the operations of the Auxilia and the Numeri, a sort of historical CSI police procedural thing as we ferret out clues and move towards the truth, and the solution to the mysterious secret Roman operation in Britain. Win, win and win again! What do you think?”

“Well,” she said slowly, “I was about to say that you just might be on to something.” She paused, considering. “But so far all you have is a document found in Bath. That’s not a lot. And I’ll be honest, Max…”

“Maxwell.”

“…We as a company are not prepared to embark on another Colchester fiasco.”

Maxwell hissed in annoyance, but Amanda held up a hand to stop his reaction. “Maxwell, we are not prepared to put cash up front to fund your adventures. My boss would skin me alive if I agreed to that. But I am interested enough to tackle it in a staged approach. Get some material together, outline how it might pan out, do some talking heads to camera, make some tangible progress. Then we can talk about funding again. In the meantime, I’ll lend you a high-def camera – everything needs to be high-def these days – and you send me a schedule and weekly updates.”

Maxwell looked offended. “If I could take this elsewhere…” he began.

“You can’t. So don’t waste my time. Five years ago, you wanted cash and you signed away your future media rights to get it. It’s not my fault that your Brazilian bimbo cleared out your bank account on the way to the airport. That’s down to your gullibility. So work with me here. Get me something worthwhile and we’ll stage some payments.”

He scowled. “She was a visiting professor, I thought we were in love, and throwing that at me is just not called for.”

Amanda snorted. “You were never very good at listening to your friends, were you. That was just a reminder that sometimes, your old friends are right, and you act like a fool. I’m right, so don’t be a fool. Where do you want me to send the camera?”

Without another word, he pulled a card out of his wallet and slid it across the table. Amanda picked it up. “I have to go,” she said, and stood up. She pointed to the toasted sandwich sitting cold and forgotten on his plate. “Going to eat that?” He shook his head, so she scooped it up and took a big bite on her way to the door.

Maxwell sat silently for a moment. That didn’t go too badly, he thought. A little painful, but after Colchester, that could have gone a lot worse.

He looked across the room and caught the eye of the pretty young lady, tucked his floppy hair behind his ear and grinned his trademark boyish lopsided grin. He walked over to her table. “Hi,” he said with a smile. “I could swear we’ve met somewhere. Is your name Linda?”

She smiled back. “No,” she said with a laugh. “And I’m sure you knew that already. I’m Victoria. All my special friends call me Tori. I hope you’re going to call me Tori, too. You are, aren’t you?”

“Of course – Tori,” he replied. He felt his pulse quicken with growing desire as he watched the tip of her tongue swipe across her full lips. “My name is…”

“Maxwell,” she supplied. “I’ve seen you on TV, haven’t I.”

Maxwell smiled his best boyish smile. “Do you fancy joining me for dinner?” he asked.

She smiled back and desire raced through him, so that he almost trembled. “If breakfast is included too,” she said softly. “I do like a hearty breakfast. Something I can really… get to grips with.”

He let out a breath that he had not noticed holding. There was something unbelievably attractive about this woman, and he felt a stirring below his waist in response.

The day – and the coming night – could only get better.

Chapter 7

Anifail Island, North Wales: 10 May Last Year

A rigid inflatable boat slowly manoeuvred in towards the rocks at the foot of the hundred-metre cliff on the north coast of Anifail Island. It was moving slowly, cautiously, because of a fog that had gathered at dawn and steadily thickened as the morning progressed. Now, approaching noon, the fog was showing no sign of clearing.

Aboard the RIB, there was a brief debate between the passengers – four teenage Explorer Scouts and two members of the Scout Network – and the helmsman, a volunteer lifeboat crewman.

“Visibility’s not good enough,” said the boatman, Stan. “You shouldn’t be taking beginners up a cliff in this.”

The expedition’s leader was Mike, a 24-year-old with several years’ experience of climbing. “I don’t agree,” he said. “We can get ’em to the top and back down again, no bother. When you’re climbing your focus is on the rock face right in front of you. Let’s face it, most of this is a scramble rather than a serious climb anyway.”

“No, I agree with Stan,” said Gabrielle, his deputy. She, too, was an experienced climber. “You’ll be able to see what’s in front of you, but you also need to be able to pick out your route ahead up the cliff, and that means seeing a good twenty to thirty metres ahead. You and I might be able to do it, Mike, but we can’t take the chance of the youngsters getting into difficulties. They’d find it enough of a challenge on a sunny day, but this too much.”

“How about a compromise?” said Mike. “Gabby, you and I can go up, put in pitons and ropes to mark the route, then you come down and get them up as far as the tricky part, where I take over and get them up using a top rope. The fog should start clearing soon anyway.”

“I don’t know,” Gabrielle said, obviously reluctant.

“Let’s make a start,” said Mike. “If we both judge that it’s OK to carry on, then fine, we can carry on. But if either of us says no, then no it is. What do you say?”

“I suppose so,” she answered. She looked at the four scouts, sitting quietly in orange life jackets, and she knew that they were quiet because they were uncertain, maybe even scared, about going up the cliff. She decided then and there that she would say, “No,” to going up, but that she would humour Mike and let him get to the top himself.

Stan nosed the RIB in against the rocks so that she and Mike could scramble ashore with their gear. He pulled away, back out to deeper water and well away from the rocks. As she made her way to the foot of the cliff, she noticed how the rocks formed a breakwater, keeping the waves off the cliff itself.

“Hey, Mike, do think this is a man-made breakwater?” she called out.

Mike looked back, and studied the rocks for a few minutes. “Maybe. Does it matter?”

“I just wondered why anyone would put a breakwater here. I mean there’s nothing here to protect, is there? There’s nothing at the top of cliff, so who cares if the cliff gets eroded?”

“Like I said, does it matter?” asked Mike.

“Guess not.”

As Mike had said earlier, the lower part of the climb was a scramble, up scree that had built up through years of weathering of the cliff face. The climb became a little more challenging at a height of fifty metres or so, where the scree gave way to steep, bare rock. The rock face was uneven and fissured, making for numerous hand and foot holds, and plenty of opportunities to install protection for the beginners.

“Did you bring any chocks?” asked Gabrielle.

“Nah,” said Mike. “But there are plenty of pitons. Knifeblades and angles are all we need.” He hammered a Z-angled piton into the rock, clipped on a carabiner, and threaded it with rope. “And up we go!”

They proceeded, free-climbing upwards, with Mike leading and planting pitons, and Gabrielle following ensuring the rope was set and securely anchored. She had to admit that Mike had been right: it was a very easy climb, and the rock was so fissured that there was little need to look ahead to pick out a route. As they ascended, she had to admit also that the fog was thinning. She glanced down to see where the boat was, and was surprised that the sea below was invisible.

Suddenly Mike cursed, and swung himself to the side. Gabrielle looked on in horror as a slab of the rock face suddenly gave way, leaving Mike without a foothold. Worse, it tore away not only the piton Mike had just been hammering, but also the one beneath, to which she had just anchored the guide rope.

She gave an inarticulate cry, and tried to move sideways while simultaneously releasing the rope to avoid being dragged off the cliff. Rock slammed into her right shoulder, and she screamed as she felt herself falling.

Above her, Mike’s flailing arm hit the cliff face and he managed to jam it into a wide crack, stabilising his torso. He scrabbled with both feet, and managed to get a foot onto something solid. He looked down, yelling Gabrielle’s name as he saw her sliding downwards.

Gabrielle was doing her best to keep leaning into the rock face, hoping that friction would slow her fall, and stretched out her right arm to where the rope should be. Her scrabbling fingers found something solid, and she grasped it, but screamed as fingers snapped under her weight. It had done enough, though: she slowed, she slid more to her right, and she felt the rope slap her in the face. Reflexively, she made a grab at it with both hands. Friction stripped skin off both hands, and her broken fingers sent agony spiking up her arm, but she held on.

Mike threw away caution and was coming down the cliff in a series of barely-controlled slips, calling out Gabrielle’s name as he descended. He finally stopped alongside her, in a shower of rock fragments and dust. “Gabby, talk to me,” he said, near hysteria. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

She looked in his direction, her eyes dazed and unfocussed. “Silly bugger,” she said, slurring the words slightly. “Course I’m not all right. It hurts.”

“What hurts?”

“Bloody everything. What happened?”

“The cliff was rotten. A big chunk just fell out. I think it might have hit you on the way down.”

“Feels like I’ve been hit by a cliff,” she confirmed. “Don’t think I can hold on—” Her eyes flickered and closed, Mike grabbed her before she could move, and pinned her to the cliff face with his body. Blood was staring to flow freely down her face from more than one head wound. Mike hammered pitons into the rocks on either side of Gabrielle, and roped her in place. He pulled out a mobile phone, and called Stan’s number to explain the situation. Then he leaned back to await rescue.

Mike and Gabrielle were helped off the cliff three hours later. The fog still clung to the lower cliff, preventing Mike from seeing that he and Gabrielle had come to a stop just a few metres above the transition to the scree slope.

Gabrielle regained consciousness as they were being brought down. She was facing up, where the thinning fog swirled in an eddy in front of the cliff. She briefly glimpsed movement above, near the point where the cliff had given way, but afterwards remembered nothing about it.

Chapter 8

Anifail Island, North Wales: 23–24 May Last Year

John Willems sipped his tea. He put down the cup, stretched his long legs out and wriggled a little to embed himself properly into the comfortable dents left in his armchair by countless evenings of doing exactly this. Relaxing after a hard day’s work.

He had been working Clifftop Farm all his life bar the three-year gap he had spent in Nottingham earning a degree in animal husbandry. But since the objective of his study had been to take over and revolutionise the family farm, he supposed that counted as working for Clifftop Farm even if he was not working at the farm. His father had been deeply conservative and avoided change, so it was only after his passing that John was able to impose his ideas on the farm. But ironically by the time he was able to act, he had grown disinclined to do so. He had been a little surprised to discover that after thirty years, the extent of his ambition was to breed goats and make cheeses much as his father had. Between his kitchen garden, his hen-house and the modest income from the herd of goats, he was quite self-sufficient and – somewhat to his own surprise – content.

He woke suddenly, roused by the noise from the chicken run behind his cottage. He realised he had dozed off – something that was happening more frequently of late, he reflected, shaking his head in wonder. When had he grown old?

Then the noise of squawking chickens registered with him. What was disturbing them? He collected an electric lantern from the table by the front door as he stepped out to look. He walked quickly across the lawn behind the cottage, holding the lantern above his head to throw light on the chicken run. He could see no chickens – the squawking was coming from inside the hen house. Brown and white feathers were floating across the run and scattered both inside and outside the mesh fence. John reached the fence and stooped to look inside. By the lantern’s light, he could see wet patches darkening the bare earth, and dark stains on the mesh. He stretched out a hand to touch the mesh, but hesitated, afraid for a reason he could not identify. “Don’t be a stupid arse,” he muttered aloud. Rather than touch it, though, he leant in close and sniffed. Blood. He stood back from the fence, and noticed for the first time that there were wet stains – more blood – on the ground outside the fence, as well as tiny pieces of pinkish-grey flesh, a few still with feathers embedded. “What the hell did this?” he asked himself.

There was a sudden rattle and the familiar clap-clap of the top hinged flap that let the hens in and out of their house. John jumped back, his heart thumping. Once he had calmed a little, he quietly stepped forward and held the lantern high to take in the scene. The flap was still swinging to and fro. He saw that a trail of blood ran down the ramp and over to the fence to one side.

“Bastard fox!” he shouted. “C’mere and let me see what ye’re at! Get off out o’ here, you stinkin’ vermin!” He strode round to the side, making no effort to be quiet, expecting to find a hole chewed in the fence and a fox running off. But there was no hole in the fence, and no sign of an animal running across the short grass. “What the hell—”

The noise in the hen house had stopped at some point. John opened the gate into the run, opened the door into the hen house, and held the lantern inside. The hen house had been transformed into a slaughterhouse with blood spattering the floor, the walls, and even the ceiling. Or a charnel house, he thought, pedantically and irrelevantly; some of his birds had been stripped down to the bone. He backed out, turned to one side, and threw up.

* * *

John Willems had a visitor, early next morning – old Innes, from the smallholding down slope.

At first light, when his neighbours would have been breaking their fasts, John had started calling round everyone that he knew of who kept poultry, spreading the warning that “foxes or summat” were on the prowl and had already slaughtered his birds. After a few minutes of consideration, he also – reluctantly – called the police station on the mainland. He didn’t expect any action from the police; he was thinking that one of the questions his insurers would ask would be whether the police had been notified.

He had not called old Innes, but old Innes came to see him anyway. When John first knew him, he had been “young Innes”, as his father held the title “old Innes”. Having inherited the family farm, young Innes became simply “Innes”, but only briefly: the sobriquet “old” had apparently been handed down along with the farm. Nobody knew how old old Innes was, but it was a long time since he had sold off most of the farmland and semi-retired to the cottage and remaining few acres. So, it was generally reckoned, old Innes was very old indeed. But he had taken the trouble to trudge up to Clifftop, so as soon as John heard his gravelly, “Hey, Willems,” he stepped out through his front door to greet him.

“Innes,” said John, respectfully.

“Aye,” was the reply. Hill farmers use their words sparingly.

“Fine mornin’.”

“Not for you, I hear.”

“Aye.”

“Birds all gone?”

“Aye.”

Old Innes inclined his head towards the hen house, which John interpreted as “May I?”

John pointed with his chin, which Innes understood to mean, “Of course.”

While Innes no longer kept poultry, John knew that his decades of experience meant that he might be able to offer some observations of value. He watched Innes from a distance, giving him a respectful space in which to study the problem. Innes walked around the fence, noting its height, its quality, its intact condition and its bloodstains. Innes then entered the run, and opened the hen house, noting everything, and missing nothing. Finally he straightened up, scratched his scarred neck, and cleared his throat. John, of course, understood his meaning and walked over.

“Not foxes,” said Innes.

“Reckon not,” said John. “Bit stumped, not anything I’ve seen.” He hesitated, then added, “Never seen mink on the hunt, mind.”

Innes grinned. “Ah, Willems, you know better.”

John grinned back. “Not mink.”

“Reckon not.”

Innes pointed out a faint imprint on the ground. “You saw that, course.”

“Aye. First thought was summat legless. But no snakes on the island far as I know. And no snakes in the whole country big enough to take down a flock o’ chickens.”

“Aye.”

The two men pondered the problem in silence for a couple of minutes. Then Innes spoke again.

“Came in here. Squeezed under. Found the hatch. Now, how did it get it open?”

“I know it was bolted last night.”

“So, a smart predator. Funny brown stain on the bolt, see?”

John peered closely. “So it is.”

“So, it gets in, scares the crap out o’ them birds, and some come this way. Kills everything in the run, then goes back into the coop and kills everything in there.”

“Ate some on the spot.” John grimaced. “Dragged the rest to the fence.”

“Aye.” Innes studied the mesh. “Don’t know as I believe meself, now. But it stuffed chunks o’ hen through the mesh, squeezed back out, collected it an’ left.”

“Twenty-six birds.”

“So, what do have, Willems?”

“Built like a snake.”

“Clever enough to work a bolt.”

“Strong and quick. Very quick.”

“Big enough to want twenty-six birds.”

“Big enough to carry off most of twenty-six birds.”

“More’n one?” Innes wondered.

“Reckon so,” John replied. He thought for another minute. “And sneaky. No, that’s not the right word…”

“Stealthy,” offered Innes.

“Aye. What does that sound like to you?”

Innes thought for a long minute. “Nothin’ I’ve seen or heard of.”

“Aye, that’s my worry. It ain’t natural to these parts…”

“Or any other parts, come to that.”

The two men looked at each other. Then old Innes scratched his chin, and muttered, “So I wonder… how big do these things get?”

Chapter 9

Near Arwensford, North Wales, 24 May Last Year

Maxwell Coupar’s mobile phone rang again. He could tell who was calling by the ring-tone, so – again – he ignored it, leaving Ozzy Osbourne to sing, “Evil woman, don’t you play your games with me,” another twice, until the call bounced to voice mail. After a minute, Ozzy burst into song once more, and finally Tori laughed indulgently and said, “For goodness sake, Maxwell, will you answer that? You know perfectly well who’s calling, and you can’t keep avoiding her!”

With a sigh, Maxwell tapped the green button. “Hello, this is Professor Maxwell Coupar. How may I help you?”

“Max, darling, as if you didn’t know, it’s Amanda.”

“Amanda!” he exclaimed, doing his best to sound pleasantly surprised. “How are you, my love? What can I do for you?”

“How I am, is pleased you’ve finally answered one of my calls, and what you can do for me, is let me know what progress you’re making. You did promise weekly updates.”

“Did I really? Are you sure? That doesn’t sound like me at all.”

“I’m sure. All I have are invoices when what I expect is progress. So spit it out, you’re getting nowhere aren’t you?”

Maxwell grinned to himself. “On the contrary, my dear Amanda, of course we’re making progress. Want to hear about it?”

“Of course I want to hear about it, you ninny. As per all the messages I’ve been leaving for you.”

“I must check my phone service…”

“Cut the crap, darling. Just tell me what’s going on. Where are you anyway?”

“We’re camping out by the Roman Camp at Arwensford.”

“And?”

“And…” He paused for effect. “We found the Iron Fort!”

“Nice pause for effect, darling. You’ve been at it – what – six weeks? I’d have expected you to pin it down in half that time.”

“Ah, darling, you should realise that meticulous research takes time…”

“Did I not just suggest you cut the crap? Don’t forget how well I know you, Max.”

“Maxwell. Of course the real time-consumer is getting the right team together to do the field work.”

“Let me see if I can translate that… it took a couple of weeks to persuade some bimbo student to share your tent. Who is it this time, and what trouble can she make for us?”

“Camper vans, dear, you know I dislike draughty canvas. My strong right hand…”

Amanda laughed. “You’ve had to resort to using your strong right hand? Would nobody come and diddle your joystick for you? You must be slipping!”

Maxwell talked over her, wishing he’d chosen a less ambiguous cliché. “…is a very talented research assistant, Victoria Bandra. She has been proving absolutely invaluable. We are accompanied by two grad students, Owain Baxter and Gilda Feinman. Our little team is working wonders together, believe me.”

“So which one are you boinking? Victoria or Gilda? Both? Or Owain?”

Maxwell’s voice dropped. “Not appropriate, darling.”

“Okay, since you said Victoria is ‘invaluable’ but the others are only ‘accompanying’, I’ll bank on her being your current tent-warmer. Keep her sweet, Max. No surprises when it comes time to dump her. At least until the film’s in the can.”

“Amanda, darling, this isn’t my first game of tiddly-winks. Trust me.”

“Trust you? Ha! All right. Let’s move it along. I seem to be paying rental on a couple of camper vans and a small excavator. Cleary the Iron Fort is near Arwensford. How sure are you? I take it you’ve started digging?”

“I have permission to dig. The site is a roundish mound on the river bank just a little downstream from the Roman camp.”

“Round? The Roman military loved their rectangles and standard castra layouts.”

“Yes, round, dear. I thought that would intrigue you. My take on it is that Big Beardy was a Gaul, and the Gauls preferred to use the contours of the land, so of course he probably found a little hill and adapted to it rather than follow the usual Roman military pattern. Anyway, the sources all put it close to the fortlet, and if you look at detailed maps, then of course this is the only candidate. We’ve walked the terrain, and we’re pretty sure of it. You can still see where the wall would have run, with a ditch outside it. It looks like they dug a bunch of trenches to divert water from the Arwen and some other streams to make a moat around the fort that drained into the river.”

“Ah, so the latrines would drain that way. I know you love a good latrine. Have you told your little nocturnal companion yet? Does she know what she’ll be digging through?”

“Tori will not be digging out the latrines, dear, that’s a grad student’s job.” Maxwell let out a chuckle. “No, Tori is working with me on digging out the midden.”

“So you still know how to show a girl a good time.”

“Of course, I’m letting her drive the mini-digger!”

“And are you finding anything interesting among the rubbish?”

“We have already found some great stuff. Enough to know that both cavalry and infantry were here. I can hardly believe it, but we also dug out what looks like the regimental scribes’ waste. There are wax tablets, styli, rotted sheets of papyrus, and a few worn seals. The tablets and papyri need specialist work to try to recover anything, but the seals look promising. I’m pretty sure all or part of three regiments were here – the first Thracian cavalry, the fourth Gaulish infantry and the first Batavian Equitata.”

“Goodness,” said Amanda, surprised. “That’s getting on for eighteen hundred men, if they were all here. Roman Governors were usually wary of concentrating so many non-Romans in one place without a legion nearby.”

Maxwell chuckled. “Especially in a fort that wasn’t square.”

“Right. Well then, it sounds like progress, even if you haven’t been keeping me posted like you promised.”

“Amanda, darling, I will try harder.”

“Remember what I said about tangible progress? Now I know where you are, I’m coming out there to see for myself. You’d better have some decent footage, Max.”

“Maxwell. When can we expect you, darling?”

“It’ll be a surprise. No, I’m joking, I’ll be with you tomorrow sometime. See you then.”

“Indeed, Amanda, I’ll see you sometime tomorrow.”

Maxwell thumbed the red button to end the call, and shouted, “Owain! Over here, mate, and bring the camera. We need to string something together to show our producer, tout de suite.”

Tori stood and stretched. “While you’re doing that, I need some fresh air,” she said. “I’m going to stroll around the village.”

Maxwell smiled up at her. “It’s getting dark out there, so take a light and be careful, darling.”

“I will.”

* * *

Tori was hungry. Very hungry. Human food was OK as an experience, but she derived little nourishment from it. No, she needed to feed in a different way. Maxwell was off-limits because she needed him alert and vigorous to pursue his objectives. Owain was, too, for the same reason. Gilda – well, Gilda just was not to her taste, and besides she was not sure about the relationship between the two students, which was puzzling and unusual. If Gilda turned sickly, the effect on Owain would be unpredictable. She could snack from Maxwell during sex, but she was left unsatisfied by that. Maxwell was, frankly, too gentle and considerate; too cerebral a lover to generate a quantity of energy capable of satisfying her hunger. She wished he would just forget himself in lust; take her roughly in every way possible; lick, scratch and bite; and let his life’s energy gush out in invisible billows that she could draw into herself. But he was just too nice for that.

She made her way through the camp site gates and headed for the village pub. She was going hunting, and experience said that a pub would be likely to yield some prey.

She could hardly believe her luck, because two young men were just leaving the pub as she drew near, and their gait indicated a level of intoxication that would make them easy targets. She stepped behind the shelter of a bus stop and waited for them to pass by, walking along the road away from the village. She followed, silently, alert to any sound or movement that might pose a threat. Satisfied that she would not be disturbed, she began to close the distance to the two men.

“Boys,” she spoke softly, and was amused to see them jump, surprised by her quiet approach. “Can you help me with something?”

They turned and stared at her. “Where did you come from?” asked one, a little agitated.

The other seemed more at ease. “Help? Of course, babe, I can help, what do you need?”

“Sex,” she answered, simply. Her pheromones wafted towards them, and she tugged down her low-cut top to expose her breasts. “Come and get some.”

One of them sniggered, the other made a noise half way between a growl and a purr, and both of them followed her into the trees. Out of sight of the road, she stopped and pulled the boys closer into herself, inviting them to kiss and squeeze her breasts, and run their hands over her inviting curves. She projected images into their heads, of her lips on their cocks, her nipples hardening under their fingers. Her hands found first one zip, then the other, and she drew out their swollen members. As soon as she leant down and her hot breath wafted over the shiny exposed head of the first one, it spasmed and spat white fluid into her face. She giggled as the boy mumbled an apology, and turned to the other cock, sliding her hand along its length and engulfing the head with her soft lips. She could feel the energy radiating off the boy as he groaned in pleasure. She gently toyed with the first boy, but his member stayed obstinately flaccid, prompting him to whisper another apology.

“It’s the thought that counts,” she murmured. “Believe me.”

She pulled the sexual energy out of the air and absorbed it. It was rich and satisfying, vibrant with the vigour of youth. Even the one who had erupted prematurely was radiant with desire – the thought did, indeed, count. She let the two of them run their hands around her, exploring beneath her clothing, prospecting for the wet gold mine of her sex. There was a long drawn out moan that climaxed in a geyser of semen and a dramatic flare of energy, which she absorbed into herself with an audible gasp of pleasure.

She gave a little push, both mentally and physically, and the premature ejaculator landed, limp, on the ground. Tori concentrated on the other boy. She stood up and held his head in both hands, clamping her lips to his. He made winsome little mewling noises as her tongue penetrated his mouth, and his tongue reciprocated. She bit down on his tongue with her sharp teeth, so sharp that he felt nothing, and she began swallowing blood. Suddenly his eyes opened wide, as he realised something was wrong. His tongue was caught between her teeth. She increased the suction, and he began to struggle, and moaned – this time in pain – as her teeth bit down harder. He was unable to move. She shifted her hands down to his chest, and he felt pressure build as her claws extended and her fingers punctured his skin. Through her mouth and her fingers, she tapped directly into the essence of life within him, using his blood as a conductor to direct the flow into herself. It was still saturated with delicious lust, but after a few minutes she began to taste the metallic bitterness of his death. She dropped the body to the ground.

The other boy was awake, wide eyed, his head shaking from side to side in disbelief. He managed to say, “No, please…” Then her claws tore his throat open and he could say nothing more. She clamped her mouth to the gaping wound and drove the claws of both hands into his groin. Tapping into his essence was less pleasurable – she could taste his fear and mortality – and she finished him off quickly.

She lay on her back for a few minutes, gazing up at the stars, simply enjoying the feeling of satiation. With a sigh, she stood up, tidied herself, picked up the two corpses and headed into the woods to hide them.

Their bodies were not found for months.

Chapter 10

Camp site near Arwensford, North Wales, 25 May Last Year

Amanda had arrived at the Roman camp early in the evening, to the annoyance of Maxwell and Tori. Maxwell had sent Owain and Gilda off to dig into the ditch where the latrines had drained, so the day was not a complete bust, but he and Tori had waited for Amanda rather than continue work digging out the iron fort’s middens. She was later than expected – Maxwell was sure she was doing her best to irritate him – but arrive she did, and insisted on foregoing the inevitable cup of tea in favour of watching the hastily edited video. Her expectations had not been particularly high, but she had to admit to being quite impressed. Maxwell had not lost his knack. He had a gift for conveying information that was vivid and clear, with infectious enthusiasm and charm. Most of his “talking head” pieces to camera would be usable in the finished product. Nor, she mused, had he lost his knack of picking up a sexy woman. She had to admit that Tori Bandra had the blonde hair and generous curves that would tick most men’s boxes. So to speak.

“So, darling, what do you think of our little featurette so far?” he asked, with a flash of his trademark lop-sided grin.

“To be honest, Max, …”

“Maxwell,” he interjected.

“…it exceeds my expectations.”

“Thank you!”

“Just one thing missing, that I might have expected, Max.”

This time it was Tori who interjected, “Maxwell.”

“You haven’t recorded the basic folkloric research. You did do some, didn’t you?” Amanda asked. “And I should warn you, it’s a trick question because I believe I already know the answer. You’re so focused on getting to the end of the trail that you’re cutting corners again. You can’t do that, because if you missed someone who holds part of the jigsaw, they’ll call you on it.”

“Of course we researched!” said Tori, defensively. “But this a completely new find, so we could hardly be expected…”

“Tori, dear,” said Amanda, “I think you should listen before…”

“You condescending old cow! How dare you! Maxwell is the country’s foremost expert when it comes to the Roman occupation, and the Roman military. Who are you to question him? You’re only the TV company’s Miss Moneybags! You wouldn’t know history if it smacked you round the face!”

Maxwell cut in, smoothly, saying, “Tori, darling, your defence of me is completely endearing, but not really necessary. Maybe I was a little remiss with my introductions. This is Doctor Amanda Booker-Smart, a very old friend from Oxford. Amanda has an MA in archaeology, another one in prehistory, a postgraduate diploma in Mesolithic studies and a Doctorate in ancient history. She is well worth listening to.”

“Oh. I… I didn’t…” Tori abruptly stood and pouted her way out of the camper van. Once outside, she smiled to herself. That should have reinforced the role she was playing, as Maxwell’s empty-headed thrall.

“As I was saying,” said Amanda. “You’re inclined to get tunnel vision. Where did you find Miss Bandra? Because a really good research assistant would have known what bases need covering, and would have gone out to cover them.”

“All right, all right. Yes, I get tunnel vision when it comes to my work. And yes, all right, maybe I figured that Tori’s warm personality, let’s call it, compensated for limited experience. But you wouldn’t fund anything up front, remember, and Tori would work for a mere promise, so she’s a godsend. So come on, you clearly found something you’re dying to tell me about.”

“Oh, it’s my fault?”

“Let’s leave it there. What have you got for me?”

Before Amanda could say any more, the sound of Owain and Gilda laughing over their exploration of ancient Roman latrines signalled their return. They entered in a wave of noisy good humour, and Tori slouched in after them, stony-faced.

“Well met!” cried Maxwell, theatrically. “Well met, young Gilda, young Owain! And pray tell, what wonders have you unearthed in yonder drainage ditch?”

“Wooden anal scrapers,” said Owain. “Or at least what I assume are the remnants of them.”

“Not a xylospongium to be seen,” added Gilda. “Does that mean there were no real Romans in this camp, do you think? Just barbarians?”

“Fragments of pottery?” asked Maxwell.

“Hardly any,” said Owain. “But then this camp wasn’t occupied for long, so maybe rubbish just didn’t have time to accumulate down there.”

“But that’s not the most interesting find,” said Gilda. “The soil is heavily stained – rust coloured. We followed the line of the wall for a little way, and dug test holes. The staining follows the walls.”

“You know what that means, don’t you!” said Owain.

“Iron Fort!” the two students shouted together, high-fived, and roared with laughter.

“So the iron fort really did have iron walls?” Maxwell sounded surprised. “That’s just so impractical, I wasn’t really expecting that.”

“Well now, Max, I think this is a judicious moment to get back to my contribution,” said Amanda. She opened her shoulder bag and pulled some folded sheets of paper. She handed them to Maxwell. “Read.”

Maxwell scanned the first page, and his eyebrows went up. He scanned the second page and his mouth opened. “Well bugger me,” he breathed. He looked up and gazed into Amanda’s eyes. “I am soooo glad you found this.”

“What is it?” asked Gilda.

“Yeah, let’s have a look,” said Owain.

“I feel quite melodramatic,” replied Maxwell. “I feel a piece to camera coming on.” He snapped his fingers excitedly. “Owain, get the camera set up. Amanda, how did you find this?”

“I checked with the National Museum of Wales and Saint Fagan’s History Museum. They have extensive curated folklore collections, but nothing in their indices sounded relevant.” Amanda looked round at Tori. “It would be worth a personal visit to their collections, pick a few brains, all that stuff.” Tori glared back at her.

“Anyway,” Amanda continued, “a helpful lady at Saint Fagan’s mentioned a privately held folklore collection that she’s visited several times. She said the owner was a bit indiscriminate in what he collected, but he has some good, unusual stuff, that she’d love to acquire for Fagan’s some time. It’s the Broadleaf Collection, and it’s on the way here, just off the A55. I called ahead and stopped off.

“You should see the place! If it wasn’t for the Mr Broadleaf’s memory, you would never find anything. I described the sort of subjects I was interested in, and it was only when I mentioned ‘Iron Castle’ or ‘Iron Fort’ that he suddenly perked up. He said, ‘Now that rings a bell,’ and vanished for a couple of minutes then came back with that. He photocopied it for me, and here we are.”

Tori had moved behind Maxwell and was looking over his shoulder at the papers in his hand. “Pendragon?” she said incredulously. “Knights? This got you interested?”

“Yes, Tori, darling,” said Maxwell. “Many folk tales have their origins in oral accounts of real events. They were embellished by bards in the re-telling, to make them more memorable and more relevant to the audience. So a reference to King Arthur Pendragon would give the tale some legitimacy as being very old, and by association with Arthur, very heroic. Any kind of ancient warrior would end up being a knight. And names would change – a lot of people find the sounds of ‘R’ and ‘L’ quite hard to distinguish, so it’s common for them to be interchanged. It’s the same with vowel sounds. ‘A’, ‘E’ and ‘I’ are commonly interchanged. So our Big Beardy – ‘Barba’ – could plausibly end up being recorded as ‘Belba’.” He made a wry face. “If we’d missed this, then at best we’d have looked academically sloppy, or at worst, dishonest. You could bet your life that Mr Broadleaf would come forward with this sooner or later.”

Tori glowered. Amanda said nothing, which only seemed to make Tori angrier.

“Ready to go, Prof,” said Owain. “Just say when.”

Maxwell shifted slightly so that his best profile was on show, and put on his lop-sided smile and boyish enthusiasm as if they were a costume. “When I get to that tale itself, we can run a collage of men at arms and burning villages and the like behind the voice-over. Ready, Owain.” He looked down at the table as Owain said, “Recording.”

“Today,” he said to the camera, conspiratorially, “One of our researchers came across something quite – astonishing – that throws a fascinating light on the story that our other finds have been uncovering.

“A Victorian vicar in the twilight of his career was given a task to fill his last days – to decommission a church whose congregation had been whittled away by the blade of time. He had to separate wheat from chaff – documentary records of the parish that the church was duty-bound to preserve, from the flotsam and jetsam cast adrift on the tides of the centuries, and dispose of the latter.

“Among the latter, among the old sermons, diary notes and minutiae of humdrum parish life, he found an old manuscript, bearing a dramatic and ancient story, with fascinating parallels to our hunt for the elusive Barba Magna and his secret military campaign.”

He smiled into the camera, pushed his floppy brown hair behind one ear, and held up some papers.

“Miraculously, the story told by the manuscript has been preserved to this day, in the Broadleaf Folkloric Collection. Let me read it for you now. This is: ‘The Tale of Belbo and the Dragon’.”

“Many years ago, long even before the reigns of the Pendragons, the Kingdom of Gwynedd was plagued by a dragon. None knew from whence came this dragon, and none could survive its onslaught. It ravaged the country from the Afon to the sea, and eastwards as far as the Castra Romana, killing all manner of game, animals, birds, and people as it found them.

“The good people of Gwynedd were sorely beset and despaired for their lives and their lands, until the holy Bishop Coddenna proclaimed a period of fasting and prayer to beseech the intervention of the Almighty. And so the people prayed for seven days and seven nights, and upon the eighth day there appeared some knights, following the banner of one named Belbo, at the border of Gwynedd.

“The noble warrior Belbo listened to the people and their sorry tales of the persecution of the dragon, and he swore to rid the land of this monster or die in the attempt. And so, accompanied by his faithful friend Bictus and a band of knights, he rode into the land of the dragon determined to hunt it down. To Bishop Coddenna, he declared his intention of discovering its lair, establishing what kind of beast it might be – for none who encountered it lived to tell aught of it – and forming a plan to bring about its end.

“Belbo rode into the great forest in search of the beast, with more than a score of followers. He was lost to human knowledge for twice seven days and nights, and then by the grace of the Almighty emerged in company with only the faithful Bictus. The remainder of his party had fallen to the monster, and of the horrors they encountered, nor Belbo nor Bictus would tell any save the good Bishop.

“The information gleaned by Belbo on this first expedition proved to be of great value, and Coddenna advised that Belbo should travel to consult a wise and holy hermit known to live at the border with the Kingdom of Powys. This advice Belbo followed gladly. The wise hermit of Powys indeed recognised the nature of the monster and with his advice Belbo was able to devise a plan for its destruction.

“It seemed that the monster could not cross over bodies of swift flowing water. Thus Belbo directed the digging of channels so that diverse rivers were brought into one, and flowed along the valley of the Afon, and so placed a restriction on the monster’s southward range.

“It seemed also that the beast, like the peoples of the Fae, was weak in the face of cold iron. Thus Belbo directed that a castle be constructed, surrounded by swift-flowing water, and faceted with iron. He also set aside his weapons of finest Damascus steel and directed the construction of weapons of purest wrought iron.

“In this way, the dragon’s attempts to hunt southward were baulked by the swift-flowing water, and its attempts to range eastward brought it to the iron castle, which it could not penetrate, and where wrought iron weapons were brought to bear that drove it to the west.

“Belbo assembled an army that pursued the beast westward, and his followers stripped the iron from the castle and followed after, each night setting out the iron plates in the form of a wall to prevent the dragon from turning once more to the east.

“In this way, as the running river drew closer to the sea, the range of the dragon was steadily reduced, until it was brought to battle at a place thereafter named Mynydd Draig, close to the sea.

“But while the iron weapons of Belbo and his followers hurt the beast, they found that it could not be killed. After seven days and nights of hard-fought combat, there remained only Belbo and six companions; even faithful Bictus had fallen to the dragon. But the monster was hurt and weak, and Belbo managed to hurl it from a cliff into the sea.

“At this hour, the tide was slack and the sea was not swift-flowing, and the beast hauled itself to a tiny island, which became known as Ynys Anghenfil. There Belbo saw the chance to trap it for all time. He sent swift messengers to bring labourers from among the men of Gwynedd, and they dug new channels so that the swift river was diverted and met the sea opposite the island of Ynys Anghenfil, thereby making a swift flowing barrier to trap the beast upon the island.

“Crossing swiftly to the island, Belbo pursued the beast into a cave. There, he ordered the men to place the iron plates – those that had been brought all the way from the iron castle – inside the cave so as to line a chamber with cold iron from which the beast could never escape. Atop this prison, there was set and consecrated a church, thus trapping the beast with iron, with the Word of the Lord, and with water.

“In this way was the dragon of Gwynedd defeated by the knight Belbo, and trapped forever in the bowels of the earth beneath Ynys Anghenfil.”

Maxwell paused, looking into the camera, and gave a small shrug. “What does this tale mean? Well, let’s strip away the elements of the tale that are obviously later additions, and see what’s left.”

He glanced around, and then leaned forward conspiratorially into the camera. “The first thing we must shed are the Christian Bishop and the Christian God. This story pre-dates their dominance of Britain. It pre-dates King Arthur Pendragon. It says so, perfectly clearly. Now, current historical authorities believe the tales of Arthur are a conflation of the exploits of Celtic war-leaders who briefly held the Saxons at bay after the collapse of Roman Britain in the 5th century, romanticised into the Middle Ages. The tale was already old by the time Roman Britain collapsed. So, no Christianity, and so, no Bishop or holy hermits. No, in the 1st century, if I were to look for a wise old man hiding in a cave in Wales, I would expect to find a Druid.”

He sat back and grinned. “Now, perhaps slightly less controversially, or perhaps not: where did this tale take place? The answer is clear: North Wales. The tale mentions the valley of a river named Afon. Any Welsh speaker, and many others of us come to that, will have recognised that ‘Afon’ simply means ‘river’, which seems less than helpful. But perhaps not: the way language changes over the centuries means that is plausible that there was a progression from ‘Afon’ through ‘Avon’, ‘Arvon’ and ‘Arven’ to end up with ‘Arwen’. And the Riven Arwen is just a few hundred yards behind me as I speak. If the ‘Afon’ of the story were indeed the present-day ‘Arwen’, then we would expect to find Belbo’s iron castle on the river bank. And that is exactly what we’ve done. We found the iron castle, or rather, a first century hill-top fort built in the Gallic style, with evidence of iron in its walls – yes, an Iron Fort – right here, outside the modern hamlet of Arwensford, on the bank of the Arwen.

“Oh – and ‘Belbo’? Well, I strongly suspect that’s a lightly mangled version of ‘Barba’. If so, then the knights of the tale would be the numeri exploratorum, the Roman equivalent of the SAS, of reality.”

Maxwell leaned towards the camera once more. Looking serious, and just a little wide-eyed, he tucked his long hair behind both ears, and breathlessly said, “It all fits. This is marvellous; it’s an independent corroboration of the story that my team and I have been digging out!”

Maxwell shot an enthusiastic grin at the camera, winked, and gesture for Owain to stop filming.

“But…” Tori began, then hesitated to go on.

“Spit it out, Tori darling,” urged Maxwell.

“But there aren’t any dragons. Why is this tale going on about a dragon? I don’t get it.”

Maxwell grinned. “It’s a MacGuffin. The story is about the noble Belbo and how, fortified by the Holy Spirit, he journeys to the West to overcome evil and save the people, thus justifying his identification as ‘hero’. It doesn’t matter what the adversary is, not really. What matters is that Belbo is presented with the chance to do something heroic. A Bard in the Dark Ages would use plot devices like monsters the way modern thriller writers use terrorists. It’s just an excuse for the hero to be heroic.”

“So it’s sort of a metaphor? The hero did something, and the bard isn’t sure what it was, but must have been heroic so they just made up something fierce to get the idea across?”

Amanda noticed that Owain and Gilda exchange eye-rolling glances behind Tori’s back, and she was sure Gilda mouthed, “Three syllables, O M G!”

“Spot on, Tori. Well done.”

“So what would it really have been?”

“Probably raiders or slave traders from Ireland or the Isle of Man, I’d bet,” suggested Owain. “Those tribes used to cross over to plunder western Britannia until the Romans set up treaties that made it more profitable to trade with the Empire.”

“Quite possibly, Owain,” said Maxwell. “But what makes this story intriguing is the secrecy. In a way, we don’t want to have a mundane explanation, at least not on TV. We need to leave ’em wanting more. We’ll get some nice scholarly papers out of the answer, assuming we find it, but a TV audience will be more entertained if we pitch some wild ideas and then leave them thinking.”

“The answer will be where the story ends,” Gilda said. “What was the place?”

“Mynydd Draig,” said Owain.

“No, that was a battlefield,” said Amanda. “It literally means, ‘Mount Dragon’. Since there are lots of mountains and valleys in North Wales, it could be anywhere. No, the place to focus is Ynys Anghenfil. Work backwards from there, and I think Beardy’s trail will lead right back here.”

“Ynys Anghenfil? Well, literally, that would be ‘Monster Island’. Sounds a bit ‘cromulent’ to me,” said Owain with a snort of laughter.

“Monster Island’s just a name,” laughed Gilda. “It’s actually a peninsula!” Owain and Gilda high-fived each other again, to Maxwell’s apparent bemusement.

Amanda ignored them and carried on. “There are relatively few islands. And the story gives us some clues. It’s at the mouth of the ‘swift river’. And when you look at a decent map…” She pointed to an Ordnance Survey map pinned to the wall. “What do we see? The Arwen, running roughly north-west to the sea, and at its mouth, ‘Anifail Island’.”

“If ‘anifail’ is supposed to be Welsh, that would literally be, ‘animal island’,” supplied Owain. “Cool! Sounds like we really do need to head for Monster Island!”

“If we look underneath the church there, we should find some more clues,” Gilda said.

“If there’s a church, which I doubt,” said Tori. She was peering at the map. “It’s just a dot on the map so it’s probably too small to sustain a church.” She looked round sceptically. “So maybe it’s just a bard’s flight of fancy.”

Amanda produced another piece of paper. “That nice Mr Broadleaf photocopied an old 1930’s Ordnance Survey map of Arwensmouth and Anifail for me.” She dropped it in the middle of the table, and placed her finger just beneath a tiny black ‘+’ symbol.

“A place of worship, if recall correctly,” said Owain.

“I rest my case,” said Amanda, straight-faced. “I need to be in Bristol for a few days, but what say I come up to Anifail in a week’s time? You can show me what’s left of the dragon!”

Chapter 11

Arwensmouth and Anifail Island, North Wales, 26 May last year

Chen Yongjun stood on high ground behind the rocky shoreline, just outside the village of Arwensmouth, and carefully studied the island of Anifail through binoculars. The fresh breeze stirred his black hair, but otherwise it was a fine, sunny late spring day here on the mainland. In contrast, he could see that the far side of Anifail, where the ground rose to the island’s highest point, was shrouded by a foggy haze. Sea birds squealed and wheeled in the sky above him, and dipped into the sea in front of him. There were none to be seen over Anifail.

He lowered the binoculars, feeling satisfied. There really was something worth looking into over there. It was happy coincidence that he had been visiting his brother at the Embassy in London, and had chanced upon a small item in a newspaper. He smiled to himself. Fate had put the newspaper in his hands, and himself in a position to investigate without any interference from his superiors. He was here on his on time, and he intended to enjoy himself.

He turned away and followed the footpath that led down to the village. Arwensmouth was a tiny collection of sturdy grey cottages surrounding a village green which boasted a flower shop, a general store, an inn, and three gift stores and an art gallery full of colourful trinkets designed to catch a tourist’s eye. But as far as Chen could tell, there were no tourists.

As he drew level with the Arwensmouth Inn, he noted its proprietor, Jim Dilby, unloading food from a delivery van. Dilby called out, “Mornin’ Mr Chen. It’s a fine day for a walk, no?”

“It is, Mr Dilby,” replied Chen. “A fine day indeed. I was contemplating crossing over to the island. Does the chain ferry run at this time? I tried to decipher the timetable, but I am ashamed to say that its logic defeated me.”

“Aha, now, it defeats a lot of us, Mr Chen,” replied Dilby, wiping his bald head with a tea towel. “Thing is, it’s what they call a reaction ferry. It’s the water that moves it, see, so it needs the tide to be flowin’ the same way as the river. Then skipper Bill just sets the rudder right, and the current just pushes it along. You carry on down to the ramp, and it should come over shortly. Dairy Bill should be comin’ over with milk and cheeses from Willem’s any minute.”

“That explains it,” replied Chen with a smile. “I am pleased to learn it is not just me who is confused by its timing. Thank you, Mr Dilby.”

“I told you when you checked in, didn’t I? Call me Jim.”

“Thank you very much,” Chen said with a bow of his head. “I will do so, but you must call me John.”

“All right then, John,” said Dilby. “Have a nice day over there.”

“I am sure I will, Jim.”

Chen continued past a few more grey cottages, until he reached a point where the road broadened into a plaza, with a ramp off to one side leading into the water. He stopped and ostentatiously took a picture of the confusing so-called timetable, with its complicated instructions for calculating the time of the ferry relative to the phase of the moon, the state of the tide, the month, the day of the week… The only reasonable conclusion he could reach was that the timetable was bait for gullible tourists, because the final instruction was obviously a joke. It read, ‘If the ferry is here, you may board. If the ferry is not here, then boarding is not recommended.’ Well, the ferry was here, so he boarded.

According to Chen’s map, there were only two paved roads on Anifail. One, labelled ‘The Circle’, ran around the periphery of the island, while the other, ‘Harbour Way’, ran more or less straight across the middle from the harbour – no surprise there – to meet the Circle at a ‘scenic picnic area’ near the north cliffs. It looked like there were twenty or so cottages dotted around the Circle, fronting onto the sea shore, and half a dozen more in the island’s interior, serviced by Harbour Way. He had asked Mr Dilby – no, Jim, he corrected himself – and learned that the interior cottages were four farms and two smallholdings. He decided that hiking straight up Harbour Way to the cliffs might reveal an interest in that zone, so he would stroll around the Circle taking lots of photographs as he went. It probably didn’t matter if the locals realised he was only interested in the north shore, but it was only good tradecraft to approach his objective indirectly, and opportunities to practice tradecraft had been few and far between.

The chain ferry set off with Chen as the sole passenger. While he had read about these ferries, he had never experienced travelling on one. The vessel was basically a flat platform, big enough to carry a single vehicle and a small number of foot passengers, mounted on three floats, and secured by chains to a point on the Arwensmouth side. The combined pressure of the river’s current and the tidal flow made it swing out and across the channel, coming to rest after a few minutes on the Anifail side where Chen disembarked onto a ramp leading up to the road. He dropped some coins into an ostentatiously labelled ‘tip box’, thanked the crewman that he assumed was ‘skipper Bill’, and made his way to the road with a flourish of his camera.

It took Chen the best part of an hour to amble half way round the Circle. He had made a point of admiring flower beds and taking pictures of some of the cottages, as well as stopping frequently, pretending to study the horizon through his binoculars. The road stayed close to the seashore, and steadily but gradually rose and curved with coastline until it arrived at the ‘scenic picnic area’ – a tiny car park adjacent to a grassy meadow with half a dozen wooden benches dotted about. He paused there, taking a seat at a bench with a view down the length of the island, all the way to the ferry and Arwensmouth.

He was about to stand and move on, when movement caught his eye. Chen focussed the binoculars, and a goat sprang into view, a nanny with a sleek, mostly black, coat and white patches on the sides of its head. He reduced the magnification and observed a dozen of the animals, dispersed about a field. One of them seemed to be struggling to walk, with what looked like a pink, slimy tube dangling between its legs forcing it to limp and stumble. Chen frowned at that, and resolved to take a closer look on his way back down to the ferry. First things first: take a look at the cliffs.

He stood and walked in the direction indicated by a weathered wooden sign that pointed northwards and read, ‘Public footpath and cliff path’. He slowed his pace as the air grew increasingly misty, until he could see no more than a few metres ahead. He pondered the wisdom of continuing in such poor visibility, but resolved to go on. This was, after all, one of the phenomena that had caught his interest and brought him to Anifail. He noted that the air was still and silent, with neither sight nor sound of any sea birds, yet the ground all around was spotted with their droppings. He smiled and nodded to himself in satisfaction.

A wooden fence ran along the side of the path, warning walkers of their proximity to the cliff edge. Chen quickly climbed over and walked along the narrow strip beyond, keeping one hand close to the fence and a careful watch on where he was putting his feet. After a few minutes of cautious progress, he reached a length of yellow and black plastic ribbon. It ran across the path and was twined along the fence by the path. The black was lettering: ‘DANGER’. This marked the area where the cliff face had sheared away a couple of weeks earlier.

Chen shed his backpack and extracted a climbing rope. He secured one end to the fence, the other to his waist. Carefully he moved to the cliff edge, lying flat to spread his weight, and peered over. He could see a patch of unweathered rock, ten metres or so over to his right and down. He eased his way back to the fence, moved across to the right, and re-secured the rope. This time, when he peered over, he smiled in contentment at seeing that he was now directly above the unweathered area. The mist appeared densest here. He manoeuvred himself round and descended into the mist.

The cliff face was sloping, but nowhere near vertical, making it an easy climb down. Chen worked his way across the exposed rock, studying it carefully as he went. It took only a few minutes to find what he had more than half expected – an anomaly. It took the form of a corroded metal plate.

The plate was behind the rock, and only partly exposed. It must have been fixed in placed from the other side, meaning, he concluded, that there was a void behind the cliff face. He began pulling away loose rocks and stones, exposing more of the rusted metal. He stopped when one of the rocks refused to move, and leant closer to see it better. Strange, he thought. It appeared to be cemented in place. Shuffling to his left, he worked at removing more of the debris until he found more rocks apparently cemented into the cliff face. Then he smiled, as he realised that behind the rocks must be a cave entrance, covered over with an iron plate, and disguised by a man-made wall. With some hard work, it should be possible to chip away the rocks, fully expose the plate, and remove it to gain access to the void beyond. He was tempted – very, very tempted. But he decided to take it cautiously.

Chen turned his attention back to the iron plate. From this angle he could see markings on it. He started wiping at the surface, and grew certain that there was some kind of inscription on it. The rough and rusty surface would tear his hands to pieces, so he slipped off the rope so he could remove his coat, and used that as an improvised cleaning cloth. Some vigorous rubbing of the weathered surface allowed him to discern lettering in two different alphabets: one inscription was clearly visible in western European lettering, probably Latin; beneath it were scratched a series of symbols composed from lines and sharp angles that Chen recognised as runes. He knew neither Latin nor whatever the language of the runes might be.

He pondered the wisdom of continuing to clear the rock face to uncover the cave, or whether it was time to call in the British. Reluctantly, he decided it would be difficult to defend any course other than the latter. Seeing an inscription but proceeding without knowing what it said would be judged to be just too risky, and he was sure the Brits would make a fuss about his interference in their jurisdiction anyway. He fished in his shirt pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He found the contact number he needed, and dialled. It rang only once, and was answered by a bored-sounding male voice.

“Yeah? What is it?”

Chen smiled, because he knew the unwelcoming, indifferent tone was a deliberate attempt to make this sound very, very unofficial.

“Code word buckthorn,” said Chen, firmly. “Status green.”

The voice on the other end suddenly sounded more professional. “Identity?”

“Uniform, November, Tango, India, Echo, zero, zero, niner, six.”

“Thank you. Please stand by for a call-back,” said the operator.

The line went dead.

Then Chen heard a noise.

It was the slightest of sounds, little more than a scrape, and it came from his right. He shuffled towards it. It came again. Curiosity drove him to move a little further to his right. This time when he heard the odd sound, he also saw a rock give a tiny tremor and slip a fraction backwards, tighter to the rock wall. He slipped a finger behind the rock and tugged gently. The rock moved slightly, and a puff of mist came out from behind it. Then it resisted, and then it snapped back into place.

Chen took a tighter grip on the rock and yanked sharply. It popped out and fell away down the cliff, revealing a black hole behind it. He leant closer to see into the hole, and jerked his head back again with a little cry of surprise – he thought he had glimpsed a movement. He took a deep breath, and then chuckled to himself at his vivid imagination. He had a flashlight, but it was up on the clifftop. He debated going back up for it, but only for a moment. He chided himself for his thoughtlessness in leaving it behind, and leant back in to peer into the hole.

This time, he was sure something moved: he dimly perceived a serpentine coiling motion inside the hole. He tried to remember whether there were any venomous snakes in this region, or whether the climate was too cold. He vaguely recalled something about Britain having no snakes. Or was that some other country? He poked a finger in to see if he could reach whatever was moving. Suddenly, pain flared in his finger and across his hand, and with a yell he pulled his finger back. Something resisted, but he tugged harder until – with a fresh stab of pain – his finger came free.

Chen’s eyes went wide. His fingertip was missing. With a shout of anger he started ripping at the rocks, loosening and pulling them free, exposing a gap at the edge of the metal plate to see what was hiding behind. Suddenly, something long and oily black lashed out and whacked him the face, tearing away chunks of flesh across his cheekbones and nose, missing his eyes by a fraction of a centimetre. He pulled backwards with a cry of pain. The thing darted out again, aiming for his eyes, and he tried to move out of the way. It was only then that he realised that he had undone the rope at his waist – and forgotten to re-tie it. He swayed backwards, tried to recover, felt one foot slip off the cliff, and with a scream of horror felt himself falling.

The last image in his mind was of a slimy black limb, lined with needle-like spikes, snapping out and into his eyes, and then he fell. He was blind before he hit the rocks beneath the cliff. There was a brief burst of agony as ribs crumpled and his lungs collapsed, and then nothing.

Chapter 12

Anifail Island, North Wales, 26 May last year

John Willems had spent most of the morning cleaning out the chicken run and hen house, and the afternoon fruitlessly trying to back-track the predators that had wiped out his chickens back to their lair. It was late in the day before he had a chance to check on the goats up in the top field. There would not be enough daylight to do much more than check and renew salt-licks, and assess the integrity of the fencing, but it would be a couple of jobs he would not need to do in the morning. So he put half a dozen salt blocks into a reusable plastic shopping bag and trudged up the hill in the direction of the north cliffs.

John walked the perimeter of the top field first. The field was surrounded by a simple smooth wire fence, this being a cheap and effective way of keeping his animals from wandering. The island had no resident predators that might call for wire mesh or barbed wire to keep them out. Checking the fence line was just a matter of making sure there were no breaks, and that the wires remained tensioned.

The one exception was along the north side of the field, where it paralleled the public footpath. The tourist board had put up a wooden post-and-rail fence between the footpath and the cliff edge, and had subsidised John to edge his property with the same. When he walked the north edge, John looked out for breaks, of course, but also for tourists’ litter and lost property that could be harmful to his goats. On this occasion, John spotted a backpack on the cliff side of the footpath, and a rope tied to a fence post. He climbed over both fences and carefully approached the cliff edge. Leaning over, he looked to see if he could see the owner of bag and rope, but could see nothing but the rope disappearing into the mist that seemed to cling to the cliff every day just lately. He gave the rope an experimental tug, and found that the other end was unsecured, and nothing – or no-one – was there.

He called out, “Anyone there? Hello?” There was no answer. John felt uneasy. The rope was at the point where the cliff face had crumbled away the other week, and he wondered if someone had tried to climb down but had fallen. He could think of no good reason why that should be, but the abandoned back pack and rope were suggestive. He resolved to call the police and let them know, as soon as he got back home this evening. He opened the backpack to see if there was any identification, but the pack was empty but for a flashlight, an empty plastic water bottle and some scrunched up sandwich wrappers. He shrugged to himself, and moved on.

After the best part of an hour, John had completed the circuit around the fence line, and had not seen any sign of the walker who had left his gear behind on the path. As he pushed through his gate into the field, it suddenly occurred to him that he had not seen much of the goats either. Normally they would come over to greet him, curious to see if had brought anything for them, and follow him around for a while. But this evening, they had remained in a clump near the centre of the field. That was unusual. The sense of unease he had experienced on the clifftop came back to him, as he gazed across the field in the dimming light at his goats.

He strode across the field towards the animals. As he came closer, it looked as if most of the goats were lying down. That was not right. He quickened his pace. “No, no, no,” he moaned aloud, and started running. The dark coats of the prone animals were stained even darker, and on some of them he could even see exposed bone. He sank to his knees next to the first goat he came to, but it was already clear that the animal was dead. Something had been eating his livestock.

“Bastards! Bastards!” he shouted. “Damn you, you bastards!”

He ran his hands over the dead goat, trying to work out what kind of animal could have killed it. He stood, tears running down his cheeks and surveyed the ruin of his flock.

“What the hell did this?” he asked aloud, as if the surviving animals would know.

The half dozen animals still on their feet made their way to him, but he could see they were struggling. They had wounds across their bellies, and one of them, trying to reach him, kept stumbling over its own intestines. He dropped to his knees once more and ran his hands comfortingly over the goat’s ears and muzzle. He stopped and looked down at his hand, uncomprehending. It was bloodstained. The goat had no visible wounds around its head, yet its muzzle…

The goat lunged forward and bit his shoulder.

“What the hell?” John jumped to his feet and rubbed his shoulder. “You bit me, you daft beast! That was sore! What…!”

The goat pounced again, knocking him to the ground. As he tried to stand, two more goats loomed over him. One of them darted forward to seize the skin of his stomach between its teeth, and shook its head vigorously, wrenching out a mouthful of John’s flesh and clothing. It began chewing and John began screaming. The other two joined in, biting at him.

“This isn’t happening…!”

The first goat leaned over him, and vomited. His face was covered in stinking stomach contents and bile, running into eyes and nose. He gasped for air and something squirmed into his open mouth. His eyes bulged as whatever it was wormed its way into his airways. He felt it tear open the back of his throat, and penetrate upwards. Unable to breath, he gagged and choked and struggled – but only briefly. He sank into merciful unconsciousness as something burrowed upwards, into his brain, and started to feed.

Some hours later, what used to be John Willems clumsily rose to its feet and experimentally took a few awkward steps, then fell down. It tried again. And again. And then set off, stumbling, down the hill.

Chapter 13

Arwensmouth, North Wales, 27 May last year

A pair of camper vans threaded their way through the twisting lanes into Arwensmouth, and stopped side by side opposite the Arwensmouth Inn. Maxwell climbed down from the passenger side of the leading vehicle and stretched. Tori stayed where she was, behind the wheel, gazing at the front of the Inn. A bench seat to one side of the Inn’s front door was occupied by a stocky man with a shoulder-length white hair and a bushy white beard. But Tori was not looking at him. Her attention had been caught by the large dog that sat between his feet. She looked at the dog with outright astonishment, and then the dog looked up at her and fixed its gaze on her eyes. It looked at her for a minute, then it glanced back at the white bearded man to make sure his attention was elsewhere. It faced her again, and twitched one eye in what was unmistakably a wink.

“I know you,” Tori muttered to herself.

A voice in her head, almost too faint to be perceived, said, “I should hope so, Helene.”

Tori stiffened. Then Maxwell’s boyish smile filled her field of vision. “Want to stretch your legs?” he asked. “You’ve been driving this beast for hours now.”

She shook her head. Maxwell moved over to talk with Owain and Gilda. The man and the dog were gone.

The van Tori had been driving was a rented VW T4 Transporter with a retro green and cream paint job reminiscent of the classic VW Camper of the 1950s. Behind it, Gilda and Owain were climbing down from a white Aero Plus, a more spacious vehicle that they had to share with most of the little expedition’s gear.

“Right,” said Maxwell. “There are shops down the road there, so let’s stock up on necessities like food.”

“And beer,” and Owain.

“Necessities unlike beer,” said Maxwell, firmly. “Meantime, I’ll see if I can find out how we get across to the island.”

“Excuse me, sirs, madam,” came a voice from behind them. They looked round to see a policeman walking towards them. “I have to ask you to move your vehicles. We have a couple of emergency vehicles on the way that’ll be held up otherwise.”

The three historians looked, as one, back along the lane they had followed into the village.

“What? Where…?” started Gilda.

“Any minute now, they’ll be needing to get by,” the policeman said. “If you carry on the way your vans are facing, you’ll find parking down by the chain ferry.”

“Gilda, why don’t you and Tori move and park, and we’ll follow,” Maxwell said. Turning to the policeman, he tucked his hair behind one ear and smiled his boyish smile. “Officer, you mentioned a ferry, and that’s what we were just going to ask about. We want to get across to the island.”

The policeman stepped carefully out of the way of the vans as they started moving. “Well now, sir,” he said. “The chain ferry normally runs through daylight hours. But just now, see, it’s reserved for emergency services only. If you wait down by the port, there, you’ll be able to cross later in the day.”

“What’s happened?” asked Owain. “Has there been an accident?”

“An unfortunate gentleman is being fished out of the water, I’m afraid. He’s washed up island side, see. So we’ll be needing to get over there – ah, mind your backs, now.”

They stepped well into the side of the road as a little procession of ambulance, fire engine and two unmarked police cars passed by.

“The ferry only takes the one vehicle, you see,” the policeman continued. “So there’s four trips already. Were you to ask, I’d have to say you won’t get over until mid-afternoon.”

“Thank you,” said Maxwell. “I take it you know the island, officer?”

“Passable well. Not there’s very much of it, mind.”

“I’ve been told there’s a tiny chapel in the middle of the island. Do you know it?”

“A chapel,” the policeman chuckled. “There’s no more than two dozen people over there. Not enough to warrant a chapel.”

“It’s very old,” said Maxwell. “It might well be nothing but a ruin, a pile of overgrown rubble.”

“There’s not even a ruin, see, as far as I know. Tell you what, though. Inside the door of the Inn, across the street there, they have the Ordnance map of the area hanging in a frame on the wall. You take a look at that, and if you find a chapel on it, well, I’ll owe you both an apology. But you won’t.” He started walking away, laughing.

Maxwell and Owain looked, and had to agree that the policeman did not owe them an apology. There was no place of worship marked on the Inn’s map.

A few minutes later, the four of them sat in the Aero van comparing maps. The chapel had vanished from the Ordnance Survey maps between the 1935 edition that Amanda had copied, and the digitisation of the geographical data in the 1990s.

“Why would it have been removed from the map?” Owain wondered.

“I’d guess the most likely reason is that it just didn’t exist any more when they included revisions and corrections,” said Maxwell. “Anyway we can see where it was quite clearly.” He pointed. “This here is a farm. What does that say? Clifftop? Yes, Clifftop Farm. If I were to make a guess, at some time in the last seventy years or so, the owner of that farm just appropriated the church for his own use and pretended it wasn’t there. I mean, who wants something that might end up being a protected building on his land if he can avoid it? We’ll probably find he has pigs living in it, or something.”

“So what’s the plan?” asked Gilda.

“When we get across on the ferry, we head up to Clifftop Farm and ask for permission to have a poke around,” said Owain.

“Not quite,” said Maxwell. “We head up to this picnic site by the cliffs, and we stroll back down and do some reconnaissance. No point worrying the poor farmer unless we must. Let’s see what’s there first. We may need Amanda’s company to pitch some cash in to sweeten the farmer, but that could take time.”

He broke off, and looked out through the van’s windscreen. “Aha! I think we may be able to get across, now. Come on, let’s get organised. We have a dragon to find!”

Chapter 14

Anifail Island, North Wales May 27 Last Year

“I think it must be over that way, where those trees are,” said Maxwell.

They had driven the length of the island before leaving the two camper vans parked in the picnic area at the north side of the island, and setting off down Harbour Way. To the left of the road was a large open field, with some goats in the distance standing apparently watching them. There was a cluster of buildings south of the field, just off Harbour Way, which according to the map must be Clifftop Farm. Maxwell was pointing diagonally off to the right, on the opposite side of the road from the farm, where the view was obscured by a copse.

“I think you’re right,” Gilda agreed, after scrutinising the map she carried. “It looks like it should be just beyond the trees.”

“Come on, then,” said Maxwell. “Tori, sweetie? Are you with us?”

“Ah, yes, Maxwell,” was her reply. “Go on, I’ve got something in my shoe. I’ll catch up.”

Maxwell strode on, closely followed by Owain and Gilda.

Tori took off one shoe for the sake of appearances, and leaned on the fence by the side of the road, facing across the fields towards the goats. But she was not paying them any attention; in fact, her eyes were closed. Her focus was on the energy pervading the area. Life’s energy. Its strongest source was underground, beneath her feet, and it carried ominous overtones of hunger and anger. Something very big was down there, and it wanted out. She smiled as she spoke aloud, adapting Uli’s words. “I am the midwife of chaos, darling monster, and I will see you delivered into this world.” Her mind conjured images of freedom, of light and air, of feasting to the point of repletion; she pushed these into the energy field of the creature’s savage thoughts, and felt the anger that surrounded her shift towards gratitude and encouragement. She had been noticed, and the creature understood her purpose. She had detected the life energy from the underground creature’s clones as soon as she had stepped out of the camper. Now, she could sense the flow shifting as the creature directed them away from the road, clear of the way to the chapel, and the entrance beneath it. She opened her eyes, and now that she knew where to look, she could see the grass and shrubs twitch and sway as things moved. She saw that the goats were still there, watching, and sensed the parasites within them. She laughed aloud. “Be patient and wait, monster, and I will open your door,” she murmured.

“Tori?” Maxwell’s voice, from far away, aroused her from her contemplation. “Are you coming? It’s this way, we think.” She saw that he was a hundred yards off, his arm indicating a path into the copse of trees.

“Here I come,” she shouted, and began jogging to catch up. Jogging made her ample bosom jiggle attractively, which caught Maxwell’s attention and held him in place, his arm outstretched to indicate the path, an idiotic grin on his face and a growing bulge at his crotch. Tori smiled, thinking, men are such fools. Owain was pushing through an overgrown path, with Gilda close behind. Tori followed, with Maxwell bringing up the rear, his eyes fixed on her rear.

There was a dilapidated fence to the left of the path. Owain led them through a gap in the fence, and forward between birch trees to emerge in a clearing surrounding a grey stone building.

“This must be it,” said Owain.

They walked slowly around the building, studying the stonework. Maxwell squatted to look more closely at the bottom of the walls. “This looks like Roman era brickwork to me,” he said, parting the long grass and indicating the bottom of the wall. “Red clay mud, low profile, fire dried. Just what you’d expect to come out of a Roman army portable kiln.”

“Most of the walls are much later, I think,” said Gilda. “Stone blocks, roughly shaped. Gaps filled in with mud and straw. A few patches here and there look like repurposed Roman brick.”

“Mm, yes, I think so,” Owain contributed. Modern cement patches higher up, do you see? And the roof is corrugated sheeting.”

“So, folks, what does that add up to?” asked Maxwell. “Gilda, what’s your take?”

“Right,” she said. “Without seeing what it looks like on the inside, I’d say we have an original structure built between the first and fifth centuries using Roman brick. It may have collapsed, or been pulled down, and rebuilt, almost certainly after the fifth century and before – say – the eleventh or twelfth century using stone blocks. If it had been rebuilt much later than that, then it’s likely that they’d use more bricks. Oh – and there aren’t any windows in the walls, which suggests an earlier date rather than a later one, because glass was such a luxury.”

“Owain, do you want to add anything?” asked Maxwell.

“Just that the last major refurbishment of the walls was probably post world war two,” he said. He pointed upward at a patch of red bricks. “Those look like flettons, which were not available in this part of the world until the 1930s, but were pretty much ubiquitous in the whole country by the fifties.”

Maxwell clapped his hands. “Well done, both of you,” he said. “That sounds pretty good to me. The tin roof is the most recent addition. That sheeting is box-profile, and was obviously put in to replace an older corrugated iron roof.”

“How do you know that?” asked Gilda, staring intently at the edge of the roof.

“The old roof is quietly rusting away about twenty feet behind you,” answered Maxwell with a laugh.

Tori was leaning against the wall beside the door. “You don’t honestly study bricks at your Uni, do you?” she asked.

“Indeed we do!” said Maxwell enthusiastically. “If you have an appreciation of bricks and building techniques over the years, you can get a quick and dirty chronology for your ruins, or in this case, for your little chapel. Not as accurate as carbon dating, of course, but a damned sight cheaper and faster. Now, let’s see if the door is open so we can look inside.”

“It’s open,” she said.

Maxwell noticed she had a padlock in her hand. “Was it open before we got here?” he asked.

“I couldn’t say,” she said with a grin.

“I hope you didn’t just bust the lock,” he said with a slight frown.

“Course not!” she exclaimed in mock outrage. “That’s what lock-picks are for! We can put it back, good as new.”

“You resourceful little fox!” laughed Maxwell.

“Well, I want to see what’s down there!”

“Well, come on then!” said Maxwell, and he pulled the door open and stepped through.

The interior of the structure was gloomy, the only light coming in through translucent panels in the ceiling. Maxwell pulled a battery powered lantern from his rucksack and handed it to Owain, then a second which he kept himself. With the lanterns lit, they could see more clearly what was in the little building. The two long walls, to left and right of the doorway, were fronted by metal shelving units, loaded up with organic pig and chicken food in big paper sacks. Facing the door was a large stack of brown cardboard boxes that appeared to contain dietary supplements for dairy goats.

“Well,” said Tori. “That’s not terribly interesting, is it?”

Maxwell grinned at her. “The interesting stuff will be under it and behind it all. We need to clear enough space to get a good look at the brickwork and the floor.” He clapped his hands. “Hup! Jump to it, Owain and Gilda! Put your backs into it! Let’s clear the boxes out the way first! I’ve a hankering for a closer look at that end.”

Gilda looked at him suspiciously. “And while we’re doing the manual labour…?”

“I’ll be trying to find the jolly farmer to let him know we’re here, and Tori will be bringing the vans down the road and parking them round the side. Then we’ll be joining you in the manual labour, hey Tori? I mean, come on, Gilda, I’ll only ask you to do things that I’m willing and eager to do myself. Right, see you shortly.”

Maxwell and Tori left. Gilda waited for them to get out of earshot, then nudged Owain. “Does that mean he’ll be asking us to shag Tori, then?” she asked.

“You’d be on your own with that task, mate,” he replied.

* * *

Tori returned first, having parked first one camper then the other alongside the little building. She fiddled around in the vans, not doing anything in particular, with one eye on the road for Maxwell’s return. It wasn’t that she was incapable of manual work – her unique physiology meant that she was stronger than humans – it was just that she was unwilling to do it unless there was no option. Until Maxwell got back, there was an option to avoid it, and avoid it she did.

She caught sight of Maxwell striding along the road, so it was time to look willing. She entered the chapel just as a sweating Owain carried the last box outside.

“Oh, well done, Owain,” said Tori. “You’ve cleared them all?”

“With some help,” said Gilda, from behind her. “But none from you, I see.”

“Well I’ve just finished sorting out the vans,” said Tori. “Oh, Maxwell, there you are! Look, Owain and Gilda have done all that by themselves!”

“Very good, you two,” said Maxwell. “And I see the vans are moved, thank you Tori. Now let’s get some better lighting in here. Let’s crank up the generator and break out the work lights. Owain, we can get some film of the exterior and then the interior.”

“So you got hold of the farmer, did you?” asked Owain. “He’s OK with us doing this?”

Maxwell sighed somewhat theatrically. “Alas no, dear boy. I knocked on the door, and looked round the farm, but to no avail. We’ll try again later.”

“And so, just to be clear, we don’t have permission to be doing this,” confirmed Owain.

“Oh, do lighten up, Owain,” said Maxwell. “We’re doing no damage, and trespass on farm land isn’t a crime. What’s the worst that can happen? The farmer can ask us to leave. But he won’t, I mean, who doesn’t want to be on TV? And who wouldn’t want to be paid for being on TV? So let’s just get on with this.”

“Um…” Gilda wanted to say something.

“Come on, Gilda, if you have something to add, then spit it out,” said Maxwell.

“I heard rumours about something that went wrong,” she began, hesitantly.

“In Colchester?” suggested Maxwell.

“Well, yes,” she said. “Please just assure me that the circumstances are different here?”

“Very well, dear girl, the circumstances are completely different, I assure you.”

Gilda and Owain swapped looks that hinted at scepticism, but Maxwell made no further comment. Owain finally shrugged. “You’re the boss, boss,” he said. “Gilda? Can you help me unload the generator?”

Ten minutes later, the interior of the chapel was brilliantly illuminated by a pair of tripod-mounted floodlights powered by a small diesel generator that was grumbling away outside the door.

“Am I looking at an altar?” asked Tori, her eyes wide.

The removal of the boxes had exposed a rectangular structure, about three metres by two, rising to knee height. It was built from bricks, and topped by a single thick slab of slate.

“I think it might be,” said Maxwell, with a note of awe in his voice. “It’s a bit low, mind you. But those are Roman bricks, and slate was quarried just to the west of here in the first century, so this just might be original. If so, it’s an astonishing find.”

Gilda was peering at the brickwork. “This looks like a legion mark.” She glanced up at Tori. “Roman legions had brick-making kilns, and they stamped some of the bricks. This looks like ‘L E G I I’, which would be the second legion, ‘Adiutrix’. The second were based in Chester until about 87 AD.”

Maxwell ran a hand across the scratched surface of the slate table-top. “There’s a lot of graffiti here,” he said with a note of wonder in his voice. “This bit here, the only bit I can make out right now, it says, ‘Gaio Valerio Crispo veterano ex Legione II Adiutrice Pia Fideli’. This guy had retired from the second legion, so I guess he opted to stay in this area. This is amazing! I wonder how it survived?”

Owain was studying marks on the table top and the top tier of bricks. “It looks as if something was attached to the surface,” he pointed out. “If you asked me to convert a pagan temple into a Christian one, I’d be tempted to build on what was there already. Maybe the Christians just boxed in the original Roman altar?”

“That’s plausible, Owain, very plausible,” replied Maxwell. “Good thinking. So, to sum up, we have more evidence that suggests a Roman temple built by the Roman army, prior to 87 AD using bricks supplied by the second legion. It all fits together, and it’s all very exciting! If this is the burial place of the metaphorical dragon, then it’s underneath us – somewhere. We should be looking for hatch or a trapdoor, or something like that, in the floor. Start looking, folks!”

Maxwell, Owain and Gilda fanned out and crawled around the floor, looking for evidence of something that would move. After twenty minutes of prying at cracks between flagstones, Maxwell sat up, his back against the wall. “Nothing!” he said in a tone of disgust.

“Nope,” agreed Owain.

“We’ll need to shift those sacks of goat food and get the shelves out of here,” said Gilda, moving to grasp one.

“I’d expect the entrance to be more central,” said Owain. “I wouldn’t expect it to be buried off to the side.”

“Er, Maxwell” Tori put in somewhat unexpectedly. “Didn’t old churches have those what-do-you-call-’ems in their altars?” She was eyeing the slate table top. “How would you get a relic into this one?”

In truth, Tori was getting bored, and felt it was obvious where they should be looking. However, she did not want to appear too bright, so she came at it obliquely,

“I bet the slate is a lid, and it will just lift off,” said Maxwell. He broke off abruptly and stared at Tori. “You, dear girl, are a bloody genius!” He jumped up and kissed her. “Come on, let’s take a corner each!”

The slate slab was heavy but between them, they lifted it and shuffled to one side to lay it down. Beneath the altar top, under a sheet of cobwebs, a flight of stone stairs descended into darkness. “Would you look at that,” said Maxwell, “I think we’ve found it! Let’s get some light down there.”

Owain leaned in with an electric lamp. The stairs appeared intact as far as they could see, with a little rubble from crumbling bricks scattered here and there. “Shall we take a look?” he asked.

“Only if somebody clears away the spiders,” said Tori, distastefully. She had no problem with spiders, quite enjoyed their taste to be honest. But she felt that a fear of creepy-crawlies would be in character.

“Let me go first,” said Maxwell, excitement obvious in his voice. “Professorial privilege and all that. If you bring up the rear, Tori, the spiders will be gone, I promise.” He grabbed a light and led the way, sweeping cobwebs aside. Owain picked up one of the big work lights and followed.

* * *

The stairs went deep into the earth. Looking at the walls around her, Tori concluded that it was a natural sloping tunnel that had been tidied and in places enlarged. The steps were uneven, and she could hear Gilda cursing as she lost her footing more than once in the gloom. Tori was a nocturnal predator with excellent night-vision, so she had no trouble; however, for the sake of appearances, she faked a couple of yelps of alarm, and complained about the dark.

The stairs came to an end in an open space. As Maxwell flashed his light around, Tori could see rock walls and an uneven ceiling. When Owain fired up the work light he had carried down, the entire cave became visible. Maxwell and his students gasped and ooh’ed and abashed.

“Well, would you just look at that!” Maxwell sounded excited.

“Look at the way the walls have been lined,” said Owain, sounding awed. “Sheets of iron.”

“These statues… Is that a Roman god of some kind?” asked Gilda.

Tori glanced around. Aside from the unusual iron cladding on the walls, it was nothing she hadn’t seen before. It was obviously a Mithraeum, and she wondered how long it would take the students work it out. She was more interested in the big double door set into one of the long walls. It was closed, and barred by a big iron girder laid across iron hooks. She could sense the restless energy of the beast beyond it.

“Look,” said Gilda, pointing out a broken statue. “You can make out a bull’s head here, and that looks like a man holding it by the nose.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Maxwell in delight. “You know what this is, don’t you! It’s the tauroctony! And over there – the lion-headed man!” He looked expectantly at Owain. “So what is this place, young Owain?”

“It’s a Temple of Mithras,” he replied with a grin. “What a shame the icons are busted up. Mithras killing the bull looks pretty impressive.”

Tori lifted the iron bar of the door, but then reconsidered – it should be too heavy for one person to lift – and laid it back down. There was a lot of debris on the floor, which would prevent her from getting the door open until it had been cleared, so it was best to leave the bar alone for now.

Meanwhile, Gilda was speaking. “I didn’t think Mithraism had spread to Britannia this early.”

“A subject of some debate,” said Maxwell. “Some people hold that it was brought by the military in Claudius’ invasion, and some say it came later when legions were swapped in and out. But most authorities agree that it was a cult purely of the military until well into the occupation. So, the big question for me would be, was this always a Mithraeum, or was it a temple dedicated to another deity first? If it was a Mithraeum from the start, then it could be the oldest one ever in Britain, and what’s more, it would show that the cult was prevalent among Auxiliaries and not just the Legions. This could be quite the find!”

Tori was bored. “Let’s get this door open,” she called out.

“Oh dear me, no!” said Maxwell firmly. “Not yet, Tori, we have a lot of work to do out here first. Owain, we’ll be needing the camera to get some footage while this place is undisturbed, then we can start working in from the stairs toward that votive altar. I’m keen to get some of the iron off the walls, too, so we can see what’s under it.”

“Maxwell,” said Tori plaintively. “I want to see the dragon! That’s why we came, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry, my pet,” he replied. “We need to work methodically across this room, cataloguing all the finds, before we tackle the door. Look, you can see there’s a lot of stuff on the floor, it needs to be moved, and moved carefully.”

“Well, why don’t we start there?” she asked with a pout. “Clear the doors, then we can get them open, and then we get to see the dragon. Please?”

He laughed. “Tori, sweetie, of course we’ll see whatever’s behind the doors. But we can’t rush it.”

Tori shrugged, turned away, and went to sit on one of the benches that lined the long walls of the chamber. She would have to work on Maxwell, one-on-one, to render him more pliant. She hid her secret little smile. Bending Maxwell to her will would be fun.

It also occurred to her that Owain and Gilda were now surplus to requirements. She was going to have extra special fun tonight.

Chapter 15

Anifail Island, North Wales, May 27 last year

The light was fading and old Innes was closing the curtains all round his house when he spotted a movement up the hill. He switched off the bedroom light and waited for his eyes to adjust, scratching at the scarred skin that ran up his neck and over the top of his head. Someone was coming down from Clifftop. It looked like it was Willems, he mused, but then again it didn’t.

Innes had run away from home in 1938, in search of adventure, and served in the British Army for fifteen years, in the Royal Tank Regiment. He liked to think that he had survived the battles – in France, North Africa, Italy, France again, Germany and Korea – by having a mysterious sixth sense attuned to danger. He’d had a lot of tanks shot out from under him, and seen a lot of mates die, but he’d always made it out alive because he knew when to bail. Well, he corrected himself, scratching his scars again, almost always. His sixth sense was telling him he ought to bail now.

The figure coming down the hill was certainly the right height, the right shape, to be Willems. But it was walking oddly, as if it was having trouble managing the limbs. Innes had seen – and been – staggering drunk, and this was not a drunk. He frowned. It was as if Willems was unfamiliar with the body, and with how to walk. Yes, time to bail.

But then he forced himself to be realistic. He reminded himself that he was over ninety, and that walking any distance at any speed was quite a challenge now. He smiled bitterly. Whoever that was – and he was now sure that it wasn’t John Willems in there – they could overtake him in no time.

He carefully made his way down to the sitting room, and looked at the collection of old photographs framed on the wall. There was his younger self, alone and with groups, in uniform. He was posing in front of a variety of vehicles with a variety of long-dead comrades – the faithful, reliable old Matilda II he’d had to abandon near Arras in 1940, the fast but fragile Crusader from Egypt, and a variety of those god-awful Shermans that caught fire if you looked at them the wrong way. Tommy-cookers, the Germans called them. Ronsons, to their crews, after the cigarette lighter. One flick and it lights up reliably every time. Innes had been burned more than once by Shermans, but had come through it all. He had lived far longer than he had ever expected, and he was not afraid now.

Innes unlocked his gun case, and thoughtfully loaded both of his 12 bore shotguns. He couldn’t bail this time, but he could defend himself.

He looked out the window beside the front door, and was mildly amused to see the figure outside paused, apparently puzzling out how to get through the gate. He opened the door.

“John Willems?” he called out. “That you?”

There was no reply, but the figure half-turned to focus on the door. Innes shivered.

“Willems?” he asked again.

The figure seemed to have worked out how the gate worked, and pushed through it, awkwardly. It lifted its head once more to focus on Innes. It took a shambling step forward.

“Whatever’s in there, it ain’t you, John, is it,” said Innes. “Now just stay there,”

It took a couple more shambling steps, closing the distance to a few yards.

“Sorry, John, if you can hear me, I am sorry. But I’ll have to shoot.” Innes levelled the shotgun. In the light streaming from his front door, he realised that Willems was covered in blood. And were there chunks missing from his chest and arms?

Willems’ body shuffled forward. Innes levelled the shotgun and fired the first barrel. The bloody figure staggered as the pellets tore into its chest. It paused, and started forward again. Bang! The other barrel blasted its load of pellets. Innes had shifted his aim up to the figure’s head, and the shot blew it apart. The figure staggered again, but did not fall.

“Well that’s novel,” muttered Innes.

He reached across and picked up his second shotgun, set it firmly into his shoulder, and blasted off two shots at the chest in quick succession. This time, the body toppled and fell backwards onto the path. Innes quickly broke the shotgun, pushed in two more cartridges, closed it up and pulled back the hammer. Only then did he step forward, shotgun at his shoulder, to inspect the body.

The body that was John Willems was a mess. The skull had been blasted open by the shotgun and some of his brain was splattered across the ground. What was in the head had been seriously messed up by hardened lead pellets ricocheting around inside the skull. That should have killed him – yet he hadn’t dropped. His chest had been destroyed by shotgun blasts. Fragments of bone and pieces of heart and lung were chaotically mingled.

Innes stiffened abruptly and took a slow step backward. Something was moving in Willems’ chest cavity. His eyes went wide as that something struggled and heaved itself up from low in the torso and wriggled in the gaping chest to get out. It was black, and eel-like, and was using protruding spines to gain traction on the bloody mess of Willems’ body.

“Oh, no you don’t,” breathed Innes. “You don’t get to bail out.”

He aimed at what appeared to be the head end, and fired twice. The body was now blasted apart across the chest, but the creature had been obliterated.

Innes moved back into his doorway and sagged against the frame. His heart was racing, his legs trembled and he felt on the edge of panic. It took a few minutes for him to calm down sufficiently to be able to move. He took a deep breath, and then closed the door. He worked round the house, checking and locking windows and doors, and settled down to wait. Someone would find the mess, and the police would be here, sooner or later.

Out in the garden, something was wriggling out from under the hedge by his gate. With a sinuous snake-like motion, it moved closer to the corpse, and began feeding.

Chapter 16

Brooklyn, New York City, May 28 last year

Peri Carlton’s cell phone rang. She looked at the time – half past three in the morning – and the number – ‘unknown’. She muttered a curse and ignored it. It rang again. And again. She ripped off the back and pulled the battery. “Leave a fucking message,” she growled, and tried to get back to sleep.

The door buzzer went off. She muttered a curse and ignored it. But whoever was down there was persistent, and kept buzzing. It was intensely annoying. Peri strode across to the intercom by her apartment’s door and her hand slapped the ‘talk’ button. “What?”

“Miss Carlton, we need to come up.” The voice was respectful, and Scottish, and familiar.

“Ewan?” She demanded incredulously. “What. The. Fuck.”

“Sorry, Peri,” he replied. “Before you say it, yes, I know what time it is. But we need to come in.”

“Get lost!” she snapped. “First, because it’s half-past god-forsaken o’clock. Second, because it’s Friday night, for god’s sake. Third, because no, it’s not Friday night, it’s bloody Saturday morning and that makes it the bloody weekend!”

“Still…” he began.

Peri slapped her hand against the ‘open door’ button and flounced across to her bed. She picked up a sheet and wrapped it round herself, then returned to her door and opened it.

Three people entered. They wore identical navy blazers with metal buttons, white shirts with blue ties, and dark grey slacks. Even though one of them was female.

Ewan was tall, grey haired and muscular, obviously a fit and athletic man who was keeping himself in shape well into his fifties. “Sorry, Peri,” he said. “Please don’t shoot the messengers, though.” He gestured to his colleagues, and they moved efficiently across the apartment and called out, “Clear,” evidently checking for other occupants.

“Sorry, Peri,” said Ewan again.

“Will you stop bloody apologising?”

“…but I’m glad you’re alone. It’s embarrassing having to throw out a – er – sleeping partner.”

“It’s just me and Captain Buzz tonight.”

“What?”

“Never mind,” Peri said quickly, but too late. Ewan’s eye had already landed on the ivory coloured vibrator on the floor beside the bed. “Shit.”

The other two were now walking around the apartment with meters in their hands, paying particular attention to lights and plug sockets. Peri gaped at them. “What the hell are you doing? Ewan, should I be worried?”

The woman – Janice, Peri remembered – glanced across at Ewan and shook her head. Ewan glanced across at the man, and said, “Charles?” He shook his head.

“Right,” said Ewan. “Peri, you know our colleagues, I’m sure?”

“Right,” Peri answered. “Hi Janice, hi Chas. Now talk, Ewan. You better have a bloody good reason for getting me out of bed at this time on my weekend.”

“Steady, Peri. It’s my weekend too, and they got me up even earlier. So first, let’s get the sweep out of the way. You’ve only just moved in and you didn’t rent this place through the usual channels, so it was due a check anyway. You’ll be glad to know there don’t seem to be any nasties inhabiting the place. Apart from the usual cockroaches, I’m sure. But nobody’s listening in.”

“That was kind of the point of renting this myself, Ewan. For the privacy.”

He ignored the insinuation and pressed on. “The real reason is that you’re needed. There’s a meeting in Annex 3, and they want you in it.”

“Annex 3?” she echoed. “We won’t be rapping at MC Hammar? Who’s meeting whom?”

He smiled at her nickname for One Dag Hammarskjold Plaza. “That’s right, you’re going to the Annex. Mr Wilkinson wants you there.” He stopped and looked at her. “Do you have anything on under that sheet?”

“Oh, Ewan,” she said, in a mock sultry voice. “Give me a bit more time in bed, and you can join me and find out. What do you say?” She ran a hand over his chest.

“Oh, Peri,” he smiled back at her. “You tempting wee silver-tongued succubus, you. But what would I tell Donald?”

She grinned at him. She knew very well that Ewan had a very happy relationship with his partner Donald. “Worth a try,” she whispered. “But seriously,” she said, a little louder, “I had a late night out with the girls, and I’d kill for another hour in kip. What’s the rush? Tell them you had trouble finding me.” She frowned and stepped back. She levelled a finger at him, accusingly. “How did you find me, anyway?”

Ewan grinned. “You of all people shouldn’t need to ask that question, Peri.”

“Geolocation? Really? Is that legal?”

“Perfectly legal, dear. Your employer was simply verifying the location of their assets, namely one cell phone and one laptop. Don’t you remember signing the form agreeing to it?”

She punched him in the shoulder. “So they already know you’re here,” she grumbled.

“Correct. Now get some clothes on before I get Janice to do it for you. Dave’s got the car waiting downstairs for you.”

Peri moved across to the ‘sleeping end’ of her one-room apartment. “Get Janice to dress me? With her sartorial sense? You have to be kidding.” But she smiled and winked at Janice, who was hiding Captain Buzz and his accessories under the bed, and she winked right back.

She grabbed some underwear, a tee shirt and a pair of cargo pants – all black – and stepped into her bathroom to change.

She splashed water on her face, more to wake up than to wash up, and brushed her teeth. The person looking back at her from the mirror was about five feet eight, and slender. A bit flat in the chest, in fact, but it let her get away with wearing just about anything. Her skin was a rich golden brown, her eyes were dark brown and her narrow face with high cheekbones conveyed a hint of South Asia. Her hair was black and frizzy, and pretty much unmanageable, especially straight off the pillow, so she just pulled it back off her face and into a ponytail secured with a yellow clip. She stepped out into the apartment and began stuffing keys, phones and wallets into her many pockets.

“Okay, folks,” she said. “Let’s go.”

Chas preceded her and opened the door, but she realised that neither Ewan nor Janice was making a move.

“Hold it, hold it, Chas. What the hell – aren’t you two coming?”

“No,” said Ewan simply. “You need a decent lock and things.”

“‘Things’? What ‘things’ would that be?”

“We’ll see. Now go on, little birdy, fly away.”

She paused, uncertain, but decided to worry about that little smile of Ewan’s later. “Okay, Chas, let’s go find Dave.”

* * *

Chas and Dave were both ex-FBI, native New Yorkers, recruited for their local knowledge as much as their security skills. At this time of day, traffic was so light that they took the most direct route from Brooklyn Heights – over the Brooklyn Bridge, straight up FDR Drive, past the UN building, then some zig-zagging round one-way streets to get to an anonymous grey building in the shadow of Queensboro Bridge. Much more pleasant than Peri’s usual commute, which included a long stretch on the 5 train, or, as she preferred to call it, the Armpit Express,

Chas escorted Peri in, without a word, while Dave parked the car. There were absolutely no signs anywhere that hinted at what the building was used for, and in the lobby behind the main doors there was nothing but a security desk and bored looking guard. Peri strode over to the desk, and held out her ID card.

“Morning,” she said more cheerfully than she felt. “I’m Peri Carlton, UK Mission, and I’m meeting Mr Wilkinson here.”

The man tapped some keys on what looked like an ancient computer. He looked carefully at her face, her photo ID, and his screen. Finally he grunted, “Room 301, third floor. Elevator through the door.” He pointed his thumb back over his own shoulder at a door which gave a loud click as he remotely unlocked it.

Peri headed through the door, and made her way to the meeting room. Checking her watch, she noted that it was almost half past four in the morning, and shuddered as she shouldered through the door and into the room.

“Hey Wilko,” she called out. “What’s the fucking idea dragging me down to the arse end – oh!”

Four people were looking at her across a large table, and none of them was Damon Wilkinson. “Sorry,” said Peri, “I was expecting to see my colleague, Damon Wilkinson. Am I in the wrong place? This is 301, right?”

“Yes, this is the correct room. You must be Miss Carlton.” The speaker was a small, black-haired Asian woman. “As you can see, Mr Wilkinson is not here at the moment. He had to make some urgent calls to his principals – and yours – in London. Let me make introductions while we wait.”

Peri looked at the four people opposite, and her remarkable memory immediately supplied names. It would be rude to interrupt, though, so she decided to let the woman go ahead.

“From left to right,” went on the Chinese woman, “these are, Mr Andre Montrache, from France; Mr Evgeny Rostovich, from Russia; and Mr Dwight Mitchelson, from the USA. My name is Li Lixia, though you may refer to me as Lisa Li if you prefer.”

“Thank you,” said Peri politely. “And as you probably all know already, I am Peri Carlton, with the UK Mission.” She saw that the table was set out with five places on one side, and one – presumably for Peri – facing them from the opposite side. “Um, the table setup – it looks awfully like a job interview.” More importantly, given the early hour and way she was feeling, she saw that the others each had a coffee cup and a plate. “And are there refreshments for the poor interviewee?”

Li smiled. “Please forgive my poor manners. What passes for coffee—” Here she smiled at the American, Mitchelson. “- is behind you.”

“Tea, I think,” Peri replied.

“Very wise.” Li produced a small plate from within her briefcase, containing half a dozen Garibaldi biscuits. She went on, “And I had hoped to surprise you with a special treat, but sadly, it seems that chocolate garibaldi biscuits are completely unobtainable.”

Peri busied herself with hot water and a tea bag while processing that last remark. Should I, she wondered? What the hell, yes, I should.

“Chocolate garibaldis? My all-time favourites? Wow, that is a very thoughtful way to convey a message. Thank you so much! And may I take the opportunity to congratulate you on your promotion, Colonel Li?”

Li gave her a broad smile. “Thank you, Miss Carlton. The promotion will be announced on Monday, so until then I am still merely Major Li.” She smiled around the room at others. “But I think we have established that we have done our research, and that we all know exactly who we are, so we can skip – what is the phrase?” She glanced at Peri. “Dancing round our handbags, is it? And pretending to be something other than an intelligence officer. That should save considerable time.”

Rostovich shifted his considerable bulk in his chair. “You asked a question,” he said. “Is this a job interview.” Peri thought he looked like a retired weightlifter who had not yet gone flabby. “Short answer is yes.” He looked sideways at Li with a questioning look.

“Thank you, Evgeny. I thought we should wait for Damon before getting to the substance of the meeting.”

Rostovich shrugged, and Peri wondered that his shoulders didn’t split his jacket.

The door opened, and Wilkinson came in, carrying a take-away coffee cup and a brown bag from a well-known chain. “Sorry everyone,” he said to the room in general. “I’m last one in, I see.”

“Comme toujours,” muttered Montrache. “And where are our goodies?”

“Down the street in the deli,” replied Wilkinson, with a grin. He switched his smile to Peri. “I’m glad you could make it, Peri, thank you.”

“Like I had a choice?” she grumbled back at him.

“Introductions done, Lisa, I hope?” he asked, looking at Li.

“We all know who we are, and which state organ employs us,” she replied. “We have not touched on the reason for Miss Carlton’s presence yet. I thought we should wait…”

“Yes, yes, that’s all squared away,” said Wilkinson. “It took longer than I’d expected, because the Foreign Office insisted on consulting the Home Office, and the Home Office insisted on asking the MOD, and before we knew where we were… well, anyway, it’s a thumbs up, they all defer to our judgement, so we can crack on.”

Peri shot him a startled look. “Wilko, can we talk? Outside?”

“Later. No time.”

She shot him an angry look, but before she could say anything else, Li spoke.

“Peri – may I call you Peri? Please, if you do not like what is happening you may decline, but listen first.”

“Does she know that if she declines, we have to shoot her?” asked Mitchelson. Peri was not sure whether he was joking or not.

“Dwight, please, time presses,” admonished Li. “First, you will be wondering why this group of people is meeting. Perhaps you wonder why we meet here, and that we meet cordially when some of us are, let us say, natural adversaries. And it will not have evaded your notice that we each represent one of the permanent members of the UN Security Council.”

She shot Peri an amused look. “Or perhaps you have already worked it out?”

“Maybe,” said Peri. “You’re back-room fixers, aren’t you? A little back-channel to exchange views and float ideas well away from prying eyes, when the real diplomats are forced to posture and pull faces for their constituencies back home.”

Li looked pleased. “We are one of a small number of committees with that role. Formally speaking, this is UNSC Ad-hoc Committee 23, whose role is to work collectively on non-military measures designed to safeguard the lives of civilians should trans-national events occur. You are undoubtedly thinking that is vague enough to cover a great deal, and that is, by design, perfectly true.

“We also provide oversight and direction, jointly with UNESCO, for a small unit whose role is trans-national contingency planning. If an event occurs whose effects are confined within a single country, then it is the responsibility of that country to deal with it. A recent example might be the devastation caused by Hurricane Katrina in the southern USA. However, an event may occur whose effects are felt more widely, and which requires a coordinated international response. The UNESCO and UNSC sponsored body – UN Trans-National Contingencies, or UNTNC – exists to work with UN member states, singly and collectively, to foster joint planning to mitigate trans-national risks and to deal with the impacts if such risks materialise.

“Is it clear so far?”

“Yes,” Peri replied. “Just one question, at this point. Are you referring exclusively to non-military events? Such as natural disasters? What about international terrorism?”

The Russian stirred in his chair and leant forward. “I count three questions, not one.”

“Fine,” said Peri. “Just three questions, then.”

“Okay,” said Rostovich. “First answer. Yes, but there will be grey areas. Military events are the remit of UNSC. Second answer. Yes. Third answer. No. Terrorism is purely UNSC.”

“Thank you, Evgeny,” said Li. “Let us move on, because this is purely context for the next part of our discussion. Tell me, Peri, where do you stand on the subject of aliens?”

Peri snorted and managed not to laugh. “Aliens? As in, ‘ET phone home’? Star Trek type aliens?”

Li merely smiled and nodded.

Peri frowned. “You’re serious. Hey, where is this leading…?”

Wilkinson interrupted sharply. “Treat it as a serious question, and give us a serious answer.”

Peri sat back and gathered her confused thoughts. “Okay,” she said. “Let me approach it as a question in two parts. First part, does intelligent life exist elsewhere in the universe? And second part, have they, are they, or will they, interact with us on Earth? Is that okay?”

Li smiled and nodded once more.

“First part. Do I think intelligent life exists? Hell, yes, I’m damn near certain of it. Let me justify that position. Start with our own galaxy, the Milky Way. I’m told there are somewhere between 100 billion and one trillion stars in the Milky Way. A widely quoted number is 400 billion, so let’s work with that. Astronomical surveys have suggested that most stars have at least one planet, and mostly several planets, orbiting them. Let’s call it 500 billion planets, which is pretty conservative. I’ve seen estimates that one planet in fifty, or thereabouts, have conditions of heat and gravity fairly compatible with Earth, which we know are conditions under which life can emerge. So let’s estimate ten billion planets in the Milky Way can potentially support life.

“Next part of the argument. Extrapolate to the whole universe. There are about 200 billion galaxies out there, and again, that’s probably conservative. Most of them are as big as, or bigger than, the Milky Way. So estimating that the number of planets in the whole universe capable of life as we know it is more than one followed by twenty-odd zeroes. That’s one hell of a big number.

“Final part of the argument. Let’s assume that the probability of life becoming intelligent enough and sentient enough to be considered as sci-fi ‘aliens’ is miniscule. Name your own probability. No matter how small it is, once you multiply that tiny number by one followed by twenty-odd zeroes, you get a big number. Make it a one in a billion chance, if you like. That would give you intelligent alien life evolving more than a billion billion times over.

“Anyone see a flaw in the reasoning?”

The stared at her in silence. Then Mitchelson looked at her, and said, “Wow. I mean, just, wow. You worked all that out in your head, on the spot?”

Peri shrugged. “Would it impress you more if I said I did the arithmetic in my head, or if I said I read it once and remembered it?”

“I tell ya, I’d be impressed either way.”

“Let it be my little secret, then.”

“So,” Montrache cut in smoothly, “your argument is simply that the universe is so big that even if the chance of life developing and turning intelligent is tiny, it is a near certainty that it has happened many times.”

Peri grinned at him. “That is very succinct, but, I venture to suggest, much less impressive than my version.”

Everyone chuckled.

“Okay,” said Peri. “On to the second part of the question, which was about aliens visiting Earth. On this one my answer is, hell, no, I don’t think so. My justification is pretty much the same as for the first part: the universe is just really, really big, and the probability of an intelligent, space-faring civilisation emerging within a reasonable distance of Earth is just tiny. Do I need to go further?”

Mitchelson laughed. “I think everyone round this table – including Peri – is familiar with the so-called Fermi Paradox. And certainly, the impossibility of faster than light travel is a persuasive factor, given the distances involved. But tell me, Peri. If travel time for the aliens was not a big obstacle, then what explanation would you put forward to answer Professor Fermi when he asks, ‘Where is everybody?’”

“You are, in effect, eliminating a bunch of possible explanations with that question,” replied Peri, thoughtfully. “I mean, the premise of the question sort of assumes that aliens exist, that they can detect us, that they can get here, and leads us toward speculation that they can hide themselves well, or that there’s a global conspiracy by governments to—”

She stopped, and her jaw dropped. She stared at the people across the table and made some inarticulate sounds. Suddenly she started laughing. She laughed almost hysterically. She laughed so hard, that tears ran down her cheeks. Finally she managed to calm herself enough to get some words out. “That’s it, isn’t it? YOU are directing the global conspiracy to keep aliens secret! Well, fuck me, you’re the Men in Black!” She laughed, then realised she was in danger of sounding hysterical.

“I’m sorry,” Peri said as she calmed down. “I am really, really sorry. I should not have reacted in such an unprofessional and embarrassing way. I just didn’t know how to deal with the idea that not only might crackpot conspiracies be true, but that you might be trying to involve me…”

“Relax, Peri,” said Li. “We led the conversation in a certain direction, and I for one am impressed by how you analysed and extrapolated the information available to you to arrive at a hypothesis. And I know it is a rather startling hypothesis. Now let us move on. Evgeny?”

“Where do you stand on the subject of…” Here the Russian paused and studied her face carefully. He went on, “…the supernatural?”

Peri drew in a deep breath. Carefully picking her words, she said, “I firmly believe that we do not have all the answers to how the mind works, or how nature works in the round. There are phenomena that are poorly understood, or not understood at all. There is scope in my mind for topics to be labelled – no, let me start that again.”

She was visibly shaken by the Russian’s question, and they could see that she was struggling to compose herself. They waited in silence. Peri leant forward and asked, “Are you familiar with Clark’s Third Law?”

Li smiled and nodded encouragingly.

Peri went on, “In an essay that he wrote in 1962 and revised in 1973, Arthur C Clark wrote, ‘Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.’ If we substitute ‘the supernatural’ for ‘magic’ in that statement, we get something close to my personal beliefs. I find it easy to believe that there are many phenomena that we struggle to explain in scientific terms, because our science is incomplete, and not because they are the results of magic. An alternative re-statement of Clark’s Law that I have come across is, ‘Any sufficiently advanced extra-terrestrial intelligence is indistinguishable from God.’ ”

Peri looked at each of the committee members. “I think I see what your, ostensibly strange, line of discussion is suggesting. Is it the case that the UN is interested in phenomena that may best be described as ‘preternatural’, that is, abnormal and unexplainable by our understanding of nature?”

Mitchelson nodded and said, “Go on, Peri.”

“Events that may – or may not – be attributable to a non-terrestrial source. At least, a source that we can’t explain through our understanding of terrestrial mathematics, physics and chemistry. I think I see the tie to the UNTNC that you mentioned earlier. There are some events that we can conceive of, and that we need to plan for, even though we can’t explain them except in preternatural terms.”

Mitchelson leaned across the table and looked Peri right in the eye. “Listen, Peri, and listen carefully. This is not an abstract debate. We are not considering events that we can conceive of as thought experiments. We are in the business of dealing with reality. Humans have been forced to take extreme action against entities that can best be described as monsters, and more than once. We may not have scientific explanations of these things, but they are a clear danger to all of us.”

Peri blinked at his intensity. “Extreme action? How do you hide that?”

Rostovich spoke. “Chernobyl. Something manifested in a nuclear power station and had to be eliminated. Explained away by bombing the reactor to fake a meltdown.”

Montrache added, “Armero, Colombia, 1953. Something melted all the snow-caps and glaciers on a mountain, twenty thousand dead. Explained by a volcanic eruption.”

Mitchelson contributed, “Nagasaki, 1945. After seeing the effect of the bombing of Hiroshima, the Japanese told us about something in Nagasaki that they begged us to take care of. I think we all know the result.”

Wilkinson offered, “Lake Nyos, Cameroon. Something killed two thousand people. Explained by a limnic eruption.”

Mitchelson again. “Mount Saint Helens, 1980. We had to blow up half the freakin’ mountain to deal with the thing that was bottled up there.”

Finally Li contributed. “Do you think we wanted to flood the Three Gorges?”

Peri gaped at them. “They were all… all… alien infestations of some kind?”

“We think so. At least some of them,” said Mitchelson. “Remember Clark’s Third Law? For all we know, they were magical creatures. We know a lot less than we would like to.”

“Where did they come from?” asked Peri.

The answer from Rostovich was an eloquent shrug. “Who knows? There are speculative theories, but no science.”

Peri slumped in her seat, and cradled her head in her hands. “This is mad.” She looked up again. “You are seriously saying that Earth has been attacked by monstrous creatures, that may or not be extra-terrestrial, several times? And that the true causes have successfully been concealed, over and over?”

Wilkinson gave her a smile that was almost apologetic, and simply said, “Yes.”

She nodded. “Yes, actually, when I think about it, I can see it working. Offer a simple but plausibly natural explanation, and people will leap at accepting that, over an alternative that is, essentially, ‘Demons did it.’ Am I right?”

Li nodded. “You have done very well, Peri. You clearly have a mind that is at once receptive, undogmatic, analytical and open.” She looked at Wilkinson, and added, “She will do very well, Damon. I propose that we appoint her at once.”

“Seconded,” said Rostovich.

“Agreed,” said Mitchelson.

“Carried unanimously, I think,” said Montrache.

Wilkinson nodded. “I’ll make it happen.”

“Whoa!” Peri exclaimed. “What’s the rush? Come to that, what’s the sodding job? And you said I’d get a chance to decline…”

Mitchelson laughed. “Does she really want us to shoot her, Damon?”

Li shook her head, and said, “Really, Dwight. Peri, let me try to answer your questions. We are recruiting a new head of a small team that works under the auspices of the UNSC. The position is primarily about assessing and managing risks to the whole of humanity arising from preternatural sources. It will involve open source research, information management, analysis, risk identification and mitigation planning. There will be some classified information feeds from the intelligence services of our five nations, and some reporting to them, but that should be low volume and of minor importance. The team leader – you – will be responsible for overseeing the work of the team.”

“How big is the team?” asked Peri.

“Today? Yourself and two researchers. But I expect early recommendations about the necessary size and composition of the team for the future, based on an assessment of threats and workload.

“There will also be international liaison work, which I expect will fall to the team leader and will of course be facilitated by this committee. Only a handful of countries have any organisation or plans in this area. Our five, plus select allies, are aware and are networked. Others are active but tend to operate independently of each other.

“As to the rush… the team leader post has just become open. In fact, the first task I would like you undertake is to look into how he died.”

“What? Died?” Peri was shocked. “When did this happen?”

“His body was recovered from the sea yesterday.”

Wilkinson spoke up. “He was in North Wales, so we have you booked on a flight to Heathrow today…”

“Hold it, hold it!” Peri protested. “What do you mean you have me booked today? My knowledge of the subject matter and what the job entails is approximately the square root of fuck-all. Be reasonable! Give me the weekend to think it over and decide, then we can arrange whatever…”

“You want to think it over? You have ten seconds, Peri,” said Wilkinson.

“What?”

“Nine.”

“Ah, shit.”

“Eight.”

“When’s the flight?”

“JFK, seven fifty-five. Seven.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! That’s just not possible.”

“Yes, it is. Six.”

“All right! I’ll do it, but not on a five to eight flight. Come on, I need to get to Brooklyn Heights to pack some things, get to JFK, check in, go through security…”

Wilkinson looked smug. “Your luggage is at the airport already, and NYPD will blue-light you right to the door of the plane.”

Peri gaped at him. “That’s why Ewan and Janice stayed behind?”

“I want you on your way by six forty-five at the latest, which means I have less than an hour for a briefing.”

“You just told me to shut up and listen, didn’t you?”

Wilkinson nodded.

“We will give you the room, Damon,” said Li. “It was a great pleasure talking to you, Peri. I look forward to working with you.”

* * *

Wilkinson did not utter another word until he had swept the room with a hand-held detector that had been in his briefcase. Peri could not sit still. She paced, and finally broke the silence. “Aren’t we all friends here?”

He held up a raised finger for silence and carried on. Only when he was satisfied did he reply. “We are better described as ‘frenemies’. We work together on certain areas, but our national philosophies differ, and in some cases, remain fundamentally at odds.”

“Shame. I liked Colonel Li.”

He scowled. “I could see that she liked you, and I can’t say I’m altogether happy about that. Solidarity of the geeks, perhaps. You’re GCHQ and she’s…”

“Third Department of the PLA Joint Staff. China’s SIGINT service. Why would you be unhappy that she liked me?”

“Later. Pay and rations first. You’re on a temp promotion now, aren’t you, so with this appointment you get made substantive plus you get a temp to the next grade up. Officially, you are no longer a liaison between Cheltenham and the UK Mission here, you are seconded to the UN Security Council as an adviser. Clear?”

“Clear. And thanks.”

“Management and direction. In line management terms, you get me, I’m afraid. Your previous line manager is not cleared for this. You take up a post that reports to, and takes direction from, UNSC Ad-hoc Committee 23. That is an extremely important point. You must be careful to compartmentalise your roles, because you are both a British intelligence officer and an officer of a multi-national organisation, and these two roles will sometimes clash. In the event of a conflict of interests, come to me. Clear?

“You are, as of ten minutes ago, the head of a unit designated ‘United Nations Transnational Incidents and Emergencies’. For better or worse, to the few who know of it, it’s known as UNTIE. On paper it is a sub-department of UNTNC, but only on paper. The unit is physically based here in Annex 3, along with most of the UN’s other secret squirrel units. Not as nice as Dag Hammarskjold Plaza, but much less in the public eye. You have two members of staff, but we don’t have time to meet them today.

“Your predecessor. UNTIE leadership rotates around the five permanent members of the security council. The other members don’t know it exists. Last time, China supplied the boss, and this time it’s Britain’s turn, hence you. Your predecessor was a certain Chen Yongjun, known to his Western contacts as John Chen.”

Peri dared to interrupt. “Is that the same Chen Yongjun that is – or was – a major in the PLA Second Department? He was ‘made’ by the Canadians and then floated around as a military attaché in various English-speaking countries?”

“That’s the one. Have you come across him before?”

“His name came up once. I was just showing off. Sorry, go on.”

“Chen spent nearly two years in the job, and was about to retire, both from UNTIE and from the PLA. My personal opinion is that his heart wasn’t in the job, and he was mostly going through the motions.”

“So why was he in Wales?”

“Ah, now that’s the big question, isn’t it? We’re hoping you can find out. Also, for what it’s worth, Lisa Li didn’t take to him either. She couldn’t really say so, but I think she was disappointed by him, and slightly embarrassed that he’s turned up dead on somebody else’s turf. Namely, ours. She was the one who insisted that UNTIE should poke into it. I believe she’s hoping that Chen’s reputation comes out of this with some dignity.”

“What happened to him?”

“All we know is that he was fished out of the drink on the Welsh coast. He may have fallen off a cliff, got busted up and floated away on the tide. The police, of course, are investigating. The curious thing is that he called in a buckthorn amber just before he died.”

“Buckthorn amber? Now that just sounds like a cider to me.”

“With a deft transition, we have now moved on to British protocols. As Lisa indicated earlier, Britain is one of several countries with preternatural investigation protocols. We hide ours behind the shield of an intelligence compartment named ‘buckthorn’. As of right now, you consider yourself read into buckthorn. The buckthorn community is quite small. A handful of people in each of the intelligence agencies, a select few counter-terrorism specialists in the police – the Met, MOD Police and Police Scotland – and a few people in UK Special Forces. It’s divided into three groups, cleared for various levels of intelligence. The three levels are designated green, amber and red. If you have buckthorn green clearance, then you are read into a cover story that is about investigating UFOs and similar incidents. If you have buckthorn red, then you are read into the real story, that buckthorn is about protecting humanity from monsters.

“And buckthorn amber? What’s that cover?”

“Supernatural beings – demons, werewolves, vampires and the like.”

Her eyes went wide. “Bloody hell! Do they really exist?”

“That would be a discussion for another occasion. Buckthorn event levels, now. Confusingly, they too are on a scale of green, amber and red. A buckthorn green event is something that bears investigation. An amber event is actively being investigated, and the investigators are escalating to obtain more resources. A red event is a confirmed preternatural occurrence, posing a risk to life, and requiring strong action.”

She bit her lower lip as she listened, then tried to confirm that she was following everything he said. “In short, Major Chen called in to report a preternatural event under investigation, then turned up dead a few hours later.”

Wilkinson smirked. “You have total recall of every word I said, so there’s no need to make empathic noises.”

Peri scowled at him. “I’m reflecting the conversation, not empathising. I want you to know I’m actively listening. Maybe that’s one bullshit training course you managed to avoid?”

“Fine.” He looked at his watch. “Tempus fugit.” He pulled a ruggedized laptop out of his case and slid it across the table to her. He fished a device that looked like a key fob out of his pocket and slid that across to her too. “Everything you need is on the laptop, unlocked with the security token.”

“Classification?” she asked.

“Maximum of TOP SECRET BUCKTHORN RED,” he answered. Naturally it’s protected and high-grade encrypted. Mislay it and… well you know what happens next. You’ll find two partitions, one with UNSC EYES ONLY, the other with UK EYES ONLY. Do yourself a favour and don’t ever confuse the two.

“The UNSC partition is a dump of all the relevant files from UNTIE. Case protocols, administrivia, case histories, and all that good stuff. Read it on the plane, by all means, but under the circumstances it’s more important to bone up on the UK material.

“The UK EYES material gives you everything you ever wanted to know about buckthorn protocols. It includes contact numbers, names and responsibilities. Handle with care.”

“Of course.”

He sighed, looked up at the ceiling for a moment, and then leaned forward across the table. “Right. Change of subject, some hard questions and then you need to get on the road.”

“Yes?” She looked wary, which made him frown.

“Got anything to hide?” he demanded.

“What?”

“When Chen turned up dead, Li instantly insisted on a replacement, and it’s Britain’s turn. Li insisted on an immediate investigation. She forced the pace.” He looked at Peri expectantly, and let the silence linger. When Peri made no move to fill the gap, he scowled. “Li asked for you by name, Peri. Why?”

Peri gaped. “She did what? How would she even have heard of me?”

“I want to know what you’re up to, Peri,” Wilkinson said, firmly.

She stared at him. “Nothing. I swear, it, Wilko, I am not ‘up to’ anything. I was surprised to get called in here – just ask Ewan and his people.” She scowled at him. “No, I’ll go further, I was bloody furious to get called in the middle of the night and have my life turned upside down. To be honest, I’m still really annoyed because what with your pathetic count-down crap, it feels like I was strong-armed into this, and now you’re implying that I can’t be trusted? Is that what you’re implying, pal? Because if that’s what you’re thinking, mate, you have got it so bloody wrong! In fact how about this – take your fucking UNTIE job and shove it where the sun don’t shine! Because I won’t put up with this, I really will not.”

Wilkinson made placatory air-pats with his hands. “No, no, don’t go off the deep end. I have to ask. You will take up this post, and you will fly to London. This has all been approved at the highest level. But we need to understand what is going on with Lisa Li. You are sure you have never met her before?”

“Never to speak to. I recognised her face from old photos, and the China crew in Cheltenham tries to keep tabs on everyone in PLA intelligence from major up, so I knew she was in New York. That’s all!”

“Have you ever been to China?” he asked.

She cocked her head to one side and raised one eyebrow. “Yes. It’s all in my personnel files.”

“Well I haven’t got the luxury of access to that. Did anything, anything at all, happen that might have brought you to the attention of the authorities there?”

“You really got me in here, without the slightest knowledge of my background? Really?” she was genuinely surprised.

“Yes,” he replied, clearly annoyed. “Apparently your masters didn’t think it mattered enough to tell me. You’re an intelligence analyst currently serving as a liaison with the UK Mission. That is all anyone felt I needed to know. So what do you think I need to know?”

“That I started out as a linguist, for one thing,” she said. “I have a Master’s in Mandarin and Russian. I was recruited into a government agency called the Joint Technical Language Service, and seconded to the old Department of Trade and Industry as a researcher and transcriber working on Chinese technology companies.”

“And as anyone with access to the Internet can instantly find out, JTLS is administered by GCHQ,” Wilkinson said.

She nodded.

“I did immersive language courses in Mandarin, and other stuff, in Shanghai. Basically, improving my language skills, picking up a lot of the slang and jargon, and getting a better handle on how the Chinese economy really works. I came away with a few diplomas – in fact, a few more modules, and I’d have a Chinese MBA. I lived there for six months. All the paperwork was handled by the DTI. I did some similar training in Saint Petersburg to sharpen up my Russian too.”

“And therefore the Chinese and Russian authorities probably checked you out as a matter of routine,” said Wilkinson.

“Well, maybe they looked harder at me in Shanghai. I saved a kid from being run over, and got my face in the local papers, so we had to assume my affiliation was well and truly ‘outed’.”

He mimed an exaggerated face-palm. “No, I can see why nobody would have felt I’d need to know about that.” His voice dripped with sarcasm and irritation.

She gave him a look that said, ‘Well, duh!’ “Think about it. I’m being put forward for a post where it’s a given that I’m a British intelligence officer. How relevant is it that the PLA might already know I’m a British intelligence officer?”

He still looked extremely annoyed. “Very relevant, when it’s the PLA representative who asked for you by name. Okay, it’s plausible, even likely, that Li knew of you because of that, just like you could probably reel off the names of half the other spooks working at the UN. Spying on each other is a bit of a cottage industry. But we’re no closer to knowing why Li was interested in you. It can’t rest here, Peri, I have to talk to your bosses about this whole affair.”

“Fine, I can see why you have to do that.”

He looked at his watch again. “There should be a car outside, waiting patiently with a police escort to get you to JFK. Go. And remember, go light on the in-flight drinkies, study on the files I just gave you, or the cost a first-class seat will come out of your wages.”

“Wow! First class? I’m a lucky girl!”

“UN dollars at work,” said Wilkinson, with a slight note of bitterness. “The rest of us still have to fly economy. Anyway, the idea is that you won’t have anybody overlooking at your laptop screen, so make the best use of the privacy and the photographic memory. We’ll talk soon.”

Chapter 17

Heathrow Airport, Stanwell, May 28 last year

As soon as the plane was on the ground, smartphones all around Peri started beeping with incoming messages. It took a minute or two for her to realise that one of them was her own. A couple of messages from Wilkinson: he told her to pick up emails as soon as possible, because ‘Lisa had been busy’; also, he had set up a couple of meetings, right here in the airport. She puffed in irritation. It was early evening local time, her body clock was four hours adrift, and she was not sure if she was coming or going. She felt tired, and a little light headed, and in no mood to be talking to anyone. But, she supposed, it had to be done. She thumbed a terse ‘OK’ message back to Wilkinson.

The flight had been smooth, and, she had to admit, very comfortable. The first-class seat was infinitely adjustable, the food had been better than expected, and the cabin crew extremely attentive, friendly, and sympathetic when she refused the ‘in-flight drinkies’ due to the need to work. There were screens around the seating which provided enough privacy for her to study the material on her secure laptop. Some of the material had proved to be real eye-openers: so that’s what had happened to the Titanic!

One of the cabin crew stopped by her seat. “We’ll get you off the flight first, Miss Carlton. Border Force officers are waiting to escort you through to where you need to be. And – since you were so busy working all flight – we thought you might appreciate the glass of wine you didn’t get a chance to drink with your meal. Please, take this, on us.”

“Oh, really, you don’t have to…”

“Nonsense, please, take something away for later.”

A bottle-shaped plastic-wrapped ‘something’ changed hands, and Peri followed her to the aircraft’s door.

“Thank you all, very much indeed,” said Peri, stepping out of the door. “Oh, hello, were you waiting for me?”

This was addressed to a pair of men in dark blue. One of them smiled pleasantly, greeted her, and they led her down a flight of stairs, onto the tarmac, and into a waiting car. “Goodness, I could easily get used to this VIP treatment,” Peri said.

She was whisked around the airport, underneath buildings, past row upon row of parked aircraft, and was deposited at the door of the VIP lounge. “Really?” she asked. “I’m a VIP?”

“It seems you are, Miss Carlton,” replied one of the Border Force officers. “At least for tonight.” He grinned. “Seriously, we were asked to get you some privacy for a couple of meetings, speed you through the airport, then get you on your way to Wales. This was the most convenient way we could do it. So just follow me, and I’ll get you to your first interview. We have a couple of Chinese gentlemen waiting for you.”

“I need to pull my emails first. I assume there’s Internet access here?”

“Let’s get the staff here to get you going,” he said, beckoning someone over. Armed with the Wi-Fi details, Peri fired up the laptop and kicked off the high-grade VPN-over-VPN secure protocol so she could pull her emails from the UN. Li had indeed sent some interesting files.

Peri’s first meeting was with the late Major Chen’s brother, a consular officer at the Embassy of the People’s Republic of China. She stepped into a wood-panelled conference room, where her two ‘Chinese gentlemen’ rose to their feet. She gave a small bow, and greeted them.

“Wanshang hao,” she said, and continued in Mandarin. “My name is Peri Carlton. Mr Chen Xiaoming?”

The younger of the men nodded, shook hands, and responded, “I am Chen Xiaoming. May I introduce Mr Yang, from our legal staff, who has kindly agreed to join me today.”

Peri shook hands with Mr Yang, who then withdrew to stand beside the door facing Chen. He was solidly built, and his suit was a cheap off-the-peg one. Yang’s no lawyer, Peri thought. A spook, if ever I saw one.

“May I express my condolences for the sad loss of your brother, Mr Chen,” said Peri. “I hope you will honour me with a few minutes of your time to talk about the Major. His colleague in New York, Ms Li Lixia, suggested you might do me that courtesy?”

“Of course,” he replied. “Might I ask, what is your role in this affair?”

“I work at the UN,” said Peri. “Ms Li is a colleague, as we are both involved with the same work on behalf of the UN. Indeed, though I unfortunately never had a chance to meet your brother, I have just been seconded to the same team that he led so ably. Quite simply, on behalf of the team, and Ms Li, and the UN, I have been asked to review the investigation by the law enforcement and Coroner services, and to advise as to whether Mr Chen’s sad passing should be a subject of interest to us at the UN.”

She watched his face carefully, as he processed her words and exchanged glances with Mr Yang. He nodded, and asked, “How may I assist you?”

“Major Chen was on leave from his post in New York. Do you know how he spent his leave before coming to the UK?”

“Yes, of course. He spent some time with relatives. Although our father died five years ago, our mother and some aunts and uncles still live at home. He visited them.”

“Where are they living? All in the same place, or did he travel around to see them all?”

“All of our living relatives reside in Hanyang, which is a district of Wuhan. I believe he spent a few days staying with our mother, and a few days sightseeing. He had never seen the Three Gorges Dam, and I believe he took a river cruise from the dam, upstream, to the gorges.”

“He travelled to London next?”

“That is so. He travelled by train to Shanghai and flew to London.”

“Please let me confirm I have understood the dates correctly,” said Peri, running a finger down the pad on which she was taking notes. “He would have arrived in China – in Shanghai – on the tenth of May. He took the train to Wuhan, arriving on the eleventh of May. He stayed in Wuhan until the seventeenth, then joined the river cruise to the gorges. He left the cruise ship on the twentieth, and immediately travelled to Shanghai by train, arriving on the twenty-first, and flew to London, arriving there on the twenty-second.

Chen Xiaoming frowned for a minute, and then nodded. “You have been most diligent,” he said.

She half-turned so she could see Mr Yang. “Colonel Li has been most diligent,” she corrected Chen. Yang was carefully keeping his face blank, but she was sure there was the slightest of reactions to her use of Li’s military rank. Definitely a spook, she thought. And he’s senior enough to know Li.

“I understand Major Chen stayed at your apartment in London, Mr Chen?” she continued.

“He did. But only for three nights. He left me on May twenty-fifth.”

Peri leaned across the table. “Why was his stay so short?” she asked. “His return flight to New York was set for May thirtieth. Did you have a disagreement of some kind?”

Chen leant back and tried to look relaxed. “On the contrary, our time together was most agreeable.”

“So, no disagreement, but nevertheless, he left earlier than planned. When in Wuhan, he also left your mother’s earlier than planned.”

“He always wanted to visit the Yangtze gorges…”

“No, he turned up at the last minute and paid in cash for that river cruise. As I said, Ms Li has been most diligent.” She turned to face Mr Yang again, and took a punt on his rank. “Major Yang, I was assured by Colonel Li that you would provide every assistance to these enquiries. Perhaps you could advise Mr Chen to be honest?” Yang raised one eyebrow at Peri, and nodded at Chen.

Chen slumped forward and rested his head on his hands. “He was depressed.” He looked up, and Peri could see his eyes filling. “His visit in Hanyang was… difficult. I was not very helpful.”

“Tell me.”

Chen sighed. “Please believe this is difficult for me.”

Do I look like I care, thought Peri. Just spit it out, for God’s sake.

“As a child, my brother wanted to be a soldier; more than that, he dreamed of being a Heroic Exemplar,” he started.

“Our grandfather had survived the Long March as a teenage soldier in the First Red Army under Mao’s leadership. He went on to serve in various Red Army and PLA formations for sixteen years, until he was seriously wounded resisting the Kuomintang counter-offensive on Hainan Island in 1950. Our father, too, served with the PLA, and he saw action in the war against Vietnam, and he was wounded at Lang Son in 1979. Thus we were brought up on tales of the military exploits of both father and grandfather, and my brother aspired to serve his country at least as well as they had.”

He made a gesture of self-deprecation. “I was always more of a scholar and had no such ambition, but he had high expectations of military glory.

“A more realistic attitude took root and grew in his teenage years, but he still aspired to greatness, or at least to be acknowledged to have given Meritorious Service to his country. This dream, too, was moderated by the passage of time: it dawned on my brother that it would be hard to stand out in an organisation almost three million strong. What can I say? He’s my brother!” He sighed, and a far-away look in his eye told Peri that he was reliving arguments from years ago.

“A few months in a training regiment confirmed his potential as officer material. A few months in officer training confirmed that my brother was likely to be competent without being outstanding. He passed fitness tests, and graduated into an infantry regiment where he was recognised as a sound administrator, but, I have to be honest, hardly an inspiring leader.”

He stopped, seemingly saddened anew by his brother’s disappointment.

“Go on, please,” said Peri, softly.

“My brother might well have served out a five-year term in the People’s Liberation Army as a First Lieutenant at most, but then he surprised his superiors – and himself – by displaying an aptitude for intelligence reporting. He studied at the PLA National Defence University, and that was followed by a posting to the Second Department of the Joint Staff Headquarters, the department responsible for military intelligence. There, my brother surprised himself again by acquiring a fluent command of English. Suddenly, he realised that new opportunities were available to him: some further training at the National Defence University and a few specialist courses later, and he was posted to the embassy in Ottawa as a Captain.

“Some of the hopes of his childhood years began to arise once more, only to sink back down into disappointment almost as fast. Embassy security realised that the Canadian authorities had identified Chen as an officer in the Second Directorate.”

He shot a glance at Yang, fearing that he had said more than was wise, but Yang simply nodded at him to continue.

“Now, my brother realised, he would be restricted to the uninteresting roles with little opportunity to act like James Bond…, or, or, …to win glory. After postings as an attaché in our embassies in other English-speaking countries – Australia, New Zealand and the United States – he finally found himself promoted to Major and posted to New York City to see out the last of his military career as an adjunct at our Mission to the UN.”

He rubbed his eyes. “This was far from the career my brother had hoped for. This left him feeling bad. But what made things worse for him was the attitude of our mother.”

He snorted a bitter laugh. “I was a disappointment, but I knew that I would be, and I know that I am. Ha! I turned out to be an intellectual, a member of the bourgeoisie, a member of the despised middle-class that was polluting the ideologies of the revolution. Our parents were brought up during the Cultural Revolution, and they were enthusiastic adherents of the dictatorship of the proletariat. Our grandparents – especially our grandfather – as genuine Long March revolutionaries, they were safe, and made sure their family was safe, from the excesses of the Red Guards. They made sure they were collectively even more rabid than the mad dogs of the Red Guards, …I need not go on. I cannot go on.”

He stopped and tears rolled down his cheeks.

“But my brother… well, he tried to live up to an ideal of proletarian heroism that was peddled by our parents, and was found wanting. He was a sore disappointment, but not like me, not for ideological reasons. Oh no, he was a disappointment because he was in the military but never fought; an officer without being a leader; a military middle-class bureaucrat without the potential to go any further.

“He came back from his trip to Wuhan very, very depressed. Unloved, criticised and unwanted by his own family – our own family – despite having tried his best to live up to their ideals.”

He held up his hands as if in surrender.

“We argued. I accused him of being a dreamer whose dreams were too big and too outdated to ever come true. He accused me of… never mind. He was depressed and I argued with him instead of helping him.

“So, being in London and chancing on curious stories about Wales – he saw that as a sign of good luck. An opportunity to end his military career with a moment of glory. My brother was unable to resist the lure. He rented a car and drove to Wales without a moment’s hesitation.”

Chen leaned back and looked at the ceiling, though his eyes were focused somewhere else in the past. Peri respectfully allowed him some moments alone inside his own head. But at last, she asked, “How deep was your brother’s despair?”

Chen abruptly sat up straight and looked at her. “He would not take his own life,” he said firmly. “He was not that type of personality. He did not take his own life.”

“I am sure you are correct,” said Peri, gently. “But was he of a mind to take, shall we say, uncharacteristic risks?”

“He was a careful man. He was never minded to take risks, especially not risks to his own life, or anyone else’s life. What are you asking?”

“If he meant to make a point, and to seek out – what did you call it? A moment of glory? Then, perhaps, he would act in an atypical way. I am asking, from your knowledge of your brother, is this possible? Even likely perhaps?”

Chen seemed to reluctant to reply, but eventually said, “It is possible.”

Peri let the silence stretch out, but it was clear that Chen was not going to say any more than that.

“You mentioned curious stories about Wales,” she said at last. “Do you know what these stories were?”

“No,” he said. “It was obvious that something had caught his interest. I asked, but he was very cryptic in his reply.”

“Cryptic? How?”

“He said something nonsensical about gods and dragons, and laughed. He spent some time using the Internet, looking for other reports about Wales. He grew quite excited at one point. I heard him say something to himself about being scared away. And that is all I know.”

“Scared away? Did he say who or what had been scared away?”

“That,” he repeated slowly, “is all I know.”

Peri let the silence stretch out a little, but it was clear that Chen was going to volunteer nothing else. “From here, Mr Chen, I will be going to Wales. On behalf of the UN, I intend to examine his possessions for items of relevance to his work. Are you content that I should do so?”

She shot a glance at Mr Yang. “The local police will already have examined and catalogued his belongings, after all. They will be signed over to consular staff when their investigations are complete.” Yang nodded.

“Well, thank you, Mr Chen and Mr Yang. Mr Chen, I know this must have been difficult for you. I will not encroach any further on your time. Unless there is anything else you feel we might address…?”

Chen simply stood and started moving towards the door. Yang spoke for the first time, in a surprisingly high-pitched voice for someone Peri had mentally labelled ‘a hood from security’. “Please assure Ms Li of my best wishes,” he said with a slight bow.

“I will assure Ms Li that your assistance in this matter was invaluable,” she replied politely.

* * *

A few minutes later came a gentle tap on the door. “May I?” said a voice.

Peri looked up and smiled. “Of course you may, Tommy, come in. It’s good to see you.”

The door opened wide to admit a small, middle aged man dressed entirely in blue denim. “Long time, no see, all that malarkey,” he said with a grin. “Last time I saw you must have that big inter-agency training exercise in South.” He was referring to the headquarters of the Secret Intelligence Service, which was south of the Thames. By the same logic, MI5 were sometimes ‘North’ and GCHQ were ‘West’.

“That’s right,” she said. “The one where I got bacon grease all over the baccarat tables in the double-oh agent training centre. I’m barred now, you know.”

They both laughed at the thought of fictional spies playing ridiculous card games.

“So,” Tommy went on. “How you doin’ Peri? I hear you’re gettin’ a bit notorious over in the Big Apple, am I right?”

“I’m not sure that’s true,” she answered with a laugh. “But come on, it’s late, it’s your weekend, and I don’t want to take up too much of it. I gather you’re doing event management these days?”

“All right,” he said, “Down to business it is. Yeah, I’m the one who normally gets handed Buckthorn events. So you want to know all about our mysterious Chinaman?”

“Please.”

“Right, here goes. Exhibit one.” He pulled out a laptop and rapidly cued up an audio clip. “Call to the Buckthorn line, May 26 at 16:43 hours. I’m sure you know these things work. The caller dials some number that looks like it’s in the back of beyond, it bounces around the country for a bit, then comes into our event centre. The call was fielded by Gareth, but I doubt if you’ll need to bother him, there wasn’t much to the call”

He tapped a key.

“Yeah? What is it?”

“Code word buckthorn. Status green.”

“Identity?”

“Uniform, November, Tango, India, Echo, zero, zero, niner, six.”

“Thank you. Please stand by for a call-back.”

“And that’s all, she wrote,” said Tommy. “As per standard protocol, Gareth checked the ID and saw it was the UNTIE team lead, John Chen. That sent his eyebrows up to his hairline, I can tell you! We don’t often get calls from Chinese spooks. He’d said the magic word, Buckthorn, but status green, so not urgent. He contacted me, I called Chen on the contact number in the database, and all I got was nothin’. His phone was off. This was 16:49 hours, so his phone had gone off the network within five minutes of his call. Strange, but he’d said status green, so I didn’t worry.”

Peri grinned at him. “And yet you’ve made the point that he said ‘green’ twice now. Come on, Tommy, don’t get all remorseful on me. How could you know he’d just fallen off a cliff?”

He shrugged. “Anyway,” he went on, “I put in a note to try his number hourly, and thought nothin’ more of it.”

“When did you hear he’d been fished out of the drink?”

“The followin’ day. Friday. Bloody hell, only yesterday. As soon as the locals ran an ID, it came up flagged for SO15 at the Met, and they contacted us. The fact he’d called out a Buckthorn meant I’ve been at work ever since, tryin’ to work out what the hell he was up to. I mean, he’s pissin’ around on our turf! What’s that all about?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out, Tommy. FYI, as of the middle of the sodding night, there’s a new UNTIE team lead for you to bitch about.”

“They didn’t waste any time! Who is it?”

“Me.”

Tommy started laughing. Then he stopped. “You’re serious, aren’t you! Bloody hell! I saw your name was in the Buckthorn clearance list all of a sudden. Now I know why, don’t I?”

Peri nodded. “Now you know. I’m in a ticklish position, as you can imagine. As an official of the UN, I’m only here to keep tabs and report back on why Chen was wandering so far off his reservation. But as a British intelligence officer, I’m Buckthorn cleared and I want to know what’s going on in Wales. I’m hoping to avoid getting caught in a conflict of interest, but there’s a PLA Colonel in New York who seems to be playing silly buggers, and I’m damned if I know why. I could really use your help, Tommy.”

“And you’ll get it, don’t worry.”

Tommy rummaged around in his case once more, and brought out a buff envelope full of paper.

“Read, cogitate, inwardly digest, and see what you make of that lot,” he said, pushing it across the table.

Peri started reading. It was mainly newspaper clippings and hard copies of Internet news pages, and between her speed-reading and remarkable memory, it took only a few minutes. She looked up at Tommy.

“I can see what caught his eye, I think. Odd weather and sudden changes in animal behaviour. Rumours of animal mutilation.” She drummed her fingers on the table briefly. “Aren’t these the sort of indicators we should be looking out for, Tommy? And by ‘we’, obviously I mean ‘you’.” She flashed him a smile to defuse the implied criticism.

“What can I say, love? I’m an event manager. I manage events when they happen. I don’t scan the horizon lookin’ for ’em.”

“Sorry, Tommy, but you’re sounding a tad defensive again. I’m not criticising, really. I’m just curious.”

He sighed. “Sorry, Peri. It’s just a bit frustratin’. We have some folks in the library that review open sources lookin’ out for the keywords and indicators that we don’t want to send outside to press clippin’ services. But Janice, she’s off on maternity leave, and Paula, she’s been on holiday this past three weeks. The team’s short-handed, and Buckthorn is a lower priority than you might like. So things get missed.”

“I get it, Tommy, really I do. So our Major Chen spotted something, did some research, and got it into his head to go and check it out for himself. He shouldn’t have, but he did. And he called in a Buckthorn, and then he died. Sounds like an event just might have occurred. Are you actively treating it as such?”

Tommy looked more comfortable with the slight change of subject. “It’s not an active event, because we don’t know what Chen was goin’ to say. Local police are lookin’ into it, so we’re waitin’ for their paperwork. To be on the safe side, I’ve got a UKSF observation team on site. But I can’t justify keepin’ them there for long, or Director Special Forces will be all over us about wastin’ his precious resources. Best I can do, until and unless somethin’ actually happens.”

“Fair enough,” she replied, and stifled a yawn.

Tommy grinned. “How long you been up, then?”

“Too bloody long. And I’m headed out West from here.”

“West as in…?”

“Arwensmouth. I’m going to see the scene for myself. If there’s anything amiss, you’ll be hearing about it, I promise. As UNTIE team lead, I’m not going to go off-piste.”

“And as Peri Carlton?”

“As UNTIE team lead, I’ll behave as UNTIE team lead should behave.”

He laughed. “Nicely evaded, Peri. Now I have to say, that’s pretty much what I expected.”

He gathered his things into his case, and carefully locked and padlocked it. “See you round, Peri.”

Peri, too, packed up her things, and went off to find the promised driver, to take her out west.

Chapter 18

Anifail Island, North Wales, May 28th last year

At about half past eight in the evening, having (in Tori’s mind) wasted hours messing about taking pictures in the Mithraeum, Maxwell decreed that the party should eat and get a good night’s sleep before getting ‘seriously stuck in’ – his exact words – in the morning.

He had looked expectantly at Gilda when he mentioned eating, prompting her to roll her eyes and ‘volunteer’ to do pasta and polpette, deliberately using the Italian word in in the hope that Tori would have to ask what it meant. She was disappointed.

When he mentioned ‘sleep’ his gaze had flicked over to Tori who responded to him with a wicked smile, a salacious mental nudge, and finger circling one of her nipples. Gilda did not miss the first and third, and rolled her eyes again. Tori did not miss the eye-roll, and smirked.

Owain just seemed oblivious to the cross-currents, and volunteered to sort out the lighting for the morning while dinner was cooking.

Maxwell and the two women left Owain running cables from the generator down to the Mithraeum to set up some additional work-lights, and headed back out to the campers. Gilda paused to ask Tori if she fancied giving her a hand. Tori just smiled at her, and said she had faith in Gilda’s ability to boil a meatball. She strolled off to the VW without a backward glance, but her keen hearing picked up Gilda’s muttered curses, which was quite satisfying.

Tori had intended to make a start on getting Maxwell thoroughly worked up, but he surprised and annoyed her by walking off towards the main road, intending to find what he described as ‘the elusive proprietor of this here farm’. She lingered in the VW just long enough – she hoped – to save a bit of face, then made for the Aero. “Hey Gilda,” she said with false cheerfulness. “I thought I’d set the table, doll.”

“Done,” replied Gilda with a smirk.

“Right, well done, doll,” said Tori. “How’s the sauce coming along? Anything I can help with?”

“I think I can boil a meatball on my own. What’s up? Maxwell not in the mood for a quickie, then?”

“He went to talk to the farmer.”

“And you got bored within, what? A minute of your own company?”

“More like two minutes, doll. To be honest, I sat down and pictured myself as Gilda. I asked myself, what would Gilda do? But that was so, soooooo, sad and depressing, and rather than top myself out of misery, I came over here.”

Gilda stood glaring at Tori, who could see she was trying to calm herself down. Finally, Gilda snapped, “You don’t like me much, do you?”

“And you’re not exactly my biggest fan, are you, doll?”

“You’re taking advantage of Maxwell…”

Tori laughed. “And you wish it was you, right?”

Gilda opened her mouth to answer, but stopped abruptly as the door opened.

Owain came in. “Hmm, something smells good,” he said. “Did I hear you say ‘polpette’? Is that tiny octopuses? Or should I call them ‘octopi’?”

Gilda laughed, but it was Tori who answered him. “No, silly. You’re confusing it with ‘polpo’. That’s an octopus, all right, but little ones wold be ‘polpini’. A ‘polpetta’ is a meatball.”

Tori suddenly realised that Gilda and Owain were both staring at her in surprise. She quickly added, “What? Am I not allowed to be able to speak Italian, or something? I’ll have you know, I’ve spent a lot of time in the Med, and all I have to say to you two is, ‘Vaffancullo!’ Need me to translate?” She turned and walked out of the camper. When she reached the VW van, she leaned against it and murmured, “Oops. Slipped out of character, didn’t I?”

“What’s that? You’re not talking to yourself, are you sweetheart?” Maxwell was back.

“Blimey, that was quick,” she said with a laugh.

“Ah, I could see he wasn’t back. I left a note on the door, you see, and I could see it was still there. If he’d come back, he’d have moved it, don’t you think? Anyway, I couldn’t be bothered walking all the way to the house, when it was keeping me away from you, sweetie.”

“Aw, Maxwell, you are soooooo sweet!” giggled Tori, and she leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek. Maxwell responded by pulling her close to him, and kissing her lips. Passionately. She responded enthusiastically, with lips and tongue, tasting the sweet energy of his growing arousal.

“Mm, Tori,” he gasped between kisses. “You taste delicious!” His hands roved her body, uncertain where to linger, wanting to explore every curve.

“Later, babe,” she whispered into his ear. “Food first. You’re going to need all your strength tonight.” Despite her words, her fingers continued to roam across the back of his jeans and one hand slipped down the front, tracing the outline of his erection.

“I’m not sure I can wait,” he whispered, slipping a hand under her top.

Tori nibbled at his lips, and murmured, “Down, boy. I have some new tricks to show you later. And you know the old saying.” She giggled. “Abstinence makes the hard on stronger.”

“Hm, I’m not convinced that’s how the old saying really goes,” Maxwell whispered. “But I like what you did with it.” He released her, and took a deep breath. “And I know I’ll like what you do with me, later.” He leaned back in and kissed her. “But not too much later.”

“Oh, yes, Maxwell, you’ll like it all right. So come on, let’s go and eat.”

* * *

The meal had been delicious. Even Tori had to admit that Gilda knew how to cook pasta to perfection, and that there was not much that could go wrong with meatballs in tomato and basil sauce. Tori had even surprised Owain and Gilda by producing a bottle of red wine to go with it; she insisted on a little celebration now that they had uncovered the hiding place of Belbo’s dragon.

Finally, Maxwell stood up, smiled at the curvy blonde, and said, “It’s way past my bedtime. Are you coming, sweetie?”

“I’ll be right along, Maxwell,” Tori replied. “I’ll help with the dishes.”

As soon as Maxwell was out of the door, Gilda glared at Tori. “Dishes my arse! What do you really want?”

“Oh, Gilda, doll. What could you possibly have that I’d want, I wonder?”

Owain spoke up. “Come on, girls, there’s no need for that kind of attitude. Look, Tori, me and Gilda can sort out the dishes, why don’t you go and join Maxwell?”

Tori turned to him and looked into his eyes, which widened as he felt her invade his mind. “What… What’s happening?” He started gasping for breath and sank down onto the bench seat behind him.

“Owain?” said Gilda. “Are you all right? Oh god!” She realised he was in trouble. “He can’t breathe! Tori, help me with him!” She tried to push past Tori to get to Owain’s side. Tori seized her arm in a vise-like grip, turned her slightly, and shocked Gilda by slamming a fist into her solar plexus. Gilda staggered backwards, gasping for breath as her diaphragm spasmed. Tori glanced at Owain, observed that he was still fighting for air, and pushed a repeat of her mental commands to reinforce the illusion of suffocating. She turned back to Gilda as she attempted to pull herself fully upright.

“What are you doing?” Gilda’s eyes were wide with fear.

“Having fun, doll,” replied Tori with a laugh. “I’ve been a good girl way too long! Do you want to see some of my party tricks?” She held her hands up next to her face. “Watch this, doll.” Her fingers stretched and hardened into talons, and her canine teeth descended into sharp points.

Gilda opened her mouth to scream, but Tori struck with inhuman speed. A single raptor-like claw thrust into the front of Gilda’s throat, punching through her thyroid cartilage and angling downward and back in a precise move that sliced through her vocal chords. Gilda clutched at her throat with both hands, while Tori laughed. Gilda’s mouth opened and closed uselessly, unable to form words.

Tori lowered one hand and gently placed it against Gilda’s chest, just below her breast and left of her sternum. She smiled into Gilda’s shocked eyes. “Hey, doll,” she said. “Want to know why I keep calling you that? Doll? Do you want to know?” She put on an expression of mock contrition. “Oh, sorry, doll. You can’t answer me, can you? I forgot. Hey, never mind, I’ll tell you anyway.” She grinned. “It’s because I knew all the time that before we were done here, I’d get to play with you.” Tori’s fingers pressed into Gilda’s chest. “Just like.” Her claws pricked Gilda’s skin through her sweater. “My.” The claws dug deep, scraping ribs as they sank into Gilda. “Little.” There was a crunch of breaking ribs. “Doll.”

The pain was astonishing. Gilda tried to scream, but her ravaged throat only managed, “Unh-unh!” She could feel Tori’s hand wrapping around her heart.

Tori folded her fingers around Gilda’s heart, and she thrilled to the feel of its irregular, panicked fluttering. “Are we having fun, doll?” she hissed into Gilda’s ear. “Are we afraid yet?” Gilda’s reactions were causing the atmosphere in the camper to saturate with a miasma of fear and death. Tori breathed it in, deeply, and used the fingers buried in Gilda’s chest to channel life’s energy into herself. Finally, she clenched her fist tightly around Gilda’s throbbing heart and yanked it free. A gout of blood followed it out through a gaping hole in her chest.

Tori hissed and watched Gilda’s eyes while their life drained away. “Are you watching doll?” she snarled. The last thing Gilda saw was Tori’s sharp teeth biting into her bloody heart. Tori laughed. She pulled Gilda’s mouth wide open and shoved the heart inside. She put on a fake Australian accent, and said, “Gilda? Well, you can live on it. But it tastes like shit.”

Tori turned to Owain. She let her teeth return to normal and retracted her talons. She grinned at him and patted him on the cheek. “Your turn, baby,” she said. She relaxed her mental hold on Owain and he felt the awful sensation of asphyxiation recede.

“Who…” he struggled to speak. “Who… No what are you?”

“Oh, babe,” she laughed. “I’m an actor, remember? I suppose my poor little doll thought she was being eaten by a werewolf, or a vampire, or something. I was certainly doing my best to channel Bela Lugosi, anyway. But that was an act. My speciality doesn’t work on girls, you see, just the male of the species. No, for girls I need to fall back on being sharp and pointy and hurting them.” She began to remove her bloodstained clothing, and giggled as she saw Owain’s eyes locked on her own in terror, despite the perfectly-formed breasts she had exposed. “Don’t you like what I have on show?” she asked. She slipped her panties down and posed for him, half turned with her voluptuous tits and arse in profile, her eyelids drooping sensually. She pushed lewd thoughts into his mind and released a wave of pheromones that teased his olfactory nerve endings. Owain could not help himself – his eyes took in her naked body, his trousers tented, and he felt rising heat suffuse the centre of his being.

Tori smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. She breathed deeply and tasted the lust in the air; hot, spicy and delicious. Owain found himself helpless, unable to move. “Worked it out yet, babe?” she asked in a breathy rasp. She unzipped his trousers and slipped a hand inside, feathering her fingers across his cock. “I feed on energies,” she went on, tracing circles round his sensitive tip with a finger. “In a push, I can get by on sucking the life out of a human. Like my little doll, there. But that doesn’t taste very nice.” She wrapped her fist round his erection and slid up and down. “No, my preference is sex. What do you think? Anything to say, babe?”

Against his will, and to his own horror, Owain heard himself croak, “Don’t stop.”

Tori responded by kissing him, hard. A kiss that involved her lips, tongue and teeth, sensual teasing pleasure and just a little pain. “Ah, sorry, babe,” she whispered into his ear. She ran her tongue down the side of his neck from his earlobe down to his shoulder. “All good things have to end. Unless you’re me, of course, because I’m good, and I don’t end. No, I have a hot date in the other van. I’d love to stay and play, but I don’t want Maxwell wondering why the dishes are taking so long.” Her hand found its way up under his shirt to tease his nipple, making him gasp. She dug her nails in and dragged down towards his waist again. Owain whimpered. “So this little monster is going to have to leave. Have you guessed yet? Have you worked it out? What kind of ravishing predator feeds on sex?” She pulled his cock vertical and straddled him, sinking down onto his length so that he cried out. “Still no answer?” She rocked her hips back and forward. “Oh, I see, your attention is otherwise engaged. I’ll have to give you the answer, won’t I? I’ll let you into my little secret.”

Owain cried out again, and she felt him spasming beneath her. “I’m the succubus,” she breathed. “I’m the apex predator, and you’re the prey.” She stretched her arms out, brushed his hair aside, and pressed her fingers into his temples, directing the surging energy of his orgasm into herself. She synchronised her brain with his, bringing him totally in thrall to her, and drew out and consumed his life.

“Goodbye, Owain,” she whispered. She closed her eyes, and luxuriated in the sensations of the moment. Finally she stood, and went out naked and smiling into the night to join Maxwell.

* * *

Tori had entered the VW camper, gloriously naked, on a gust of aphrodisiacal pheromones that had instantly aroused Maxwell.

At first, their love-making had followed the usual path – Maxwell was gentle, caring and considerate, doing all he could to give Tori pleasure even as she gave enjoyment back. Things changed. Tori gradually ramped up her mental influence, pushing ideas into Maxwell’s head and damping down his own willpower. He was not sure how it had happened, but it dawned on him that Tori was in control, that she had drawn him into more energetic – almost violent – copulation, and that he could not stop himself. He found himself gripping her hair and ramming his member into her face in time with her grunts and slaps against his backside, and then howling aloud as he spurted copiously into her throat while her laughter set up vibrations that coursed through his soul. As he pulled himself out, he realised that he had just orgasmed for the fourth – or was it the fifth? – time. And as soon as she breathed her spicy scent onto him, his cock instantly lost its temporary flaccidity, jutting, rock hard and ready. He wondered, briefly, how this could be, before Tori’s searching fingers probed into him from behind and his rationality was blown away by animalistic lust.

He had scarcely noticed when Tori took him across the fuzzy boundary that separated pleasure from pain. She bit his chest, his nipples, his earlobes; he bit her neck, her fingers, her breasts. She smacked the head of his cock and he spanked her backside. She ravished the puckered opening behind him with all her fingers while Maxwell’s teeth drew blood from her hard nipples. He was lost in a fog of lust, with just a vague notion at the back of his head telling him that this, surely, could not be natural. But he was Tori’s thrall; he was incapable of sustaining rational thought

And, of course, it was not natural.

It had been a long time since Tori had last thrown caution to the wind and let her succubus nature fully indulge itself. She rarely had both the time and suitable prey to let her spend a whole night – and more – stoking the flames of lust with her scent and her mind control, consuming the wonderfully delicious energy released by her victim in the throes of orgasm, again and again. The human body was normally incapable of more than an hour or so of sustained passion before shutting down, but the scents and secretions of the succubus sent the male physiology into sexual overdrive. The body cannibalized its own tissues to produce hormones, fluids and energy that sustained its sex drive, that generated lust, that was siphoned off and consumed by the succubus, that stimulated her prey to continue the process, and continue it would, over and over, until the victim had been drained. For too long Tori had been forced to get by on the equivalent of snacks and fast food; but tonight she was taking her time, without fear of interruption, and enjoying a sumptuous banquet that was sending her into ecstasy.

She was not, however, so lost in pleasure that she took her feeding to the obvious conclusion: death. She wanted Maxwell alive. Dawn had already broken when she judged that Maxwell’s metabolism was incapable of being drained further, and she let him rest. She lay beside him, replete and very, very satisfied.

Some time later, she felt Maxwell stir. She propped herself on one elbow and studied him carefully. She smiled to herself as she observed how awful he looked. It was not that she felt any malice towards him; far from it, in fact. She liked him well enough, as well as any predator could like her food supply, which when you think about it is quite a lot. No, she was smiling because she had judged things well. He had lost a good deal of muscle tissue, enough that he would pose no threat, but was still alive enough for her purposes.

“Ungh.” Maxwell was trying to talk. “Ungh, ah, …Tori.”

“Maxwell, love, good morning,” she said brightly.

“Ungh.”

“If you were wondering, it’s mid-morning. I made sure Owain and Gilda wouldn’t disturb us, and we’ve treated ourselves to a long lie. Isn’t that nice?”

“Weak,” Maxwell managed to say. “Wr… Wrong.”

“You’re feeling a bit weak this morning?” she asked. “Well, really, I can’t say I’m too surprised, darling. You were quite the stud last night! I’m very flattered by the number of times you got it up, I have to say!”

“Wrong… Feel wrong.”

“A little bit poorly, are you? Oh, dear, well that can happen. Never mind.”

Memories were surfacing in Maxwell’s mind. “What… What did you do… To me?… Why?”

She looked at him, considering what to say. Then she smiled, and said, “Let me tell you a little story, Maxwell. It’s about a man, an old but very rich man, who decided he wanted to go hunting in Africa. So he went off to some nature park or other, where there were lions, and he found himself a guide. For a price, he was told, this guide could guarantee that he could hunt himself a lion. So the old man was delighted, and he agreed a price, and then he met the guide who would get him his lion. The guide was an old man, too, just not quite as old as the rich man. And the rich man, well, he noticed that the guide was checking out his legs. The guide was looking at the rich man’s legs that is. He was carefully looking at him, in his khaki safari shorts, and nodding his head in satisfaction. So the rich man said, ‘I see you’re checking out my legs. What’s that about?’ And the guide answered, ‘Well you see, sir, it’s just that lions, they’re not too fond of being shot. They might not be kind enough to stand still for it.’ And the rich man said, ‘I see. You’re looking at my legs to make sure I can outrun a lion if one of them attacks. And you look satisfied.’ The guide, he replied, ‘Oh no sir, that’s not it at all. You see, I’m just checking to make sure you can’t outrun me. And you’re right, I am satisfied.’” She gave a little laugh. “See if you can work it out.”

She stood and stretched. “Now, if you feel up to it, we could fuck again.” She saw the look on his face and laughed. “You don’t feel like fucking? Thought not. Ah well, your loss, Maxwell. In that case, I’d better put some clothes on, and get to work.” She looked at him, considering. “I think I’ll have to dress you, won’t I? Okay, no problem. Come on then, we’ve got a dragon to find.”

Chapter 19

Arwensmouth, North Wales, May 29, last year

A black Jaguar stopped outside the Arwensmouth Inn, and Peri Carlton stepped out. She gazed, curious, up and down the narrow village street while her driver unloaded her suitcase. It was eight in the morning.

Her original plan had been to simply get to Arwensmouth as quickly as possible so she could get some badly-needed sleep. As they set off from Heathrow, though, the driver had reminded her of the time, and pointed out that it would be well after midnight before they reached the Welsh coast. She phoned ahead to grab a room in a hotel at motorway services on the M6 motorway, and spent a frustrating night fitfully tossing and turning as her skewed body clock protested and kept her from sleep. She had been pleasantly surprised to see that Janice had packed Captain Buzz – thoughtfulness that deserved to be rewarded – but she knew she was too edgy, her nerves too taut, for the good Captain to work his magic, so he stayed in the bag.

She had no idea where the driver had spent the night, and frankly she was in no mood to care. All she knew – all that mattered – was that he was ready and waiting to resume the journey when she finally gave up on sleep, pulled on a black tee shirt and cargo pants, filled her pockets and left.

She pushed open the Inn’s front door and held it as the driver put her suitcase and shoulder bag on the floor just inside. She thanked him and watched him drive away, realising only then that she had been so wiped out by the journey that she had failed to summon up the good manners even to ask his name. She pushed in through a door labelled ‘bar and dining’. Several people were at breakfast, and every head swivelled to the door as she stepped in. A dumpy, middle aged woman with a blue tabard over her dress bustled past, carrying two ‘full English’ breakfasts.

“Sorry, love,” she said to Peri in passing. “Let me serve these and I’ll be right back.”

She put the two platefuls of food in front of two young men that were seated at a corner table, their seats at angle where they could watch the doors, windows and other diners without turning their heads. I’ve seen their type before, Peri thought. Neat, alert and watchful. Tommy’s observation team. Her eyes roamed across the room, taking in an elderly couple sitting in the window alcove, talking animatedly over a map – bird-watchers? she thought – and an old man with white hair and a bushy beard, with a large dog lying under his table. Santa? she thought, and Shouldn’t that be a reindeer, not a dog? She smiled to herself. Then the smile disappeared, as first the dog, and then the man, stared at her so hard that she swore she could feel her skin prickling under their intense gaze.

“Sorry, love,” said the woman in the tabard again, as she stopped in front of Peri. “Can I help you?”

“My name’s Carlton,” said Peri. “My office booked accommodation for me for a few days. I’m afraid I was held up at Heathrow, or I would have been here last night.”

“Oh? Right, I’ll just get Jim,” she said, and headed for a door behind the bar counter, that obviously led to the kitchens. Her voice drifted back to Peri as she vanished. “I’m Mrs Dilby, by the way, but everybody calls me Maura.”

A moment later, a bald and clearly flustered man emerged. “Miss Carlton? Hello, I’m Jim Dilby. Call me Jim. Listen, I might have a problem.” He spoke rapidly, giving Peri no opportunity to reply. “We didn’t see you last night, so we didn’t think you would be here, see, so, er, so it’s like this, ah, your room’s gone.”

She laughed. “I hope you’re kidding Mr Dilby. It can’t be gone.”

“Didn’t think…”

“…I’d be here, yes, I got that. But did I not have a valid reservation? Did my office not pay a deposit or register a credit card to secure the room? Mm?”

“Well, we didn’t think… And the fellow turned up, well, he was here, see, and…”

“And now I am here,” said Peri. “What are you going to do about that?”

Dilby mopped his bald head with a tea towel. Peri snatched it out of his hand. “And I trust you are not wiping plates with this.” She tossed the tea towel over the bar so it landed on the floor.

“Well…” He shrugged apologetically.

“How many rooms do you have?” she demanded.

“Just the six,” he answered, meekly.

“And all six are occupied?”

“Well, yes.”

“By whom?”

“By…” he stopped himself. “Now see here, young lady, I don’t see that’s any business of yours! My customers have every right to their privacy, you know, and…”

“Is one of them occupied by a Mr Chen?”

Dilby just stared at her.

“Put clean sheets on the bed. He won’t be using it, will he? Being dead, and all.”

“I can’t… no way can I… the police are investigating, so I can’t clear his things out!”

“I didn’t say you should clear his things out. Leave them. I’ll be going through it all anyway.”

He gaped. Finally he said, “Who are you, to be going through his things? You can’t…”

“I represent Mr Chen’s employers, and I just came here straight from talking to his next of kin, his brother, and a rep from the Chinese Embassy. Now let me know when my room’s ready, and get someone to stick my case upstairs. I’ll have a cup of coffee. Black, no sugar”

She picked up her shoulder bag and walked across to sit with the two men in the corner.

“You don’t mind,” she said, making it very clearly a statement and not a question.

* * *

Gus Vasa had been first down to breakfast, accustomed as he was to rising early to walk his dog. It wasn’t that Tash needed to be walked, but experience had taught him long ago that it was expected, and if people did not see the expected, it provoked their curiosity. And other people’s curiosity was the last thing Gus wanted to provoke. He picked up a copy of the local paper, and went to sit in one of the two far corners of the bar, with his back to the corner so he could see the whole room without needing to turn his head. Tash, as always, lay on the floor at his feet. Gus pretended to be interested in the paper.

Mrs Dilby – Maura, he reminded himself – bustled in from the kitchen. When her eye alighted on Gus and Tash in the corner, she apologised for keeping him waiting and quickly set his table. He asked for coffee and a full English breakfast, at her convenience, because, he told her, he was early and really should know better than to inconvenience his hostess. He settled in to indulge in some people-watching, a pastime that promised to be more interesting than usual this morning.

Next guest down to breakfast was the journalist. Gus knew he was a journalist, because he had arrived the previous evening and broadcast the fact loudly to everyone within earshot, which was probably everyone in the village, he was so loud. He had arrived at almost eleven, and then proceeded to harangue and bully Jim Dilby until he caved in and gave him a room, fearful of adverse reviews of his establishment getting into the press. Gus thought he was despicable. Tash offered to bite him, or, at the very least, piss on his leg. As a dumb animal, he explained reasonably, he could get away with that where Gus wouldn’t.

The journalist looked around the room, and when Maura bustled in, he declined the offer of breakfast with a smug ‘that’s for wimps’ and asked for coffee in a take-away cup to accompany his ‘morning gasper’. He’d smirked at Gus, not in a friendly way, and left. Tash wanted to go after him, but Gus said no.

Next in was the elderly couple. They said a polite good morning to both Gus and to Tash, then took their places in the window alcove. From a brief conversation the previous evening, and from shamelessly eavesdropping on their conversation, Gus knew they were retired teachers with a penchant for rambling. Today, they were contemplating a walk along the coastal path to the west, a picnic lunch, and then a ramble back by a set of inland footpaths. Gus was happy that they were not planning on crossing to the island, because then he’d have to talk them out of it. The island was not a good place to ramble. No, they had been put off that by news of the discovery of a corpse wafting along on the tide.

Then the two youngish men came in. The elderly couple speculated that they were gay lovers. Since they both seemed to be hard of hearing, their voices carried, and the two men had to hide smiles. Gus and Tash were sure they were soldiers. The way they carried themselves, their watchfulness and their obvious fitness gave it away. Special forces, if Gus was any judge of fighting men. They seemed to be simply watching and waiting. They had showed considerable interest in the corpse, and he had heard them speculating about where it had gone into the water in terms that made it clear they were familiar with the sea and the actions of tides. Gus was intrigued by them.

And then a young woman walked in. Tash’s interest was immediate and intense.

“What is it, Tash?” he asked, without words.

“I don’t know,” Tash answered, inside Gus’s head where nobody else could listen. “Now, I’ve got to say, she is interesting.”

Gus studied the woman as she put Jim Dilby, rather sharply, in his place. She was average height, he supposed, and quite slender. Her skin was olive-toned, not the snow-white of the Anglo-Saxon, and her hair was black and frizzy, and pulled back into a rough pony tail. She was dressed completely in black, and her face and clothes had that crumpled, baggy look of someone who has travelled a long way and is close to exhausted.

“She glows,” said Tash. “I don’t suppose anyone but me can see it, though.”

“No,” replied Gus. “I don’t suppose so. I certainly can’t see anything odd about her.”

They watched as she sat down with the two soldiers.

“Ah, that’s what they were waiting for,” thought Gus.

* * *

“You don’t mind,” said the young woman, and sat down opposite the two men. She yanked a clip out of her and ran her fingers through it, making it stand up like an out-of-control Afro. She said nothing else until Maura Dilby had set a mug in front of her, and filled it with coffee. When Maura moved away, she leaned forward. “Morning, boys,” she said softly. “I’m Peri. Did Tommy let you know I was on my way?”

They glanced at each, and then the one she judged was a little older, and probably senior, said, equally softly, “I feel we should saying things like, ‘The geese fly south for the winter’. You know. Some kind of password?”

“How about ‘buckthorn red’?”

“That’s a start,” he said. “We were told you were on your way last night.”

“Jet lag,” she tersely. “I was on my way last night, but I had to stop.”

The other man snorted. “Jet lag, from London to Wales? What’s the time difference, then?”

She held out her wrist, where her watch read 4:20. “That’s home time,” she said. The two laughed. “OK, twenty-four hours ago I was hauled out of bed in the middle of the fucking night in New York, given a quick briefing, a new job, and shoved on a plane to London with a pile of buckthorn homework so I could come here and put up with your so-called wit. I’m shagged out, irritated, disgruntled, out of my depth, fucking annoyed that they gave away my room, irritated, and if that wasn’t bad enough I’ve broken a fucking nail.”

“You said ‘irritated’ twice.”

“I’m twice as irritated. And I can’t stand fucking smart-arses who count things. Right?”

The older of the two grinned broadly. “I think you’ve established your identity. Tommy said to expect a mad woman with crazy hair and a tongue that could strip wallpaper.”

“You got me on a good day. And what do you mean by ‘crazy hair’? That Tommy – he’s nothing but a gangrenous haemorrhoid in the slimy, stinking arse-crack of the fucking universe. He’ll be sorry, believe me.”

“Whew! How much coffee have you had?”

“Not nearly enough. Right. You know who I am, I’m crazy hair woman, also known as Peri Carlton. Who are you?”

“I’m Steve Taylor, and he’s Troy Marks.”

“Not ‘Tempest’? And doesn’t that make your sidekick ‘Phones’?”

Troy groaned. Steve said, “Hang on, isn’t it obvious? He’s the sidekick.”

Peri grinned. “Were your parents big fans of ‘Stingray’ then?”

“Nope. Shakespeare. It’s short for Troilus. But it could have been worse!”

She laughed. “It certainly could. I bet you’re glad it wasn’t Pandarus,”

He laughed in turn. “You know the play, then. I think Thersites would have been worse.”

“Listen, I can sympathise with the problems of growing up with an exotic name. Children can be right little bastards, can’t they?” She pulled her passport out of her bag and handed it across to Troy. His eyes widened.

“Bloody hell, what were your parents thinking?”

“Don’t say it out loud,” she said quickly.

“My lips are sealed, ma’am.”

She turned to Steve. “So. ‘Steve’ is it? Don’t you feel odd having such a mundane name?”

“It might be short for something unbelievably strange. Tell you what, I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

She waggled her eyebrows and teasingly started to lift the hem of her tee shirt. She let it drop and stuck out her tongue at him.

“Very elegant,” Steve said, laughing.

“What can I say? I’m a linguist.”

“But are you a cunning one?”

“Enough of this,” said Peri. “What’s new?”

“Ah, Okay,” said Steve. “Nothing much. We’ve been watching the comings and goings. Quite honestly, Tommy wasn’t sure what was going on, so his advice was to wait for you to brief us.”

Peri noted that they now had the room to themselves. She sighed. “Guys, I’m an observer from the United Nations, that’s all. Tommy is your event manager.”

“Really,” Steve looked shocked. “I thought you were…” He looked round and dropped his voice to a whisper. “- one of Tommy’s people. You know, London North.”

Peri leaned in and lowered her voice too. “Between you and me, I’m not with North, I’m not with South. I’m with West. I’m an analyst stroke translator. I don’t do field work. And honest, no kidding, I was asked to check out Chen’s death on behalf of the UN.”

“Well, me and Troy, we’re just guns and muscles. Tommy said you’re here to do the thinking.”

“Then we’re fucked. And I don’t buy that. I’ve worked with Hereford people before, I know that’s not true.”

“Hereford?” Troy looked offended. “Have you seen that big greyish bluish thing out there? That’s called the sea, that is. Hereford don’t like getting their feet wet.”

“All right, I’ve worked with Poole people, yadda, yadda.”

“So, boss,” said Steve. “What do we do?”

Peri sighed with more than a hint of irritation. “What do we know about what happened to Chen? That’s what us what do the thinking call a rhetorical question, by the way. The answer is that we know close to the square root of sod all. So what would a guns and muscles specialist do to improve our knowledge?”

The looked at her, expectantly.

“That wasn’t rhetorical.”

“Oh, right,” said Troy. “Well, go and look, obviously.”

“Obviously,” said Peri, dryly. “So, first order of business is reconnaissance. When do we get a ferry?”

“Ah,” Steve said. “That’s a more difficult question than you know. Let me see, it must be close to slack water now, and we need a bit of a tidal flow, so I think we need to wait…”

“Fuck! Do I need to know the phases of the bloody moon to get on a boat?” snapped Peri. “What is this fucking ferry – pre-menstrual?”

“…half an hour,” Steve finished. “We can get kitted out…” He made a finger gun and mimed shooting. “… and stroll across to the get the ferry.”

“So you boys have weapons handy, besides your devastating wit, I mean.”

“We not only have guns, we also have muscles,” said Troy with a suggestive leer.

Peri stood. “I’m going to ignore that one,” she said. “Right. I’m popping down to see the village bobby. I’ll meet you by the ferry in half an hour, fully kitted out with my deadly bad temper, and god help anything that gets in my way.” She put her shoulder bag on the table. “Put that in your secure storage. If it gets lost then I get shat on from on high, and we all know which way shit flows. Right. I’m off.” She waved her hand roughly southward as she spoke, then noticed that both men were pointing in the opposite direction. “I knew that,” she grumbled, and headed out the door.

* * *

Arwensmouth had a tiny police station, normally manned only during the tourist season, but it was hosting the official police investigation into Chen’s death. It was down by the little harbour, and difficult to miss with a marked police car sitting outside. She walked into a tiny, empty reception area. Seeing no-one behind the counter she simply shouted, “Shop!” at the top of her voice. After a minute or so, she heard a toilet flush, and a uniformed constable emerged from a door to her left.

“Good morning, madam,” he said. “How may I be of assistance?”

“Morning,” she answered. “I’m Peri Carlton, from the UN. I wanted to talk to the lead investigator about my colleague, Mr Chen.”

“Ah, Mr Chen, is it. Well, madam, may I offer condolences over your loss.”

“Thank you.”

“And I regret to say that my colleagues are over the water at the moment,” he said with a gesture in the direction of Anifail.

“Do you know when they are expected back?”

“Ah.” He scratched his right ear. “Truth to tell, no, I’m not sure. They went over first thing, see, just to clear up the scene, and I did think they’d be back before slack water. But they’re still over there.”

“They’re clearing up? Have they finished, then?”

“Pretty much, madam. We picked up all the forensics we could at the scene, and the circumstances look clear cut, see. We’re due back in Colwyn today.”

“Can you tell me what conclusions you’ve come to?”

Again, he scratched his ear. “Well, I’m not sure. You’re from the UN, you said. Well, Mr Chen being Chinese, see, we’ve been asked to keep it between us, and London, and that’s all.” He screwed up his face in thought. “But I don’t see that it’ll do any harm, like, you being a colleague.

“We searched the river banks and the seashore both ways, and all round the island. We identified the spot where he went into the water, see. He dropped down the cliff, and when the tide came in it floated him off and round to where we found him. His rucksack was on the cliff path on the island, and a climbing rope was tied off to the fence right by it. The evidence says he went down the cliff, like, and fell off.”

“He was alone?”

“No other fresh footprints but his by the cliff edge. The rest is up to the Coroner, but we reckon it was an accident. I mean, it wasn’t deliberate. Not suicide.”

“Yes, I see, if he intended suicide, why go down part way on a rope, I suppose.”

“That’s right, madam.”

Peri, nodded and was about to turn away, when a thought struck her. “I understand there was a climbing accident a few weeks ago?” she asked.

The constable nodded back. “That is true, madam. Happily, there was just one minor injury, a young lady who had been climbing the cliff.”

“What happened?”

“The cliff face just crumbled away and fell off,” he answered, and looked thoughtful. “I’ve been thinking Mr Chen was looking at where the cliff broke away. It’s possible the same thing happened to him, you see, the cliff crumbled and he lost his hold.”

“Thank you, officer. That’s very helpful. Well, I suppose I’ll probably see your colleagues on the island when I get over there.”

“Indeed, madam. Take care now.”

* * *

Though only fifteen minutes had elapsed, she saw that Steve and Troy were waiting by the ferry ramp.

“Did you get what you wanted from the police?” asked Steve.

“Yes, there was a constable in there, and he brought me up to date.” Peri quickly summarised the conversation. She saw both men were frowning. “What’s up?”

Steve gestured toward the island. “We’ve seen no signs of people moving over there. That’s odd, I think. And I’m a little concerned that the cops crossed over at the crack of dawn and didn’t come back when their man expected them.”

“Hm. Well, we need to keep an eye out for them. Did you pick up your things?” She mimed a pistol shot.

“Yep. We brought along my good friends, Mr Sig and Mr Sauer.” He held his jacket open to let her see the butt of a small pistol.

“Hm. Tiny. Sure it isn’t Sweet and Sauer? Looks like a toy to me,” she said, and looking at Troy, she asked, “Is yours that small as well?”

“I’ve never had a complaint,” said Steve.

“It’s not the size that matters,” contributed Troy.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve lost count of the number of times a guy has told me size doesn’t matter,” Peri grinned. “Usually when they’re trying to convince themselves of… something.” She nodded towards the ferry. “Shall we board?”

They walked up the ramp and onto the ferry. A man was leaning into the little cabin at the front of the boat, talking to someone inside. He looked round when he heard their footsteps. “Morning!” he called out.

“Morning,” Peri answered. “Three of us to cross over. How much will that be?”

The man shook he head, and said, “No charge for pedestrians, my dear. Only vehicles.” He gave a box labelled ‘Tips’ a significant look.

“Really? Oh, thanks very much,” replied Peri. “How does the ferry stay in business if there’s no charge? There can’t be a lot of road traffic going over there.”

“Council subsidies,” he explained. “The running costs aren’t much, see, and it’s cheaper than putting in a bridge. We’ll be off in a minute.” He leaned into the cabin. “If you’ll permit, Gus, I’ll need in there now.”

“Of course, Bill,” was the reply, and the white-bearded old man she had seen having breakfast stepped out, with his very large dog at his heels. He smiled at Peri and her companions. “Good morning, folks,” he called out. “I’m Gus. Nice to meet you.”

“Peri,” she replied automatically, her eyes fixed on those of the dog, which was staring at her intently, almost hypnotically. Then she shook her head and glanced to one side, lowering her voice. “Steve, is it a good idea to have civilians crossing over?”

“Not until we’ve looked the place over,” he replied. “But do you have the authority to stop him? Because we don’t.”

Meantime, Bill had released the chains that secured the ferry, and was making his way back to the cabin.

A voice called out, “Wait! Wait, please!”

Peri looked round at the loading ramp. She saw a red-haired woman running for the ferry She was about Peri’s own height, wearing a white knee-length top over a white tee-shirt, and dark slacks. She was out of breath and a little red in the face, having run from the parking area.

Bill flipped a chain over a bollard with the expertise of long practice. “Step aboard, my dear, you’ve just made it.” He held out a hand and helped the woman as she jumped aboard.

“Thank you,” she said, breathlessly, and slumped against the railing around the ferry’s deck. She looked around, and saw the other passengers. “Sorry if I’m holding you up. I can’t make head nor tail of the timetable, so I’ve no idea when I’d get across if I missed this sailing.”

“It is no problem at all,” said Gus. He looked round at the others. “That’s right, isn’t it? None of us is that much of a hurry?”

Peri frowned, and murmured, “Another civilian. What do we do, Steve?”

“We can try to keep her with us, just in case,” he murmured back.

Meantime, Gus was saying, “I am Gus, by the way, and my friend here , he is Tash.” He patted the dog.

The woman smiled. “I’m Amanda. Amanda Booker-Smart. Your dog’s name sounds a little, er, feminine for a boy dog. May I pet him?”

Gus grinned at her. “Of course, my dear lady, of course. He won’t bite you.” In a stage whisper, he added, “Just don’t let him know you think his name is a little bit girlie. He doesn’t realise it, you see.”

Amanda was busy tickling the dog’s ears and rubbing his chest. “Do you live here, Gus, or just visiting?”

“Visiting,” he answered. “And you?”

“Oh, it’s work I’m afraid. I’m meeting some archaeologists who crossed over yesterday.”

“How interesting,” said Gus. “And what do you do?”

“I’m a documentary film-maker,” said Amanda. My company is financing them. I specialise is historical documentaries, and I’m hoping to get a nice feature out of this, solving a bit of a mystery dating back to Roman days.”

“A mystery? Oh, Amanda, I love a good mystery! What is it, an unsolved crime of some kind?”

Amanda laughed. “No, not that kind of mystery, I’m afraid. My colleagues came across some tantalising clues about a Roman military operation in this area, that seems to have been hushed up by the Romans. We’ve been surveying and digging up and down the Arwen valley, and it turns out that all the clues point here. Whatever the Romans were up to, it appears their operation reached its conclusion here, and we expect to find something buried under the island that will solve the mystery of why they tried to conceal it.”

Peri listened to the conversation with growing unease. “Did you say your colleagues have been digging here, on the island? When did this start?”

“Yes,” replied Amanda. “Well, they won’t be digging yet, they only just arrived. But they’re investigating the site of an old chapel, then they’ll need to get the landowner’s consent, and then they’ll get down to digging.”

Steve moved closer. “Where is this chapel?” he asked.

“Roughly in the middle, actually a bit north of centre. Do you know the island, Mr…?”

“Steve. Call me Steve. This is Peri, and that’s Troy. This is my first visit.” He gestured with one hand towards the island. “And I must say, the weather looks like it’s deteriorating fast. You might be best going back to Arwensmouth until it clears a bit. You too, Gus. What do you think?”

Sure enough, the island shore looked hazy, the land beyond seemed misty, and further up the slope a fog was gathering.

Amanda replied first. “Good heavens no. A bit of damp never hurt anyone! It’s not far to my team’s camp site, and if I have to shelter in their van, well, it’s a chance to look over their latest footage while we wait out the weather.”

Gus grinned, and asked, “What about you, Steve? Are you planning to turn back?”

Steve answered with a non-committal shrug. There was an awkward silence. Then Peri spoke up. “Well, I don’t want to turn back, but on the other hand, if the visibility gets worse, someone could easily trip and injure themselves out here. I think it would be prudent not to wander the island alone. We’ll be going in the same direction as you, and I’d be quite happy for us all to stick together for the time being.”

Amanda smiled. “Well, I’d be happy with a bit of company as far as the dig site. What about you, Gus?”

Gus simply smiled broadly, displaying perfect white teeth surrounded by his snow-white beard. He pulled his shoulder length white hair back into a pony tail and secured it with an elastic band.

“Okay, nearly there, folks,” called Troy from the front of the boat.

Chapter 20

Anifail Island, North Wales, May 29 last year

The ferry bumped against the pier and the boatman tossed chains one by one over bollards to secure it. He let down the boarding ramp so that his passengers could disembark onto the island.

“It looks like we have three choices,” said Peri. “Left, right and straight ahead. The road straight ahead should take us closest to your dig site, Amanda, and is the quickest route to the north cliffs. Which way were you going, Gus?”

The bearded man smiled broadly, and said, “I’m happy to go straight ahead, Peri.”

“Me too,” said Amanda. “My party should be no more than ten minutes up the road.”

“Yes,” Steve agreed. “If we’re going to take a good look at the top of cliffs where Chen died, that’s the best course.”

“Chen?” asked Amanda. “Who’s that?”

“A colleague of mine,” said Peri. “It seems he fell from the cliffs.”

“Oh – are you two with the police, then?” Amanda looked at Steve and Troy as she spoke.

“So, straight ahead it is,” said Troy.

Gus laughed and shook his head. Amanda frowned at the lack of an answer, but let it go.

“Hey, Amanda,” said Peri.

“Yes, er, you said your name was Peri? Is that right?” she answered.

“Right. I was wondering about your archaeologists.”

“Historians, actually.”

“Okay, historians. Who are they? What are they like?”

“Wonderful,” laughed Amanda. “But then, I must say that, I’m a historian myself by training. That’s why I produce historical documentaries. I know how to get on with other historians.”

“But seriously, Amanda, what are they like?”

“They’re like – well – historians. Sorry, I’m struggling a bit – what do you want to know?”

“Well, who’s running the expedition? Let’s start there.”

“All right. Professor Maxwell Coupar is fronting things.”

“I know that name,” said Peri. “The History Man, right?”

“Right. That was my first production. I started as an assistant, but by the third series I was in charge. Maxwell was the face of the series all the way through.”

Peri was recalling him to mind. Floppy long hair, boyish grin, enthusiastic twinkling blue eyes. “I quite fancied him.”

“Did you?” Amanda laughed, and Peri blushed as she realised she had spoken aloud. “You weren’t alone. His fan mail included quite a few items of – let’s call it, ‘intimate apparel.’ Some of it – er – ever so slightly soiled.”

“Wasn’t he fired for shagging the wrong people?”

Amanda looked annoyed, and defensive. “He was naive. He resigned from the University, he didn’t get fired, because he did nothing improper.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. His Achilles heel is that he can’t say no to a woman, and he gets taken advantage of. His TV appearances meant groupies, and groupies who feel jilted can be trouble. Especially when the aforementioned groupies included wives of colleagues. Silly man, I doubt if he’ll ever change.”

“Ah,” said Peri, thoughtfully watching complex emotions crossing Amanda’s face. “You have a bit of history together…”

“We were undergraduates together at York.”

“…and you’ve been trying to save him ever since.”

Amanda snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous! He’s a grown man, he doesn’t need saving. Anyway, it’s none of your business, is it!”

“No, it isn’t, and I didn’t intend to case offence, sorry.” Peri decided to leave that for now. “And how big is the expedition?”

It took a couple of minutes for Amanda to respond. Peri let her calm down in silence.

“Four,” Amanda said at last. “Hardly an expedition to rival Howard Carter. Two grad students and a so-called assistant.”

“An assistant who’s female and taking advantage of the Professor?” hazarded Peri.

“Oh shut up!” Amanda was back to being annoyed. Then she said, “Sorry. I asked for that by calling her a ‘so-called’ assistant, I suppose.”

Another minute passed in silence. “She’s supposedly a research assistant – sort of a cross between a librarian and a gofer. But she’s never done it before and she’s crap at it. She’s contributing her time for nothing, and as I said, Maxwell can’t say no to a woman.”

“Pretty?” asked Peri.

“Tori looks like a whore,” said Amanda, bitterly. “Or a porn star. Fake tits, fake tan, pouty lips.”

“Dyed blonde?” suggested Peri. “Carpet burns on both knees?”

Amanda gave a snort of amusement. “Dead shot with a ping-pong ball, I bet,” she laughed.

“Can open beer bottles with her pussy?” Peri giggled back at her.

“Cracks walnuts with her sphincter?” Amanda suggested, laughing harder.

“Sucks harder than a Henry?”

“Bounces harder than a Tigger?”

“Licks like a grooming cat?”

“More shag than an Axminster?”

“Whoa, sister,” laughed Peri. “You’ve been giving this sex notion just a bit too much thought! Now, my excuse is wishful thinking, so what’s yours?”

“Stop, stop,” laughed Amanda. “We shouldn’t. We don’t know the girl that well, we may be doing her a grave disservice.”

“All I can say,” said Peri with a straight face, “is that I am now looking forward very much to meeting this lady.”

“Lady? Did anyone mention a lady?”

“Okay, okay. Well, what about the grad students?” asked Peri. “What are they like?”

Amanda looked glad to move the subject on. “They’re students. They don’t take life too seriously, well, not as seriously as they take their beer. I like Owain, he’s got a dry sense of humour, but Gilda – well she’s okay but she can be a bit catty about Tori. Those two definitely don’t like each other.”

“Don’t tell me Gilda is a jealous History Man groupie?”

“Oh no, quite the opposite,” replied Amanda. “I get the impression that she’s a bit disappointed by the Great Man’s naivety when it comes to pushy women. And anyway, I’m pretty sure she’s gay.”

As the party walked inland up Harbour Way, the fog had thickened and visibility diminished. Peri smelled a slightly odd tang in the air, but she could not place it. She paused, and sniffed audibly.

“What’s that funny smell?” she asked.

“What smell?” said Steve. He and Troy also stopped and sniffed.

Gus heard Tash’s voice inside his head. “Well I can smell it too,” the dog said. “What’s more, I know what it is.”

“What?” Gus said without speaking.

“Now that would spoil the surprise,” replied Tash. “There’s no fun in that.”

“All right,” Gus answered in his head. “I deduce from that comment that it will not be pleasant.”

“It depends on your idea of fun. Never mind, you’ll smell it too, and quite soon.”

The party resumed its advance. Troy had, almost absent-mindedly, drawn his gun. Amanda noticed, and stopped.

“Er, I don’t want to sound alarmist,” she said, and pointed at Troy. “But that’s a gun. Why do you have a gun? What’s going on?”

“Yeah, it’s a gun,” said Troy. “Steve, mate, I can smell something… off. Can’t you?”

Everyone had stopped now, and peered into the mist.

“Blood and shit,” said Steve.

“Are you swearing, or identifying the smell?” asked Peri.

“The second. Someone or something came to a bad end, just up ahead.”

“WHAT?” Amanda’s exclamation came out as a high-pitched squeak. She controlled her voice with an effort. “A bad end? What the hell does that mean?” She looked, accusingly, at Steve and Troy. “Who are you? What have you got me into?”

“Someone dead or dying,” said Peri. She turned to face Gus. “Have you ever done military service? Ever fired a gun?”

“Yes,” said Gus. “I have had some experience.” He and Tash exchanged amused looks, for some reason nobody else could fathom.

“Steve, Troy, do either of you have a backup piece?”

Steve nodded. “Naturally. I suppose you want give Gus a – what did you call it? A ‘piece’? Hey, Gus, have you ever fired a Sig P230?”

“Not that specific weapon, no,” said Gus, “but I am sure I can manage.”

Steve pulled a gun from an ankle holster and handed it over. “Work the slide to cock it. After that there’s no safety, just pull the trigger.” He turned to Peri. “What about you?”

“Me? I know nothing about guns! I’m not field trained.”

“You’re about to get a crash course, then. Troy?”

Troy ejected the magazine from his spare Sig and handed the pistol to Peri. “Hold the pistol grip with your dominant hand. Lay your forefinger along the side, keeping it outside the trigger guard. Now remember that, it’s important. You only slip your finger into the trigger guard when the gun is pointing at something you really, really want to shoot. Now, cup your other hand under your right. Your right hand aims and fires, the left is there to balance the weight and stop your hand from wobbling. That’s it. Now lean forward slightly from the waist and bend your knees just a little. The idea is that the gun’s recoil is absorbed by your body, not just your wrists. Good, that’s a good posture. Now stretch out and up so the pistol is just above your eye level. To aim, you turn your whole body – move your feet, Peri – turn so your target is right in front of you. Then gently bring both arms down so the gun is at eye level. The gun’s sights are the white dot at the front of the gun, and the white rectangle at the rear. As soon as you see the dot touching the rectangle, and they are both in front of the middle of the target, you slip your finger into trigger guard and squeeze gently. The pistol will fire, and the recoil will push the muzzle up a little. Repeat the process, bring it down to eye level, align the sights and target, and squeeze again. Got that?”

Peri ran through the actions several times, until Troy inserted the magazine for her. “Right. You have seven shots. Please be careful where you point it, and don’t waste any of them on me.”

She gave a nervous laugh.

“I mean it,” said Troy. “Now please, take your forefinger out of the trigger guard and lay it alongside.” He held up his own hand. “Like this, all right?”

“Sorry.”

They started moving forward once more. Peri was sure the unpleasant smell was getting stronger, and was about to say so when Steve held up a hand and said, “Stop.”

“What’s that in the road ahead?” said Troy, peering into the fog and aiming his pistol.

Steve said, “It’s an animal.”

Gus added, “Goat.”

Peri chuckled and glanced at Gus. “Is that your idea of swearing? Well, goat me!” Her face reddened as she realised her voice was quavering on the edge of hysteria. “Sorry,” she added quickly.

“Take deep breaths for a minute,” said Gus. “Focus yourself on the road ahead. I’m covering your back. It will be all right.”

Steve and Troy were slowly advancing, and moving apart as they did so. Peri noted that they were swinging their pistols from side to side, and looking to the sides as well as ahead. She glanced back at Gus, and saw that he too, was sweeping his gaze, and his pistol, from side to side, alert for any movement.

“It’s a goat all right,” Steve said. “Or at least it used to be. Ladies, if you’re even slightly squeamish, I suggest you hang back there and don’t look.”

Naturally, that made Peri and Amanda both look.

“Oh my GOD!” said Amanda, and she promptly turned, bent over, and vomited.

Peri looked at the animal on the road. She surprised herself by not throwing up, because it was truly horrible. The goat lay on one side, its legs splayed out. Its skin seemed to be wrinkled and tattered. Strands of its viscera trailed out of a gaping hole where its underbelly used to be, and it stank of excrement where its bowel had been torn. Her nose also picked up the strong coppery smell of blood, and the stench of rotting meat. Peri realised that the wrinkling of the skin was due to the absence of muscle beneath it. Its chest had been ripped apart, and blood and bone fragments formed a ghastly splash around it. Tash was taking a close interest in it, and Peri was a little surprised to see the dog wrinkle its nose and back away. She would have expected it to react as if it had been presented with a meal, but the dog simply looked back towards Gus and she could almost swear it shrugged.

“Guys,” she said as her mind started to make sense of the horrific mess before her. “Er, I’m possibly wrong about this, but…” Her voice trailed off as she saw splashes of blood off to her left.

“What is it?” asked Steve.

“Most of this damage was caused by something coming out from the inside.” Peri moved to the fresh blood that caught her attention. “And I don’t think this blood over here came out of the goat.”

Gus moved up and looked at the goat. He frowned. “Peri is correct,” he said. “If you look, you can see that the goat was eaten from the inside. Something burst out of it quite violently. See?”

Amanda’s shaking voice said, “I’d rather not see, if you don’t mind.” She retched again.

Troy had moved to the left side of the road, and was looking at the blood stains there. “This isn’t from the goat. Look, that’s someone’s footprint. There’s a trail going off the road, this way.”

Amanda stood, her eyes shut, tears streaming down her face. “I want to get away from here. Please, let’s go back to the mainland. We need to tell the authorities about this.”

Peri put an arm round her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “Amanda, love, we are the authorities. Me and Steve and Troy. Sorry, but I don’t think splitting up is wise, and we can’t go until we check out this blood trail. Somebody could be hurt out there. Just stick close for a few minutes longer.” She was all too aware that her own voice was unsteady.

Steve looked over and nodded in agreement. “The missing policemen?” he said softly. Peri only shrugged.

Gus tapped Peri on the shoulder and gestured her away. He wrapped both arms round Amanda, and whispered to Peri, “Let me.” He leaned close to Amanda, and murmured, “You just stay close with me and Tash. We’ll make sure you’re all right, while Peri and her men scout ahead. But you need to walk with me, because we all need to stay together. Tash will let us know if anything bad is out there.”

Peri noticed that while he was comforting Amanda, his head still swivelled this way and that, alert for danger. “Come along,” she said softly, and they set off.

Troy was tracking, while Steve was covering with his pistol. Peri tried to copy Steve, looking around for any movement in the fog. After a few minutes, she jumped as something touched her arm, but then she realised it was Steve. He simply pointed ahead. Troy had stopped and was peering into the fog off to one side.

“Is that another goat?” she asked. “Fuck, it is, isn’t it?”

There was certainly an animal of some kind out there, facing towards them. It simply stood there, unmoving.

“Come on,” whispered Troy, and he resumed tracking the blood trail.

Peri kept glancing to the side, and noticed that the goat was still watching them. It took a few steps, keeping them in view.

“Is it just me,” she whispered, “or is that fucking goat keeping us under surveillance?”

* * *

Peri almost walked into Troy again. He had stopped. She followed his gaze, and saw a dark shape on the ground ahead. Steve and Troy systematically scrutinised the gloom around them, their pistols tracking their eyes. The others, just behind, had also stopped, and dead silence fell. Peri thought she caught something on the edge of her hearing. Was it a wet sliding sound from straight ahead? A rustle from her left? It was too faint to be sure, but she felt a growing sense of dread.

Troy moved forward to the shape on the ground, which Peri now recognised as a human figure in dark clothing. He stretched out a hand.

“No!” she hissed. “Troy, don’t get too close!”

He withdrew his hand and turned to look at her.

“I need to check for a pulse,” he said softly.

Peri’s feeling of foreboding was getting stronger. She was almost sure she heard something – a wet gurgle. “Did you hear that?” she whispered.

“Hear what?” said Troy, and he stretched out towards the neck of the figure on the ground. Peri felt a weird sensation stab through her stomach, and her eyes caught a flash of something black leaping at Troy, smashing into his face as he tumbled backward. Then she saw Troy, stretching his hand forward slowly, and the bottom of her stomach seemed to drop away. Hysteria? A vision? Whatever it was, she was compelled to act. She jumped forward, catching Troy’s arm and pushing it away from the body on the ground. Her momentum bowled him over.

“What the—”

“Peri—”

“No—”

Something black erupted from the body’s throat and launched itself at Troy. Or rather, it launched itself at where Troy would have been, if not for Peri’s desperate jump. The black shape hit the ground, squirmed round, and sprang again, towards Troy. His eyes went wide, he uttered and incoherent cry and tried to roll back out of the way. There was a sudden, shockingly loud, crack-crack and the black thing screeched and squirmed on the ground, short of Troy. Steve’s boot came down on it with a wet squelch, and he ground it underfoot.

There was a moment of silence, everyone still, then everyone seemed to be talking at once.

“What’s that-”

“Oh Jesus-”

“Where did that-”

Woof!

They all fell silent and stared at the dog, whose bark had just restored order.

Peri, her voice shaking, said, “I think that policeman is well and truly dead, Troy.” She struggled to get to her feet.

Troy, too, was trying to stand, but his legs shook and he croaked, “Well, that was a bit surprising. I need clean shorts now!” He made it to his feet. “Peri, thanks for knocking me out of the way. Steve, mate, that was nice shooting, and just in time.”

Steve was staring at Peri and frowning. “Wasn’t me that fired at it,” he said. He pointed a finger at Peri. “We need to talk, madam,” he growled.

Everyone looked at Peri. “What?” she said. “What are you all looking at me for?”

“You said you’d never used a gun,” said Steve, his tone slightly accusing.

“I haven’t!” she protested.

“Well you nailed that thing – whatever it is – with two shots in the head while you were falling over.”

She was genuinely surprised. “Did I?” She looked down at the pistol in her hand. “I didn’t, did I? I mean, I don’t think I fired it. Did I?”

Gus intervened. “That’s not important right now. The things approaching through the grass are important right now, and I suggest we get of here, quickly.”

They all stared at Gus. Then Peri heard it, too. The odd rustling she thought she had heard earlier was coming from two different directions. Steve cocked his head to one side. “Anyone else hear that?”

Gus and Peri, simultaneously, said “Yes.”

“Right, this way,” said Steve, and led off, avoiding the faint sounds in the grass, and angling towards the road. “Let’s get off the island. Peri? We need some more manpower.”

Without stopping, she fished out her smartphone, and typed a number from memory. After a single ring, a bored-sounding voice answered, “Yeah? What is it?”

Peri replied, “Code word Buckthorn, status red, I repeat, Buckthorn red.”

“ID?”

“Golf, Charlie, Zero, Four, Niner, Eight, Eight, Eight.”

“Hold the line.”

After a minute or so, a familiar voice came on.

“Peri? You’re declaring a Buckthorn Red event? Please confirm.” It was Tommy.

“Tommy, consider that confirmed. We need-”

“Hey, Peri, wait. The database says you have a Sectera handset. Do you have that with you?”

She metaphorically kicked herself. “Yes.” She rummaged through the many pockets of her black cargo pants until she found the secure handset, and switched it on. “I forgot I had it. I’ve just switched it on.”

“I’m calling that number now,” said Tommy. “Hang on.”

A moment later the Sectera handset rang. She answered, and watched the screen as the status indicators lit up to confirm a secure line. “OK, I’m showing secure at my end,” she said.

“Mine too,” said Tommy. “Dropping the non-secure call.”

“Still there, Tommy?”

“OK, let’s have it.”

“We need manpower, soonest. Let me think…”

“Tell me what you’re facing, Peri.”

“Right, good idea. We encountered biological entities, appearing to be predatory flesh-eaters, origin and nature unknown. We are on an island – Anifail – off the coast by Arwensmouth, North Wales. I want to keep these beasts off the mainland. The island has a population of a couple dozen—”

“I can pull census data on that.”

“We should sweep the island for survivors and evacuate them, and get a fix on the location and numbers of these things. Then we can plan to eradicate. Survivors are likely to need medical attention. How am I doing?”

“This is good, Peri. I’m goin’ to alert Porton Down. We’ll need a biohazard team, and a cleared medical team. I’ll get them up to your location so they can triage. I’ll organise secure accommodation for survivors. I’ll also get hold of Director Special Forces. I’m looking at a map of the island now, and I’m thinking a couple of troops – that’s thirty-odd men – to sweep and secure. How urgent is this? I’m asking because we have transport options to consider.”

“Very urgent,” said Peri, firmly. “We need to move on this as soon as possible.”

“Right,” said Tommy. “I’ll check out helicopter landing sites. I’ll work through SO15 and alert the local police. You’ve got an SBS team on hand, so you should be able to secure the ferry and stop anyone else crossing over. Do you confirm?”

“Confirmed,” she replied.

“Right then. I’ve got plenty to do here, so I’ll drop off. Call me on your Sectera if anything changes. I’ll call you within the hour with an update-”

Suddenly, she heard cursing and the sound of gunshots from just ahead of her. Evidently, Tommy could hear it too.

“Peri? I hear gunshots. Are you in immediate danger?”

“Fuck, Tommy, if you can hear gunshots, then that is the daftest fucking question—”

“I can get a drone overhead, and I can get armed response to support you within an hour.”

“Don’t get distracted, Tommy, in an hour we’ll either be in the pub on the mainland having a laugh, or dead. You’ve got the shopping list, go and get it.”

“Okay, Peri.”

“And Tommy? Thanks for the offer. I might even forgive the ‘crazy hair’ shit you fed the guys here. But only if I live, otherwise you can expect an unpleasant haunting, got that?”

“I hear you. We’ll talk shortly.”

The line went dead.

Peri had been following in Steve’s wake, not really paying attention to where they were heading. Bringing her focus back from her phone call, she realised that the fog was a thick as ever, so they could not be not very close to the shore. Steve, Troy and Gus were in a triangle around Amanda and herself, aiming out into the gloom. Troy evidently saw a movement, because he swivelled at the hips and fired three shots in quick succession.

“Guys,” she said. “Are we surrounded? Is this, like, the end for Butch and Sundance?”

“Not sure,” said Steve, tersely. “I’m listening out for movement.”

Peri cocked her head to one side, and listened. There was a slight rustling sound off to her left, to the rear and directly ahead of them, but utter silence to the right. “To the right,” she said. “We need to go right.”

“Are you sure?” asked Troy. “I can’t hear anything, anywhere.”

“Well I can,” she said. “Come on, this way.”

She led them off to the right. As she did so, she tried to visualise the map she had studied earlier, and mentally replayed their earlier movements. By her reckoning they were now moving south-westwards. “We should hit the circular road in a minute,” she said. “When we do, we follow the road to our left and the ferry should be no more than ten minutes’ walk.”

“Are you sure?” Steve asked. “The fog is so thick, we can’t be anywhere near the coast.”

“That was my first thought too, but I’m sure. The fog must be getting thicker.”

Even as she spoke, she realised there was tarmac under feet. “Oh look,” she said with a laugh. “It seems I’m right. Who’d have guessed? Other than me, of course.”

“Nobody likes a smart-arse,” contributed Troy.

“Right,” said Steve. “We have a good road surface. Let’s put on a bit of speed. Ladies? Can you manage a jog?”

Amanda must be getting her act together, because she snapped back, “If it gets us off this island faster, I’d manage a jig, never mind a jog.”

As they moved off, Peri fell back to walk alongside Gus and Tash.

“Did you notice that we’re being followed?” said Gus quietly.

“The goat?” she asked. “It’s still watching us, isn’t it? As long as it doesn’t get any closer I’m willing to live and let live.”

“But that is not why you fell back to walk with us, is it?”

“We need to talk,” she said softly.

“What about?” asked Gus.

“That’s not a dog,” she replied. “I don’t know what it is, but it isn’t natural.”

Gus paused, and looked at her in genuine surprise. “Whatever makes you say that?”

“Natural dogs don’t glow,” she said tersely, and hurried forward to join Amanda.

“Amanda,” she said. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m cold, I’m scared, I feel nauseous, I have bloody sick in my hair, I don’t know where my colleagues are, I don’t know who you are, or who they are, and I don’t know what the hell’s going on.” She took a deep breath and blew it out again. “Under the circumstances I’d say the fact that I’m moving and not paralysed by terror means I must be doing all right.”

“That’s the British spirit,” Peri said, and gave a snort that might have been a laugh. “Keep calm and bitch about the weather. We’ll be back at the ferry in a minute, we’ll get over to the mainland, and then we’ll be safe.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Not even slightly sure. Tell me, Amanda, what are you doing here? What are your archaeologists looking for?”

She heaved a sigh. “Like I said earlier, we found some evidence of a Roman military operation in the first century that was hushed up. Something was going on in North Wales, and they concentrated about two thousand troops in the area to deal with it. Whatever it was, it ended here, on the island. They buried something that they didn’t want anybody to find again.”

“So your team is hoping to dig it out?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And, er,” Peri hesitated to ask, but it had to be done. “Does the team have any idea what they’re digging for?”

“Not really,” said Amanda. “There was a bit of speculation. The problem might have been Hibernian raiders, but then why bury the evidence? There might have been a revolt by the locals, and they wanted to hush it up to stop anyone else in Britannia from having the same idea, but that sounds out of character. Romans would be more likely to string rebels up on crucifixes as a very public warning. A story survived into the Middle Ages that pitched it as a dragon that was defeated by strength of arms and faith in the Almighty. The island has been called variations of ‘dragon isle’ for centuries. Supposedly the dragon was buried here.”

Peri grabbed her arm. “Do you mean to tell me,” she said, incredulously, “that your colleagues are cheerfully digging up a monster?”

“It was just a story,” Amanda said, shaking her arm free. “The way tales evolve, the ‘dragon’ is just a metaphor for ‘something bad’, not actually a real monster! We want to find out what the Romans really buried.”

“Did it occur to you that that might be a bad idea?”

Amanda laughed. “After two thousand years? Don’t be ridiculous!”

Peri pointed back the way they had come. “Don’t you think there might be some connection between those bloody chain saw eel things, and the monster the Romans buried?”

Amanda made a sound that might have been a laugh. “It sounds highly bloody unlikely to me. Anyway, if they do dig out the remains of a long-dead animal – come on, what’s the worst that could happen?”

Peri did not answer, because she had been asking herself the same question, and had no answer. She sped up and moved in between Steve and Troy. “Guys,” she said. “I was wondering. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“One day the sun will exhaust its hydrogen…” Troy answered.

At the same time, Steve, asked, “Do you mean now, or do you mean ever?”

“What is this – a philosophical debate?” snapped Peri. “How about we dwell on the meaning of life for a bit? Come on, fuckwits, what should we be preparing for?”

“Sorry, I’m sure,” said Steve, “But I’m a bit busy worrying about staying alive at the moment.”

“What if these things can swim? How do we protect the mainland then? What if they carry exotic diseases? Should we quarantine ourselves?” Peri shook her head. “I’d be happier if I knew what we need to do next.”

“Can we worry about that when we’re on the ferry and half-way to shore?” Steve snapped. “If that’s all right with you, of course. Now stop being a bloody distraction.”

The road broadened out into a parking area. They had arrived at the ferry.

“What was the boatman’s name again?” asked Steve.

“Bill,” supplied Troy.

“Bill! Hey, Bill! We need to move!” Steve called out. “Come on folks, get on board. Where is he? Where’s Bill?” He strode forward and stepped up onto the deck of the chain ferry.

Suddenly, Peri was blinded by a flash of light, and winded by a sudden, painful, lurch of her stomach. There was a movement in the light and a scream of pain from Steve.

“Steve!” she shouted.

Abruptly, the world swung back onto even keel, Steve was standing with one foot up on the boat, and everyone was looking at her quizzically.

“Get off the boat! Now!”

He stepped back just as something sinuous and black lunged at his leg – and narrowly missed.

“What the—” he exclaimed, jumping backwards. “They’re on the boat!”

The black thing slithered over the side and landed on the concrete ramp. It was the length of a man’s arm, glistening with slime, and rows of spines ran down its length. The head end was the size of a large fist, with what looked like eyes in a concentric ring around a gaping mouth in which rings of sharp spikes could be seen moving. It seemed to compress its own length, and then aimed itself at Steve and sprang at him.

Steve ducked and rolled to one side, and it narrowly missed him, twisting in the air and snapping as it passed. As it hit the ground and began to contract again, Troy reacted reflexively by kicking it as hard as he could. It flew across the ramp and hit the water. The creature instantly screamed and flailed its body around, trying desperately to reach the concrete ramp once again. Its spines gained traction and it hauled itself up out of the water. Gus was closest to it, and he brought his foot down hard, squishing it against the ground. They all stared – the creature seemed to be dissolving before their eyes. The spines softened and sank back into its flesh; teeth fell out; its flesh was slowly liquefying into black ooze.

“I’d say it doesn’t like water,” said Troy.

“Or being stomped on,” added Peri.

Gus and Tash were studying the remains closely. Peri heard Gus murmur, “Now that’s interesting, isn’t it Tash?” For one insane moment she thought she thought the dog might answer him.

“Troy,” said Steve with urgency in his voice. “We need to check the ferry for more of those things.” The two men clambered aboard, pistols in hand, to search.

Meantime, Peri caught a glimpse of something poking out of the grass close to the water. She moved to get a closer look, and recoiled as she recognised it as a shoe, and inside it, a foot.

“Shit! Is that Bill?” Her voice trembled.

Gus looked beyond the foot, and took in the leg, the torso and the face. “Yes,” he said tersely. “Stay well back, Peri.” Gus looked at Tash, and the dog looked at Bill without getting too close, before looking back at Gus. “He’s gone, but I think he’s infected by one of those things.”

Peri felt herself hovering on the edge of hysteria. “Tash told you that, did he?”

Gus looked at her in surprise, but said nothing.

“If he’s infected then stand well back,” said Peri. She aimed her pistol at the body, making a conscious effort to keep her feelings of panic under control. “I’ll keep an eye on him, and this flank in general. Gus, I think you better watch our backs while the guys clear the boat.”

Without looking round, she called out, “Steve! How’s the ferry?”

“So far so good,” came the reply. “Nearly done. Give us a couple more minutes.”

“Amanda! You good?” Peri asked.

“Still keeping calm,” she answered, shakily.

Steve called out, “Clear. All aboard! Next stop – sanity!” There was a pause, as they filed aboard, then Steve added, “Mind you, we need to figure out how to make this thing go.”

“I can take care of that,” said Gus. “Bill showed me before we crossed over. There is not much to it, happily.”

Troy helped with the mooring chains while Gus set the rudders, and the ferry began moving.

Chapter 21

Arwensmouth, North Wales, May 29 last year

The chain ferry bumped against the concrete ramp and Gus and Troy grabbed the mooring chains to tie it up.

Peri turned to Steve. “Better make sure nobody tries crossing to the island,” she said.

“I want to talk to you,” he reminded her.

“Later,” she snapped. “There are more urgent things that need done.”

She looked across at Gus. “Hey!” she called. “When the boat’s secure, give that pistol back and then I want you in the Inn, right now, or even sooner than that.”

She pulled out her Sectera phone and dialled Tommy in London.

“This is Tommy,” came his voice. “Are you all right, Peri?”

“We’re on the mainland again,” she replied. “When do our reinforcements get here?”

“As soon as,” he answered. “There’s nowhere in a reasonable radius that I can get a Chinook to you, so the Aviation Wing is taking them up in Dauphins. There’s a flight based at Credenhill, so they’ll be loaded in a few minutes time with men from Credenhill and Hereford. They should be with you in less than an hour. Another two Dauphins are picking up your medics and biohazard team, no ETA on them yet. First flight in will be an operations team and some MOD police. They’re going to commandeer the police station.”

“Thanks,” she said tersely. “We’ll listen out for them. Bye, T.”

She strode purposefully into the Arwensmouth Inn, calling out the landlord’s name.

“Hello, Miss Carlton,” he said, emerging from the bar.

“Is my room ready?” she asked.

“I’ll just get the key,” he said, and disappeared for a moment while he did so.

Gus came in through the front door, Tash at his heels. Peri stabbed her forefinger in his direction.

“Right. You. With me,” she snapped, and trotted up the stairs. She entered her room – Chen’s room – and pointed at a chair. “Sit.”

Gus sat, and smiled at her. “How may I help you?”

“Who are you? Give me your passport.”

Gus was about to say something, until she showed him the pistol in her hand, and snapped, “Now.”

He handed over his passport. She looked at it, compared him to his photograph, and tossed it back. She pulled out her Sectera phone and dialled Tommy again.

“Peri? Nothing’s changed this end. Are you all right?”

“Check out a name for me, please,” she said. “Surname ‘Vasa’, that’s Victor Alpha Sierra Alpha. First names ‘Gustav Adolph’. Place of birth Stockholm.”

“OK, wait one.” There was a faint sound of a keyboard in the background.

“Not found in any criminal or political databases, here or in Sweden. Not known to be affiliated to any of SAPO, MUST or FRA.”

“Why does that name sound familiar, I wonder? Anything in the Wild and Woolly Web?”

“Let me… ah, all the search hits are for a king who died in 1632. Do you want me to organise a deeper dig?”

“Nah,” she said. Then she snapped her fingers. “Of course,” she continued. “There’s a ship in a museum in Stockholm named the Vasa, and it was built for King Gustavus Adolphus. Was ‘Vasa’ his surname?”

“Yep. Anything else I can help with?”

“Not right now, thanks T. Bye.”

She looked at Gus, speculatively. “If you’re working under a false identity, then you have delusions of grandeur, my friend. If you were born with that name, then are you a descendent of the old Royal Family? I thought the Vasa dynasty died out, and Bernadotte was invited to take the throne.”

He smiled. “You are well informed about Sweden.”

Peri shrugged. “Nah, I just have a bloody good memory. So what’s your real name?”

His smile broadened. “Gustav Adolph Vasa.”

“Really.” Peri thought he was enjoying himself a little too much.

She pointed at Tash. “What is that?”

“My dog?”

“Try again.”

His smile tightened. “What do you think?” he asked. “What do you see when you look at Tash, other than a dog?”

“A faint bluish glow. An animal that looks like it understands every word that you, or anyone else, says. Silent interactions where the body language suggests a conversation is taking place, even though nobody else can hear it. An owner and his pet who don’t seem particularly shocked by the mayhem over on the island. Your presence is more than a coincidence, isn’t it?”

Suddenly a voice chimed into her thoughts, inside her head, in a bad fake Cockney accent.

“Well, I think we’ve been rumbled, Gus old mate. It’s a fair cop, lady, you’ve got us bang to rights.”

“Tash!” Gus snapped at the dog. “Stop that!”

Peri just stared at the dog, her mouth open, for what felt like a very long time.

“What?” said the voice in her head. “Come on, it’s not as if I’m the only one that glows in the dark! If she knows what she is, then she knows what I am, and if she doesn’t, she needs to.”

“What do you mean by that?” she asked the dog.

“Ah, Miss Carlton,” said Gus softly. “If you make a habit to look at me when you ask questions, and not at Tash, then you will look a little more – ah – sane.”

“All right,” she switched her gaze to Gus. “What did he mean? Glow in the dark? Know what I am? What does that mean? What do you think I am?”

Gus sighed. “If I try to answer all your questions, all at once, then I think you will have severe difficulties accepting what I say.”

Peri scowled at him. “Why don’t you try me?” she challenged him.

“Let us take it slowly. Your original question was, what is Tash. You have already concluded that he is not an ordinary dog. And this is so, he is not a dog, he merely looks like one. In fact—” Gus paused, as if unsure how to continue. After a moment of thought, he continued. “Tash is not from this Earth at all.”

Peri nodded. “Go on. Where is he from?”

“Forgive me if this begins to sound like a very dull lecture on theoretical physics,” he said, apologetically. “Humanity has been trying to understand the universe for millennia. What it is made of, where it came from and how it works. Einstein made great strides, but was never able to come up with a model of the universe that was wholly consistent and satisfactory. Late 20th and early 21st century thinking has led to a widespread view among physicists that the physical universe manifests in many dimensions.”

“String theory?” said Peri, tentatively. “I have read about string theory predicting eleven dimensions, but I confess I have no idea what it all means.”

Gus smiled. “Peri, it is possible that you know more about all of this than I do. But let me stumble onwards a little further.

“Physicists since Einstein describe the familiar four dimensions – height, length, width and time – as ‘space-time’, a term that I am sure you are familiar with. But there are still some problems with the classical physics of space-time, a few things that just are not understood, and where the theories, the mathematics – well, they just get it wrong.

“The attempts of physicists to find a way to unify the theories of how the universe works on both a very small and very large scale led to a number of variations of so-called string theory, and consideration of these variant theories has led to the hypothesis that there are many dimensions, beyond the familiar four of space-time. For example, it seems to be popular among physicists to hypothesise eleven dimensions – out familiar four, plus seven others. So where are these other dimensions? How do we interact with them? One explanation is that they are extremely small, and tightly compacted, so they cannot be perceived using today’s technology. There are other possible explanations. We must accept, therefore, that we are capable of directly perceiving, and directly interacting with, space-time and the other dimensions cannot be reached.”

“I have read about some of this,” said Peri. “But I found it meaningless. I just could not visualise nor understand it. Cutting to the chase, though, I think you’re saying that Tash is from some other set of dimensions, not ours. Now, I am willing to accept that he comes from some place that we might as well call a magic kingdom, and it doesn’t matter where he’s from, what matters is that he’s here, now. After all, sufficient advanced technology—”

“Is indistinguishable from magic!” Gus roared with laughter. “You know, I gave Arthur that line, maybe twenty – no – more like forty years ago!”

“You knew Arthur C Clark?”

“We had a few drinks together once,” said Gus. “Anyway, I didn’t think it up, I paraphrased what someone else once said to me about cataphracts and cannons.”

“So,” Peri said thoughtfully. “Tash comes from a magic kingdom that exists in a different set of dimensions from ours. He must have crossed over – somehow – from his version of space-time to ours. If he could do it…”

“Other entities could also do it,” said Gus. “And they have. Like the thing on the island.”

“‘The thing’?” Peri echoed. “‘Thing’, singular? There must have been dozens of those snake creatures.”

Gus and Tash exchanged looks. “There’s only one trans-dimensional entity over there,” said Tash’s voice in her head. “Well, two if you count me.”

Gus added, “The snake-like things were extruded from the entity and are remotely controlled by it.”

“Like, like… drones?” she asked. “They don’t seem very practical to me.”

Gus shrugged. “Probably it used a form optimised to get out onto the island. Long and thin. That would support the hypothesis of Amanda’s dragon having been buried, but now having found a way out that is small.”

“The north cliff,” said Peri. “The cliff face broke away nearly three weeks ago. That may have exposed an opening into a cave. That’s where Chen died – he must have been checking out the cliff face.”

Peri rubbed her eyes, realising just how tired she was. “Let’s stick with Tash for the moment,” she said. “How did he get into our space-time? And how did he come to be your companion?”

“He was able to manifest here, in our space-time, with great difficulty and by the expenditure of a huge amount of energy. I don’t know how exactly. He tried to tell me once but our language has no words for the concepts involved.”

“Why is he your dog now?”

“I’m not his dog,” Tash broke in. “I’m his prisoner.”

“His upkeep was entrusted to me, a long time ago,” said Gus, with a smile at the dog. “Let us leave it at that for now.”

“And why does he glow?” asked Peri. “No, wait, why do I glow? Is it the same reason?”

“Ah, I am sorry, but you are risking another lecture on physics,” said Gus. “Everything in the universe is made of ‘stuff’.” His fingers actually traced the quotes in the air. “Here in our space-time, we have a reasonable grasp of the stuff of the universe, good enough for almost all practical purposes. You know – things are made from molecules, which are made from atoms, which are made from sub-atomic particles like electrons, which in turn are made from sub-sub-atomic stuff that we label ‘quarks’, and the like.

“Naturally, for anything to exist in other space-times, it too is made up of ‘stuff’. Think of this as an exotic version of ‘stuff’, capable of existing in those exotic space-times. Stuff can cross over, between space-times, but there is a process – something akin to a particle interaction – involved. The faint glow that is sometimes visible to those capable of seeing it is caused by a residue of radiation from that process. You see a glow from Tash, and Tash can see a glow from you, because both of you contain both normal and exotic matter, and both of you are capable of seeing the exotic radiation.”

“You can’t see it?” she asked.

“It would have to be very energetic before I could see it. Tash is sensitive. He saw you the moment you walked into the room this morning. My exotic capabilities are limited. Standard humans cannot see it all.”

“Then…” Peri’s voice trailed off as she considered what Gus was saying. The white haired old man was watching her, expectantly, and she realised he was waiting for her to work it out. Which she just had.

“You are telling me that I’m not – what did you just call it – a ‘standard human’?”

Gus replied by way of a shrug.

“That’s ridiculous,” Peri snapped.

“Is it?” Gus replied. “How did you know there was something in the boat before Steve did? And what about saving Troy? Have you had any other strange visions? Any other premonitions of danger?”

Shanghai, Peri thought. The old woman, talking nonsense about a blue goddess. But she stayed silent, because another thought struck her. Li knew. Somehow, she knew. And drew me into this weirdness because of it.

Her train of thought was cut short by the sound of a helicopter. She looked longingly at the bed, but rest would have to wait.

“Come on,” she said. “We have work to do.”

* * *

Out in the village, the first Dauphin helicopter had disgorged some policemen in dark blue, armed with MP7 machine guns and Sig automatic pistols. While two of them trotted over to the police station where a bewildered constable was watching, the others set about blocking the road down to the ferry. A handful of men in black battledress had also arrived, and they set about unloading cases and crates, to set up a command post in front of the police station.

As soon as the first Dauphin took off again, four others touched down briefly, one by one, and disembarked more black-clad troops. The last to leave circled out to sea to overfly the island.

Peri arrived in the middle of all this activity, with Gus and Tash in tow. She saw that Steve and Troy had their heads in the tailgate of a black Range Rover, and were outfitting themselves with body armour and assault rifles.

“I thought Special Forces used MP5s,” she said.

“We used to,” said Steve, “But they’re a bit elderly, and we’ve been switching over to these.” He showed her his rifle.

“Mm. Looks American,” she said.

“Canadian, but based on a Colt design. It’s a C8 carbine, and it’s very good indeed.”

“When we go back over, do I get one?”

Steve looked horrified. “First, you’re not going over there again, and second, hell no! If gave a civilian a full automatic assault rifle, I’d be drummed out of the Navy!”

She shrugged. “Fair enough. I’ll just swap this dinky little thing…” She placed the Sig P230 she had been carrying in the back of the car, and pointed to a bigger pistol nestling in a foam inset in a metal case. “… for one of them. That okay?”

“A P226? Not on your life! I’m telling you, you’re staying here until the island has been cleared!”

“Not your call, Steve.” She picked up a P226 and a spare magazine.

“We still need to talk,” he snapped.

She huffed. “About?”

“Who are you, really? And don’t give me the same crap cover story all over again.”

She wasn’t sure what to say. So she played for time. “What’s crap about my story, then?”

“How did you know – twice now – that something nasty was just about to happen? Also, you react ultra-fast and for someone who said she’d never handled a gun before, you seem to be remarkably good.”

“You won’t believe me,” she said.

“Try me,” he answered.

“OK, pay close attention, because I’m only going to say this once,” she whispered, and looked all round as if to make sure nobody was close enough to overhear. She leaned closer, and whispered, “Every word I said was true. As for explaining what happened out there? I. Have. No. Fucking. Clue.”

She stepped back.

“You were right. I won’t believe you.”

Peri shrugged and walked away.

She distinctly heard, “Damn that bloody woman!” as she made for the command post. She fished out her Sectera phone and called Tommy in London as she walked.

“Hi, Peri,” came Tommy’s greeting down the line.

“Hey Mr T,” She replied. “What news on the medics?”

“They should be with you in thirty minutes max,” he assured her. “Anythin’ else croppin’ up?”

“I have a daft question for you.”

“Try me.”

“Who’s actually in charge of all this?”

“Ah.” He said nothing for a while. Then he asked, “Why? Are you plannin’ to do somethin’ stupid?”

“You know me too well. I think the macho military are going to try to protect this weak and feeble woman. I don’t need protecting. So when they go all old-fashioned chivalry on me, I aim to get all Empowered Woman on their arses.”

“Hence your question. What you’re really askin’ me is, ‘Can I be in charge?’ Am I right?”

“Like I said, you know me too well,” she laughed. “So what’s the answer?”

“Good ol’ British compromise,” he said. “I’m the event manager and I coordinate, and I facilitate but I don’t direct. The military response is led by the military operational commander. I’m guessin’ you’re walkin’ in his direction right now, am I right? The medical response is led by the medical leader. You can work out the rest, I’m sure.”

“So nobody is in charge? No – wait a sec – the penny’s just dropping. Everybody is in charge. I’m the senior intelligence officer, so I call the shots on intelligence matters, right?”

“Word to the wise, Peri. Never hesitate to play the ‘need to know’ card. I’ve gotten away with stuff for ages that way.”

“Good advice, Mr T.”

“Only if you’re still alive at the end of the day, Peri. Otherwise, this chat never happened and you got no advice from me.”

“Understood. Cheers, mate.”

Amanda stepped in front of her as she put away her phone. “I see you’ve got reinforcements,” she said. “Is the army in charge now?”

Peri frowned at her. “Why?” she asked.

“I need to go back over there, so I need to know who I need to sleep with to get what I want.”

Peri laughed. “Amanda, you’ve just seen what’s going on over there, and I seem to recall you were none too happy. But now you need to go back?”

“You think this is all tied up with Maxwell’s ‘dragon’, don’t you?”

“Maybe…” Peri was hesitant about where Amanda was taking this conversation.

“Come on, of course you do. It’s obvious. And if that’s true – hell, even if it isn’t – my friend’s in trouble, and, well, he’s my friend. That’s point number one. Number two is, if this is tied up with Maxwell’s work, then you would benefit from having a trained historian and archaeologist who’s fluent in first century history, culture and languages. Number three is – well, I’ll think of numbers three and higher later, just know that I’m coming over there with you.”

Peri grinned at her. “There’s more to you than meets eye, isn’t there? Anyway, who says they’ll let me go back over there?”

Amanda grinned back. “I’d love to see them try to stop you!”

“Okay, so to answer your question, if you want to go over there, you better forget any thoughts of sleeping with a dashing young hunky officer to buy your passage, and resign yourself to my company. I’ll get us over there.”

Amanda leaned in and gave Peri a quick peck on the cheek. “Will that do?” she asked with a grin.

“Is that it?” asked Peri with a mock expression of horror. “Come on, babe, you’re just not trying!” She laughed. “Get yourself organised, I’ll see you in a minute.”

Peri resumed her walk towards the operations tent, fishing out her phone again.

“Hey, Tommy, it’s me again. Can you check out whether we know anything against surname Booker-Smart, with or without a hyphen, first name Amanda? And while you’re at it, do we know anything about these people: Coupar, Maxwell; Bandra, Victoria; Baxter, Owain; Feinman, Gilda.”

“Hi, Peri, I’ll get the boys and girls here on it,” came Tommy’s voice in her ear/

“Best report by exception.”

“Okay, if don’t hear from me, you can assume no red flags.”

“You’re the man, Mr T.”

“I pity the fool what keeps callin’ me Mr T,” said Tommy. “Cheers.”

Peri hung up the call as she strode into the operations tent.

Four men in black battledress were standing round a map of the island, evidently discussing their plans. One of them turned to face her, and held out a hand with a broad smile. “You must be Miss Carlton,” he said. “I’m in charge of this rabble. Call me Mike.”

“Hello Mike,” said Peri. “So you’re the military operational lead.” He noticed the emphasis and his smile faded slightly. “Call me Peri,” she went on. “Just to be confusing, I’m wearing multiple hats today, as they say. I’m the intelligence operational lead, and as well as that, I’m representing the UN Security Council for the investigation and its ramifications. I’m also… ah, no, I’ll stop there, because I don’t believe you’re cleared for the rest. Anyway, I’ll be taking my team over with yours.”

“Your team?” asked Mike. “No, I don’t want any civilians loose on the island until it’s been declared safe. I’ll let you know when that is.”

“So we need to coordinate before we set off,” she continued, as if he had not spoken. “The agreed strategy is to sweep and evacuate civilians – that’s your responsibility, and I wouldn’t dream of interfering with your plans for it. Meanwhile we need intelligence on the location and the nature of the alien entity, and…”

“No, I think you’ve misunderstood our roles…”

“…assess whether and how we can eradicate it, or contain it…”

“…there is no ‘agreed strategy’ to deal with this, that’s the first thing I need to establish…”

“…as the Romans were forced to do.”

“…and… Wait a moment! Did you say ‘Romans’? What are you talking about!”

“That’s right, they’ll have assumed it’s strictly need to know and won’t have told you all the facts,” said Peri as Mike’s face coloured. She continued talking over him. “So, my team with our SBS support will advance….”

“Your SBS support?” She thought Mike was going to have a heart attack.

“Of course they’re my SBS support,” Peri said, with an innocent smile. She spotted Steve listening at the entrance to the tent. “Don’t tell me nobody told you that much? As I was saying, we move up to the dig site…”

“What dig site?”

“Mm. Need to know, Mike, sorry. All you need to know is that we’re going here.” She stabbed a finger at the centre of the island. She turned to Steve, and said, “Round up Gus and Amanda, would you please?” She turned back to Mike and flashed a smile. “We’ll be waiting on the ferry.”

Steve sent Troy to round up the others, and fell in step with Peri as they walked to the ferry.

“Why so keen to go back over?” he asked. “Oh – nice fast talking, by the way. I don’t suppose that Mike fella has worked out what’s going on yet.”

“My mouth is registered as a deadly weapon,” she replied with a suggestive waggle of her eyebrows. “I need to go back over because I can’t trust someone who is organising an operation without taking the trouble of talking to the only people with the experience of being over there, and who also happen to be the people with the skills to deal with it.”

“You’re annoyed because he didn’t invite you to his planning session.”

“Did he invite you? No? I rest my case, milord.”

“What skills, by the way? Do you think the beasties will succumb to your deadly conversation skills?”

“No,” she said. “But how many of those guys speak Latin? How familiar are they with Roman military practice? Have any of them ever fought a trans-dimensional alien entity? Do they have a trans-dimensional consultant disguised as a dog? Can they find their own arses in the dark?”

“You’re making this shit up, aren’t you? I have no idea what’s going on any more.”

“As you told me this morning, you’re not here to think. You’re here to do guns and muscles. So don’t sweat it, I’m doing enough thinking for all of us.”

They continued walking in silence.

Then Steve spoke. “Troy talked.”

“What?”

“About your name. He had no choice. I was on the verge of unleashing a devastating Chinese burn on him.”

“So now you know my darkest secret. Congratulations.”

“How did you come by it?”

“How did you come by yours?”

“My parents gave it to me.”

“There you go, then, you knew the answer already.”

“But Peppermint? Is that an old family name, or something?”

“My mother liked peppermint. And before you ask the obvious dumb question, yes, my father liked pastilles.”

“Past tense,” he observed, looking embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Peri. When did you lose them?”

“‘Lose them?’” she echoed. “Like I put them down somewhere and can’t remember where? Sod off, Steve. I didn’t ‘lose them’, they died in a road accident. I was ten years old at the time.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

“They died happy. They were stoned out of their minds.”

“I didn’t mean to pry…”

“Well you did, so now I’m going to make you really, really sorry you did. Something like I feel about it, in fact. My parents were the last of the hippies on the hippy trail in south east Asia. They lived a ludicrous lifestyle of drugs, booze, sex, lots of hair, fewer baths, didn’t have a care in the world. They liked to tell everyone that I was a miracle baby. Conceived on the altar of an abandoned temple in Laos, so the gods were smiling on them. Born in a Buddhist commune in Vietnam. Registered with a ridiculous name at a consulate in Goa, where the honourable consul was a worse head-case than my father. A truck took both parents out, just like that, in Ratnapura. The authorities in Sri Lanka stepped in, took me into care and got the embassy to ship me over to Britain to a horrified grandmother. I held onto my name because it’s the only thing I have that was theirs.”

“That must have been tough…”

“Life with my parents was wonderful. I only realised it was very strange much later. When I found myself going to school for the very first time at age eleven, fluent in five languages but unable to read, write or speak English, with a name that made all the other kids take the piss. I mean, literally take the piss – after all, my initials were pee-pee. Now, that was tough, and it forced me to become tough to get through it. Happy you pried?”

“I did apologise,” he mumbled.

“Sod off,” she repeated, and they reached the ferry in silence.

* * *

After a few minutes, the other troops started to board. Steve greeted many of them, and the air was filled with lewd insults, manly back-slaps, ribaldry and general frivolity. Peri noticed that the officer – Mike – had stayed in the command tent. Gus entered the ferry’s cabin to man the controls and Amanda leaned against the cabin door looking as if she was not sure she wanted to be here. Peri moved over to the ferry’s blunt bow and climbed on the railing to get some height.

“Heads up, everybody,” she called out. “Your attention please.”

She rapidly became the centre of attention.

“While we cross over, I want to brief you, and I want to make sure we all know what we’re doing. I’m Peri, and I’m in overall charge of this operation. I’m going to run quickly through three topics. First, what are we all up against over there. Second, what parts we each have to play in delivering a successful outcome here today. And third, the overall plan.

“First, then, what we’re facing. You all know this is a buckthorn operation and you all have the clearance to know that means dealing with a hostile extra-terrestrial biological entity. In other words, we’re here to kick ET right up the arse.”

Most of the men chuckled.

“The threat is in several parts. The island is infested with creatures that resemble the bastard offspring of a chain saw and a disembodied phallus, two or three feet long. If any of you in fact have a phallus two or three feet long, then I suggest you keep your flies firmly zipped to avoid accidents, and come see me afterwards if you survive this experience, er, intact and fully functional.”

This was greeted with raucous laughter.

“For want of an official code word, I’m calling this first type of threat, ‘Fucking Ugly Chain Snakes’. Maybe we can abbreviate that, you know, for brevity in reporting? Does anyone have any suggestions?”

There was a chorus of “FUCS!” and more laughter.

“Okay, some good suggestions, thank you for restoring my faith in the ingenuity of the male gender, so from here on in, we’ll call them ‘Snakes’. It’s all fine bandying around a little humour, but the snakes are nasty fuckers. They can jump some feet off the ground, they are covered in spines, and they are ambush predators. They also have another wicked trick for us. They can act as parasites. They bite, they can tunnel into your abdomen, they can sneak in through any natural orifice, and they can take over the body they have just infected. We have seen animals so infected, and we have no reason to believe that humans are immune. We have seen them erupt out of a carcass and launch several feet onto another body to infect it. Think about that. When not wandering around in control of your body, they’re eating you from the inside.”

She looked around the deck and slowly, with emphasis, she said “Do. Not. Get. Bitten by one of these.”

After a pause for effect, Peri carried on. “The snakes apparently were extruded by the main organism, and they seem to act like remote control drones. I believe there is only one ET out there, but given the number of snakes we’ve seen and heard, it must be one really big fucker of an ET. For now, we’ll refer to it with code name ‘Fat Bastard’.”

She paused, and there were some nervous chuckles.

“Now this is where I’m speculating a bit, and simplifying a bit. The fat bastard is a native of a parallel dimension that forced its way into our dimension roughly two thousand years ago. The Roman Army tackled it then, but couldn’t kill it. They trapped it underground. I honestly don’t know if we can kill it, or if we have to trap it too. But you can be sure of this. The fat bastard will be well and truly pissed off, and really, really hungry.”

She paused to let that sink in.

“Next, what are we doing. Most of us – or rather most of you – will be concentrating on finding and evacuating any civilians left alive over there. As we go, we will be taking every opportunity for attrition against the snakes and any infested mammals we find. That will create a safe environment for destroying the snakes without risk to people. There are twenty-seven residents, according to census data. There may be visitors, there may be absentees. So every building needs to be checked for civilians, alive or dead. We need to get them to the mainland, and we have medical and biohazard teams standing by to deal with them.

“While you are doing that, my team and I will be advancing up the centre of the island. Our specific objective is to locate an archaeological team who may have stumbled into a big, big problem. I said the fat bastard had been trapped underground by the Romans, two thousand years ago. Well, the archaeologists are all set to dig it up. We are going to find them, get them to safety, and assess how we can deal with El Cabron Gordo, hopefully with extreme and permanent prejudice.”

She looked around the deck at the assembled men. “Questions?”

Someone called out, “The only question we need to ask is how do we kill these things?”

Steve stepped up. “I found it quite effective to shoot them at the head end until they stop wriggling then stomp on the bastards. They’re pretty squishy. It’s a bit more complicated if they’re infesting animals. You’ll need to take down the animal first.”

Heads were nodding. Peri could see they were almost across and she needed to wrap up.

“The overall plan should be obvious. Get the civvies out, wear down the snakes, assess the situation, and come back with big guns to kick ET’s arse. Now I could start rabbiting on about we band of brothers, and Saint Crispin’s day, and shit like that. But I can’t do stirring speeches. So, I’ll keep it simple, and I’ll just say this: get out there and save the world!”

The ferry stopped moving, and the troops disembarked.

Chapter 22

Anifail Island, North Wales, May 29 last year

The disembarking troops fanned out to clear the area. Peri noticed that there was not much left of the boatman, Bill. The body had mostly been picked clean, his feet incongruously still in his shoes.

The men quickly and quietly separated themselves out into four-man patrols. One remained at the ferry to secure the route back to the mainland, while four other patrols set off. A pair of patrols took each direction, one of them along The Circle, and the other a little way inland.

Steve quickly organised his patrol, in a loose diamond with himself in the lead, Troy bringing up the rear, Peri and Gus to the left and right, and Amanda and Tash in the centre. They moved off up Harbour Way as quickly and quietly as they could. The fog was, if anything, even thicker than before and both Steve and Troy wore monocular night vision devices on head harnesses.

“Where are they?” wondered Peri aloud. “There’s the dead goat, the policeman’s body must be over there to our left, and this area was crawling when we passed through earlier.”

“Be grateful that there’s no sign of them,” suggested Troy.

“Nah,” said Steve. “If they’re not here, it means they’re somewhere else, and I’d prefer to know where.” He touched the push-to-talk button on his personal radio headset, and called in a progress update to the command tent. He listened to the response, then looked round to say, “Nobody else reports activity either.” He glanced at Peri. “Are you, er, getting any, er…”

“Vibes?” she suggested.

“Yeah, any vibes?”

“No,” she said shortly. “Don’t worry, if I do, I won’t keep it to myself.”

Peri wondered about her earlier premonitions. They simply came to her, it wasn’t as if she was aware of having done anything consciously to seek out a vision of danger. Maybe she could? Was there a way to send out of sort of ‘visioning ping’? She continued walking, almost on auto-pilot, and at the same time she kept trying different combinations of thoughts – like ‘show me!’ or ‘warn me!’ – to see if anything triggered. But nothing did.

She pulled up short when she realised the others had stopped and Steve was glaring at her.

“Peri!” he hissed. “For fuck’s sake pay attention!”

Off to the left there was a light.

* * *

Old Innes sat on his sofa, looking at the ceiling and frowning. Since shooting the thing that had once been John Willems, nobody had come calling to see why shots had been fired. He had pondered that for a short time before concluding that nobody had come by because there was nobody to come by. From the various windows of his cottage he had seen more of the snake things crossing the road or slithering through fields. He had seen a couple of Willems’ goats wander by, caked in blood and walking in the uncoordinated way that Willems had. But he had seen absolutely no people.

He had seen the snake-like creatures emerge to feed on Willems’ body, and had noted that some of them were carrying away chunks of flesh. He deduced that there was something nearby that needed to be fed. A nest or a hive, or something, no doubt. It was possible – even probable – that the island was infested with these things, killing people and livestock, either eating them or animating their corpses, and taking away carrion to feed something. He wondered how widespread they were. Had they reached the mainland?

There had been thumps on his front and back doors as they tried to force their way through. His doors were solid timber, with stout locks, and no damned invertebrate was going to break them down. He had cautiously looked out, only to find snake beasts near the doors, watching him.

He knew that they knew he was in here.

There was a bang on the window, and he realised that one of them had thrown itself against the glass. There were more bangs, from more windows. No way would they get through the doors, but the windows were another matter. He had no idea how strong the glass was. He busied himself blocking up the windows, just to be on the safe side.

Innes took stock of the essential supplies on hand. He had enough food to keep himself going for a week or two. Water and power would not be a problem if the national utilities continued to operate. He had a box and a half of shotgun ammunition – about thirty-five rounds. He was confident that he could hold out here as long as he had food, so call that two weeks. After that, well, he’d work on that problem later.

He flopped down into a comfy chair in the kitchen, and promptly dozed off.

He awoke with a start some time later – he had no idea how much time had passed, thanks to the fog outside. It took a minute or two for him to come to himself, remind himself of the nightmare outside, and to wonder what had disturbed him. There was a thud from the sitting room.

His eyes went wide.

Something was inside.

He moved slowly, cautiously, until he could peer through the crack of the sitting room door. Something long and black wiggled out of the old wood burning stove that heated the room, and landed on the floor with a thud. At least two other snake things were already exploring the corners of the room.

He closed his eyes and slumped despairingly as he visualised what must have happened. That big old wood burner was fuelled by logs, and the logs were stacked up behind the cottage, almost reaching the flue in back wall. The snakes could leap, he had seen that already. Apparently, they were smart enough to spot the flue. And find that the catch on the door of the stove was broken.

Shotgun in hand, and with a pocket full of shells, he softly slipped around the edge of the door, and sighted on the closest snake. He squeezed the trigger and the shotgun blasted the snake a couple feet back across the room. Got you, he thought. The thing screeched and slipped into the shadows under the sofa where it hissed and squawked. Okay, he corrected himself, wounded you. There were other movements in the shadows, and elsewhere in the room creatures were turning and focusing on the door. He quickly snapped another shot, hitting another beast, but again, not killing it. He broke the shotgun and reloaded while retreating into the kitchen. He closed the door.

Okay, he thought, at least a dozen of them, and more coming in through the wood burner. He heard bangs as some of the beasts threw themselves at the door. Then there was silence. They would not be breaking through that way. He smiled, but only for a minute. Then he heard scratching and rasping from the door, and closed his eyes in despair. Evidently, they could chew their way through the wood. He had enough ammo to account for maybe a dozen, perhaps even more if he was lucky and accurate. How many could there be? He guessed that the answer was, too many. Once all his ammo was gone, he would be left helpless.

He had always reckoned that no bad situation could possibly be made any worse by a cup of tea. He filled the kettle and sat it on the gas cooker. As he turned on the burner under the kettle, he thought about his situation. He had turned ninety. He still had all his faculties. He had never imagined living this long, especially in the black days of the Falaise campaign when there had seemed to be a German eighty-eight behind every hedge while he and his mates were stuck in a Sherman Firefly waiting to be burned to death. This would be as good a time to go as he could think of.

He poured himself a cup of tea. Bending towards the cooker, he turned on all its burners, including the ones in the grill and oven, and made sure none of the pilot lights were burning. He had a vintage Ronson lighter – he and his crew had bought some from Americans right at the end of the war as mementoes of serving in the tanks they nicknamed ‘Ronsons’ – as the advertising put it, ‘one flick and it’s lit’.

He sat back, sipping his tea, and waited for the room to fill with gas.

Something silently began to uncoil in the dark space beneath his chair.

* * *

Delta patrol was advancing just to the seaward of The Circle, along the east coast of the island. It consisted of four seasoned SAS troopers, clad in black, armed with C8 carbines and Sig pistols. Aided by monocular night vision gear, they were locating and clearing cottages, sheds and outbuildings. The silence was broken only by the patrol leader’s occasional quiet progress reports. They estimated that they were half way up the coast, when the dark bulk of another cottage loomed out of the fog.

Using hand signals, Delta One indicated that Delta Three should take a supporting position, covering their backs and the spaces on either side of the cottage. Delta Two slipped away through the fog to their left, checking for doors or windows to the side of the cottage, while Delta Four moved in mirror image to the right. Delta One moved up to the front of the cottage and took up position to one side of the front door.

Delta Two’s voice came softly over the personal radio headset to the rest of the patrol. “Clear left. Two windows, both secure. Moving to the rear.”

A moment later, and Delta Four’s quiet voice came through the radio link, with a similar report.

Then Delta Two came back on again. “Clear at the rear. One back door, not locked. Holding by the back door.”

Delta One touched the push-to-talk button on the intra-squad channel, and said, “Three and Four, stack up on me at the front. Two, stand by at the back. The front door is not locked. We’ll count down and breach on three.” He paused while his team mates joined him. “On three. One… Two… Three!”

Delta Two, at the rear, and One at the front door turned the doorknobs simultaneously and thrust the doors open so that they banged against the inside walls. Delta Three pushed through into the hallway and pivoted left, weapon ready, into a bedroom, while Four pivoted right into a sitting room and One moved straight ahead along the hall.

Delta Two called out, “Kitchen clear!”

Four called out, “Room clear!”

Three yelled, “Room clear!”

Finally One shouted “All clear!”

Relaxing slightly, the four men quickly searched the house, finding nothing.

One touched the push-to-talk on the squad leaders’ channel and reported another cottage cleared.

The four exited through the front door. Two started to speak. “Yet more nothing…” Then he almost stepped into the back of One, who had stopped abruptly.

“Softly, lads,” said Delta One and held his hands out in the universal gesture that meant, ‘I am not a threat’. He took a step forward, allowing Two and Three to move out the door and to either side of him. There were two people standing in the front garden facing them just a couple of feet away.

“British Army,” said One. “We’re here to help. Are you hurt at all?”

The two civilians did not reply.

“Are you all right?” Delta One tried again.

“Boss…” said Two, softly, “They’re not all right. They’re casualties.”

The SAS men could see the torn clothing and bloodstains on both of the men facing them.

Suddenly, Four, still behind them in the cottage hallway, heard a faint noise. He started to turn, to look, but all he glimpsed was a wide-open mouth and teeth as someone seized him and bit his face. He managed to exclaim, “What the—!”, before another set of teeth clamped down on his neck and ripped the front off his throat. His attempt to warn his team mates came out as part shriek, part gurgle, and arterial spray jetted out across the wall and the backs of his colleagues’ heads.

Delta One reacted fastest, spinning to face back into the house, with his C8 pressed firmly back into his right shoulder. He was not sure what he was looking at, but he smelled and felt hot blood spray, and knew that Delta Four was in trouble. He sighted and squeezed the trigger in one fluid movement, sending a burst of three bullets into the face of a bloody figure that was reaching out to him. The figure’s head jerked backward and blood, bone and brain matter sprayed the hallway behind it. A second figure rose from where it had been ripping off Delta Four’s face and thrust a hand at One, catching him full in the face. The night vision monocular jabbed into his left eye and a finger caught him in the right, but reflexively, he squeezed the trigger twice in quick succession, sending two groups of three shots into the figure.

Delta Two and Three wasted a fraction of a second turning to look back, and then spinning to face front again. That time was enough for the two figures in the garden to close in and grab the SAS men, pulling them towards their open mouths. Instinct, imbued by training and experience, took over and the soldiers moved with their attackers, throwing them to the ground. Two whipped up his C8 and shot his adversary, while Three used the butt of his weapon to smash his attacker in the head.

Delta One gasped out, “Man down,” and then, “Shit, I can’t see!”

Two and Three turned. While one of them grabbed One and pulled him out into the garden, the other seized Four’s flak jacket and pulled. Suddenly, One’s vision cleared and he shouted, “They’re not down!”

All four attackers were back on their feet, and closing in again.

Three shouted, “Head shots! Fucking zombies need head shots!” His C8 barked out bursts and the head of one of the two in the cottage garden literally exploded.

Delta Two also aimed and fired for the heads of the two coming out through the cottage door. He scored perfect hits. Delta One aimed for the chest of the man in front of him, and emptied the magazine, calling out, “No, head shots won’t do it! Go for centre mass!”

Sure enough, a headless figure was struggling back to its feet in front of Three. Rather than take time to reload his C8, Delta One pulled his Sig Sauer pistol and emptied it into the attacker’s abdomen.

Delta One contacted the command tent. “Command, this is patrol Delta. Hostile contacts, I repeat, hostile contacts. We have a man down. We are withdrawing to the road. Patrol Charlie, please assist.”

As he was talking, shots rang out from Charlie’s position, and after a few moments more, fainter gunshots could be heard to the west, where Alpha and Bravo patrols were also coming under attack.

“Oh shit,” said Delta One to his team mates. “I think that means we’re on our own. Let’s get back to the road where we can see the bad guys coming.”

* * *

Steve cautiously moved towards the light that they had seen. As he drew closer, he could make out the dark shape of a building through the fog. He touched the push-to-talk button for the squad leaders’ channel and reported it in. Troy hung back on the road with Amanda, Gus and Tash, covering the rear, while Peri moved closer to the building with Steve. The light was coming from a window, but the rest of the house – a single-story cottage – was dark. They stepped through a gate into the front garden, and Peri hissed in annoyance as she stepped on something soft and slippery. A corpse.

Steve examined the mess on the garden path. There was little more than a pile of bones and a few scraps of flesh, and a whole lot of blood. “Shotgun pellets,” he whispered.

Peri pointed to another patch of gore, where spines and teeth were just about all that was left. “Do those look familiar?” she whispered.

“Snakes,” was the terse reply.

“I think a neighbour infected by a snake must have come calling, and got blasted.”

“There’s not much left of him,” observed Steve.

“More snakes in the grass, then.”

Steve told Peri to wait, while he moved round to the side of the cottage. He returned after only a quick glance around the corner at the rear of the cottage. He leaned close to Peri and softly whispered, “The back garden is full of snakes. There must be a couple of dozen of them.”

“If there’s someone in there, we better get him out, and do it now,” she replied, and reached up to tap on the window, a rhythmic tap that she hoped the occupant would recognise as man-made.

A gravelly voice reached them from inside. “Who’s that?”

“Sir, we can get you to safety,” she replied. “But you have to come out now.”

“Can’t,” the voice replied. “Who are you? Are these snake things all over, or just around here?”

Steve moved to the front door and tried the handle. As he had expected, it was locked. He pushed open the letter box slot and immediately smelled something unexpected.

“Gas!” he called out to Peri.

“Sir,” she said. “What are you planning to do?”

“Bloody house is full of those damned things. I’m planning to kill ’em all.”

“Sir, we can take you to safety,” said Peri. “There’s no need to do anything drastic. Can you go to the front door and come out?”

“No,” he replied. “One of ’em must have slipped in before I noticed. Bugger bit me. I can feel it tearing up my guts. I have to do this now, or never. I’m goin’ to blow the place on three.”

“No – wait—”

“One.”

“Steve, get out of here, now!”

“Two.”

Peri and Steve ran across the garden and out to the road.

“Three.”

There was a loud whump! The gas ignited and the expanding air blew out the windows and doors with an almighty crash! Orange-yellow flames billowed out through every opening, rising into a fireball above the roof. Walls started to crumble and the roof fell in. Peri felt the shock-wave hit them, and she was pushed onto the grass beyond the roadway, deafened. In the space of a couple of seconds, the cottage had been reduced to nothing but a pile of burning debris.

Peri thought her ears might have taken lasting damage from the blast, because the noise seemed to be going on and on, and coming from different directions. She struggled to sit up, and only then did she realise that Steve and Troy were both firing their assault rifles, and that there was gunfire all round them. She stood with her borrowed pistol and adopted the firing stance that Troy had taught her, while trying to get her bearings and work out which way was which.

Steve and Troy were both firing in the direction of the burning cottage, and she remembered what Steve had said about snakes in the back garden. The effect of the blast was easing, and she felt less dazed and disoriented, and at last worked out that the special forces patrols on The Circle were firing, too.

Troy noticed that she was back on her feet. “Peri!” he called out. “Watch our backs and left, nine to twelve o’clock.”

“I have twelve to three,” shouted Gus, firing his Sig at something up the road.

Steve too was using his pistol, firing one-handed while talking on the radio. Peri turned to face her sector, and saw sinuous black shapes on the road. She immediately swung the pistol, two-handed, in arc to line up a shot and squeezed the trigger. The loud bang and the recoil took her by surprise. She realised she had closed her eyes reflexively and had no idea where the shot had gone. She sighted again, this time forcing herself to keep her eyes open, and fired. This time she saw the puff where the bullet had struck the tarmac road surface and knew she had missed completely. She remembered reading about pistol shooting, and realised that the targets were probably too far away for accuracy. She watched the nearest snake, and let it come closer and closer, until her nerve failed her and she fired again and again, still without success.

“Listen,” Steve shouted. “Everyone’s been ambushed, either snakes or infected humans. The bulk of them seem to be in the southern part of the island, so our best bet is to go north and find somewhere we can defend.”

Peri looked round at him. “The chapel – that sounds solid and should limit their avenues of approach.”

Steve glanced at her and shouted, “Watch your sector, Peri!”

She turned and realised that a couple of snakes were coiling to jump. “Shit!” she yelled, and simply swung the pistol one-handed in their direction and squeezed the trigger twice. To her complete astonishment, the head of each snake twitched out a puff of pink mist as her bullets hit them. “How the hell did that happen?” she said aloud.

“Without turning round, Peri,” Steve was shouting again. “Start side stepping up the road to the north, be ready to run on my command. Hold a square formation, Amanda in the centre. Troy? They’re too hard to hit with bullets. Time to frag the little sods.”

“Grenade out!” shouted Troy. “One away – two away.”

“Grenade out!” echoed Steve. “One away.”

On the third explosion, Steve yelled, “Run! Let’s move it! Go!”

They went.

* * *

The team ran through the fog, up Harbour Way, for two hundred metres or so, before Steve called a halt. “Hold your positions, and listen out,” he said. “Anybody hear any snakes in the grass?”

“I got nothing,” said Troy.

“Wait and listen,” Steve responded.

Neither Peri, nor Gus, nor Amanda could hear anything stirring. Gus shot an interrogative look at Tash, and the dog shook its head.

Finally, Steve broke the silence. “Okay, we seem to be clear of them, and we’ve caught our breath.”

Troy spoke up. “The snakes all seem to be to our south, so if we wanted to exfiltrate back to the boat we’d have to recross infested territory. From the gunfire we heard, the other fire teams ran into them in the southern half of the island too. It’s a reasonable assumption that there are no safe routes back to the harbour.”

“Okay,” said Steve. “We have two options. Call for an extraction by air, or carry on. Peri, what do you want to do now?”

“I want do what we came here for. Find El Gordo and kick its arse.”

“That works for me,” said Steve.

“Hey, don’t the rest of us get a say?” asked Amanda.

Peri answered with a question. “Do you want to find your friends?”

“Of course I do. I just don’t want to be taken for granted.” She gave a shrug of acceptance.

“Then you want to go forward?”

“Of course I do,” Amanda repeated.

Peri turned to the white-haired Swede. “What about you, Gus?”

He smiled at her, and exchanged a look with the dog. “We’ll be safest if we all stay together, I think.”

“Right, then let’s move out,” said Steve. “Diamond formation, I’ll take point, Troy to the rear, Gus and Peri, right and left, and Amanda in the centre with the dog. Slow and quiet, people.”

They resumed their progress up the road.

After another few minutes, Steve halted the party and pointed diagonally to his right where the dark shapes of low buildings could be seen through the fog. “That must be Clifftop Farm,” he whispered. He touched the push-to-talk switch for the command channel and called in a brief progress report. Troy moved up alongside Peri.

“Well, boss?” he whispered. “Should we recce this place?”

“If it’s full of snakes, all we’ll do is give away our position.” she said. “I’d rather not get chased around when we’re so close to the place Amanda’s team should be. I’d vote for closing in on the target. What do you think, boys?”

Steve had re-joined them. “I agree,” he said. “And so does Captain Mike. The other patrols haven’t found a single civilian survivor, only corpses and snake-infested people who attacked them like zombies. The chances of finding anyone intact over there is zilch.”

“And the chance of finding something nasty over there is high, I’d say,” said Peri. “So we press on to Amanda’s chapel. To boldly go, where the hand of man has never set foot, and all that.”

Raising his voice slightly, Steve said, “Back into formation, and let’s move. Keep your eyes – no, your ears, keep your ears peeled.”

“How the fuck do I peel my ears, dumbass?” asked Peri. “Never mind, it probably involves sharp things that I don’t want to know about.”

The team carried on through the fog.

“It should be a few yards further, on our left,” whispered Amanda. “Look for a track that goes around behind those trees, there.”

Peri could see something darker looming through the fog. “Are those trees?” she whispered. “My imagination sees something much worse than trees. That’s a fucking T-Rex.”

Steve chuckled. “No, it’s a clump of trees, Peri. And sure enough, there’s a farm track.”

They turned onto the track, and two camper vans emerged from the gloom.

“That’s them,” said Amanda. She strode forward to open the door to the big Aero camper, but Troy reached out to hold her by the arm.

“Let us go first,” said Steve.

Steve and Troy moved to either side of the door, weapons ready. Steve counted down, then yanked the door out and open. Troy darted inside and to the left, his C8 pressed to his shoulder. Steve moved in right behind him, and faced the opposite way. “Clear,” said Steve, quickly followed by, “Clear!” from Troy.

Steve appeared in the doorway. “Peri,” he said urgently. “I need you.” Amanda made a move, but Steve held up a hand, and said, “Wait, Amanda.” He looked at Gus, who nodded in understanding and put an arm round Amanda’s shoulders.

Peri stepped into the van.

The first thing she saw was the body of a young woman lying on the floor in a pool of blood. Her chest was a gaping bloody mess, and a piece of mangled flesh seemed to have been stuffed into her mouth. “Shit,” breathed Peri. “That’s – that’s – is that her heart?”

Steve nodded. “I think so,” he confirmed.

“Fuck, this is awful.” Peri crouched down and looked closer, taking in the woman’s brown hair and pale skin. “I think this is Gilda. The other one – Tori – she’s a blonde.” Then Peri frowned and looked at the wound in her chest. “This looks different, doesn’t it?” She looked up at Steve. “Doesn’t it?”

Steve bent down to look more closely. “You’re right. It doesn’t look like the work of a snake.”

“What. The. Fuck.” Peri said, slowly. “It’s like something ripped open her chest and pulled out her heart, then put it – there.” She rose unsteadily to her feet. “What. The. Fuck,” she repeated. She started towards the door, mumbling that she needed air.

“There’s another one,” said Steve.

She stopped in her tracks, and closed her eyes, willing herself to stay calm. “Where?”

“Look.”

Peri moved into the camper and looked down its length where a lanky young man was lying on the floor with his back propped against a bench seat. “Owain,” she said. “Well, I mean, it isn’t Professor Coupar, so it must be Owain. But there’s no blood?” She looked over at Steve. “What killed him?”

Steve shrugged. “I can see the same as you can, Peri. He’s dead, but not like…” He gestured to the other end of the camper van.

Peri knelt beside the body and leaned in close. “Weird,” she said. “His trousers have been undone at the waist.” She pulled up his tee shirt. “Scratches on his chest, but not breaking the skin.” She looked at his face. She leaned in close to his lips and sniffed. “Smells of woman,” she said. She pushed back the hair on his forehead and pointed to small blemishes on his skin. Each was small, round and red, with a crescent shaped mark on one side. “Burns? From finger tips?”

Steve was still processing something. “What do you mean, he smells like a woman?”

“No,” said Peri. “His lips smell of woman. Scented lip balm. There’s a slight waxiness and a hint of vanilla and tea. He doesn’t look like someone that plumps up his lips, ergo, he’s been kissed by someone that does.”

“Okay, and finger tips?”

Peri stretched out her own fingers and held them just above the marks. “Ten fingers, each with a fingernail, pressed into his forehead pretty hard.”

“Ah, I see it now. So what does that all mean? He and Gilda were doing the bump and grind, then he died, then… then I’m confused.”

“We need to check the other van.”

Peri ran to the door of the VW camper and opened it before Steve could stop her. There was no-one inside.

Steve started to say something about going first, but then stopped as the smell hit his nostrils. “What’s that smell? It’s sort of familiar, but…”

Peri was laughing. “My friend, I am relieved that you find the smell sort of familiar, because it suggests you are getting enough.”

“What?”

“Getting,” said Peri slowly, “enough.” She made an unmistakably lewd twerk with her hips. “You know, Steve, …Getting… Enough…”

“Whoa!” he said, stepping back. “Are you saying I’m getting a nose full of…?”

“This is what a horny teen student’s bedroom smells like after, first, discovering girls, and second, vigorously entertaining said girls, and third, never taking the trouble of doing any laundry. This is what mums have to put up with without comment, because ‘boys will be boys’. The same scent in a girl’s room would likely cause a riot – life is such a bitch to girls! You are taking in the mingled scents of sweat, Cowper’s fluid, saliva, semen, natural vaginal lubricants, cervical mucus and pheromones. You are inhaling copious quantities of ‘l’aire de baise grand’.”

Steve frowned at her, and slowly said, “And you recognise this exotic concoction because…”

She put on a surprised look. “Hey, I was once a girl, who was, first, discovered, and then, second, vigorously entertained by her fair share of students who were, third, totally laundry-challenged. I wasn’t always this innocent maiden you see before you. I recognise intensive rumpy-pumpy therapy when I smell it. Mind you, even in my less savoury episodes, the smell was never, ever this strong.”

Steve was frowning again. “Hey, Peri, there’s something funny about this place.”

“Funny in what sense?”

“My head feels… Fuzzy. I’m… Sort of… A little dizzy.”

Peri reached out to him, tilted his face towards hers, and looked intently into his eyes. “Your pupils are the size of dinner plates.” She glanced down at his crotch. “And someone looks pleased to see me. Come on, get outside and take some deep breaths.”

“What’s… What’s happening?”

“Out,” she ordered and led him out by the hand. “Now you can let go of my hand. I mean it, let go.”

Troy looked at Steve’s eyes. “What’s happening?” he asked.

“The VW camper reeks of some kind of aphrodisiac, and it’s – well, let’s just say Steve isn’t immune, not even a little,” she said. She pulled a couple of cotton wool balls from her pocket. “Here,” she said to Troy. “Stuff cotton up your nose, and his too. I’ve got one for Gus as well.”

“That was weird,” said Steve, his voice slightly slurred.

“Is he going to be all right?” asked Troy. “Steve, are you okay? What was that, Peri?”

“I don’t know what it is, but he didn’t touch anything in there, and he sure as hell didn’t shove anything in his mouth, so I assume the substance that affected him is scent based. Hence the cotton wool. There might well be more of it in the building. Look, Troy, have a scout around out here, see if there’s any trace of the other two people, or any snakes or… anything.”

Troy nodded and moved off, leaving Steve huffing deep breaths, shaking his head and looking spaced out.

Peri walked across to where Gus was holding back Amanda from the Aero. “Amanda,” she said softly. “You don’t want to go in there. It’s Owain and Gilda, and there’s nothing we can do for them. The other van’s empty, no sign of Tori or the Professor.”

“What happened?” Tori sounded remarkably calm. “Snakes?”

“No,” said Peri. “Something else. Not natural causes, I’m sure of that. We couldn’t see any obvious cause of death on Owain, but Gilda – well, she had a big chest wound.”

“And there’s no sign of Maxwell?”

“Probably inside the building,” Peri confirmed. “We’ll see in a minute.”

Troy returned and joined them. “All clear,” he said. He looked at Steve, saw that that he seemed to be disoriented, and turned back to Peri. “What now, boss?” he asked her.

“Now we check inside. You lead, I’ll be right behind you.”

Troy hesitated. “But Steve…,” he began.

“Is not himself,” said Peri. “Let’s do this. Right or left?”

“I’ll go right, you go left, and try not to shoot me,” replied Troy.

“No promises,” said Peri.

They moved to the chapel door, paused, flung it wide, and entered.

“Clear,” came Troy’s tense voice.

“Ditto”, said Peri, more calmly than she felt. The others filed in behind her, Amanda helping Steve who was still disoriented.

The interior of the chapel was untidy. Clearly, someone had moved around cardboard boxes and sacks, which were now in stacks and piles on the floor near the door. At the far end, facing the door, was a knee-high brick structure that, on closer inspection, housed a flight of stone steps that led downwards. Cables ran from a diesel generator, purring away near the door, down into the earth where a faint glow was visible.

“Down?” asked Troy.

“Down,” confirmed Peri.

Troy led the way.

Chapter 23

Beneath Anifail Island, North Wales, May 29 last year

Troy descended the stone steps beneath the altar, with Peri close behind. The steps were worn and uneven, and Peri could hear Steve and Amanda stumbling behind her, but she herself kept her balance perfectly all the way down. As he approached the bottom, Troy picked up the pace so that he burst into the open space, C8 to his shoulder, swinging his aim around to assess targets. Peri moved quickly after him and split off to move in the opposite direction, the Sig-Sauer pistol in a two-handed grip at eye level. Troy barked out, “Nobody move! Keep your hands where I can see them!”

Peri looked around in astonishment. She was in an open space, lined with rusty iron sheets, with benches along two sides, interspersed with broken statues. The centre of the room contained a heap of rubble, that looked like a mix of shattered statuary, masonry, fallen rocks from the ceiling, and rusty iron plates. Facing her at the far end of the cave, there was a big iron double door and a startled blonde woman, carrying a large rock in two hands.

“Oh, thank god you’ve come,” said the woman, letting the rock drop to the floor of the cave. “We’ve been so frightened! What’s happened out there? It sounded like a war had started!”

“You must be Victoria Bandra,” said Peri. “Where’s Maxwell Coupar?”

“He’s here,” said the blonde, pointing down to her right. “He’s sick – I don’t know what happened to him. Who are you? How do you know – oh, Amanda, it’s you!”

The woman’s face twitched with swiftly changing emotions, before settling on a worried-looking smile for Amanda. Peri was sure her first brief reactions had been surprise and dismay.

Amanda got Steve sitting on a bench, and crossed the room to Maxwell. She gasped as she caught sight of him. Peri moved to join her, and saw why. The professor was lying on the floor of the cave, his tweed jacket folded under his head, and he looked terrible. He was unconscious, white-faced and soaked with sweat. His long hair was greasy and grey. Amanda’s eyes narrowed at how thin he looked. She knelt beside him, and started patting his cheeks, talking to him in a soft, comforting tone. Troy knelt beside her and touched Maxwell’s neck, feeling for a pulse.

Peri looked at Tori. “What happened?” she asked.

“He woke up this morning like that,” she said. “I don’t know what happened to him. He insisted on getting to work, but it was obvious to me that he wasn’t right. I thought, well, a stomach bug, or maybe flu. Owain went out to find a pharmacist, but that was ages ago and he didn’t come back. Can you help him?” The last question was directed to Troy.

“His pulse is weak,” he said. “No obvious injuries. He needs a medic, Peri.”

Peri glanced back at Tori, and noted that she was looking wide-eyed at Steve and Gus. Curiously, she was not paying attention to Maxwell, and Peri could have sworn that Tori and Tash were studiously avoiding eye contact with each other.

“What about the other member of your party?” asked Peri. “Where is she?”

“Owain was gone so long, she wanted to go and look for him. I tried to persuade her not to, but, Amanda, you know Gilda, she’s very strong willed. She left, and she hasn’t come back either.”

Troy stood up, and turned his back on Tori. He looked at Peri and mouthed, “Liar.” Then, aloud, he asked, “What now, boss?”

“We came to do a job,” replied Peri, and inclined her head towards the barred door. “We need to get in there.” She noted that Tori momentarily looked pleased with herself before schooling her expression back to one of concern.

“Maxwell needs medical help,” said Amanda. “Steve too. That door can wait, surely.”

“She’s right,” said Tori, a whiny note in her voice. “What’s so important in there?”

Peri spoke quickly, before anyone else could answer. “That’s none of your business. We’re not discussing it.” She shot a warning look at Amanda.

They were all startled to hear Maxwell try to speak. “Tori,” he managed to say, lifting his head a little way.

Amanda bent down to him again. “What is it, Maxwell? What are you saying?”

“He’s asking me to help him,” said Tori, and she knelt beside him and placed the palm of her hand on his cheek.

He made some unintelligible sounds, and slumped back again with a groan. Peri could have sworn she felt the tiny hairs on the back of her neck briefly stir. The sensation was so brief that she wondered if she had imagined it. She leaned in close to Gus, and murmured, “Watch the woman. I don’t trust her.” He nodded in response.

Peri turned to Steve. “How are you doing, sailor? Are you compos mentis yet, or still one sausage short of a fry up?”

He groaned. “Did you have to mention a fry up? I’m more than a bit queasy, but at least my head stopped spinning.” He stood and moved closer to the barred doors. “Right, Troy, let’s see if we can shift the bar. You take that end.”

“Let me help,” said Tori, and she moved to the centre of the huge iron bar.

Troy counted to three, and he and Steve strained to lift the bar. Tori also had hands on the bar, but was not visibly straining – Peri assumed she was going through the motions for the sake of appearances – and the bar was lifted clear. They backed away from the door a couple of paces, and Peri called out, “Far enough, let it down.”

Tori said, “Shouldn’t we move it a bit further? The bar’s obstructing the door, so it’ll only open a couple of feet.”

“That’s deliberate,” said Peri. “It’s wide enough for a man to get in, but not so wide that anything big can get out.”

“Right,” said Steve. “Stand back, we’ll get it open a bit so we see what’s what.”

Troy pointed at some lettering that had been exposed by removing the bar: ‘θάνατος περιμένει εντός’. “What’s that? Is that Greek?”

Tori glanced at it, and said, “Thanatos perimenei centos. Death waits within.”

“Very cheerful,” replied Troy.

Amanda suddenly stood up straight, and gave Tori an odd look. “Is that what Maxwell told you?”

Tori’s eyes narrowed and she looked straight back at Amanda. “Oops,” she said coolly. “From the look on your face, Maxwell doesn’t speak Greek, does he. So silly little air-head Tori shouldn’t know what that says, should she.”

“What the fuck…” Peri started, but before she could go on, Amanda clenched her fist and smashed a punch into the middle of Tori’s face with an audible crunch of bones and cartilage. Surprised, Tori rocked back against the door and slid down onto the floor of the cave. She laughed, breaking off to lick blood off her top lip.

“Oh, I bet that felt good,” she laughed at Amanda. “I bet you enjoyed that! Got to give you credit, bitch, I wasn’t ready for that one.” She put her hands on the iron bar, and laboriously got up onto her knees.

“What the hell did you do to Maxwell?” Amanda demanded.

Amanda laughed again. “Not Owain? Not Gilda? You don’t care about what I did to them, do you? Just Maxwell! Admit it, bitch, you’re like his mummy, always fussing over him, getting him out of trouble, over and over, again and again. Well, I’ve well and truly fucked him, in every sense of the word, and you won’t be saving his miserable ass this time.”

Peri felt her stomach lurch and her vision blur; she knew something bad was happening. She stretched out towards Tori. The others were busy gawping at Tori, and were taken completely by surprise when she hooked both hands under the heavy iron bar and flipped it straight at Amanda. Steve and Troy had struggled to lift the huge mass of iron, yet the slight blonde had just tossed it like a twig. Peri managed to change the direction of her lunge, and seized Amanda by one wrist, yanking her to the side. The iron mass struck her a glancing blow, hard enough to send Amanda down in a heap on top of Peri.

Gus reacted by swinging his pistol round to aim at Tori and cracked off a snap shot. But Tori was moving impossibly fast, and the bullet went wide. He aimed again, this time leading her movement, but as his finger squeezed the trigger, Tash somehow tangled himself in the old man’s legs and his second shot was high.

Tori laughed, throwing both arms wide, releasing a cloud of chemicals. At the same time, she sent out a mental shockwave that slammed into everyone else, throwing them back and filling their minds with excruciating pain. She looked at Tash, and said, “Thank you, father.” Turning to the door, she grabbed its handles and heaved. The iron bar was no longer in place on the floor to block it, so the door swung wide. Tori grabbed Maxwell, pulled him to his feet, and propelled him into the open doorway.

* * *

Peri blinked away the blinding pain of Tori’s mental flash-bang. She managed to get out from under Amanda, and tried to work out what was happening. She could see that Steve, Troy and Gus were down, she could hear Tori’s footsteps behind her running up the stairs, and she was horrified to see Maxwell, blinking in confusion, standing in the doorway. Something sinuous and black whipped out of the darkness and wrapped itself round his torso.

She started to rise, but then her stomach lurched in that familiar way and her vision greyed out, forcing her back to her knees. She managed to say, “Look out!” But her premonition of danger had come too late; another long black tentacle shot out, this one having spines along its length and teeth at the end. It wrapped round Maxwell’s legs, and Peri saw blood spurting as it the spines bit into him. Steve pushed past her, and grabbed at Maxwell’s leg, swinging a combat knife at the spiny tentacle. The knife was razor sharp, and its seven-inch blade sliced right through. There was a spurt of black ichor, accompanied by a sharp hiss from within the cave. A three-foot length of tentacle writhed and fell away from Maxwell. It instantly started squirming across the cave towards Steve, who realised that he was looking at the creature they had christened the chain snake: black, lined with blade-like spines, its tip opening into a circular mouth full of sharp teeth. He stumbled backwards as it launched itself at his face, its maw gaping, but at the last moment it suddenly changed direction and flew past the tip of his nose, closely followed by Peri’s foot, and then the rest of her landed on the ground in front of him. Steve realised that she had managed to knock it aside with a flying leap.

Gus stepped past him and his foot slammed down on the snake right behind its head, pinning it. He pointed his pistol down, and fired twice, catching it no more than an inch from his own foot, and splattering its head-end across the cave.

Troy had grabbed Maxwell’s arm in both hands and was trying to heave him back out of the blackness. Another slender black appendage shot outward and wrapped around Maxwell’s face, while another spiky tentacle appeared, hovered for a moment, and then made a grab for Troy’s arms.

Amanda jumped straight at Troy’s body, slamming her weight into him, so that their combined momentum carried him clear of the grasping limb. She turned and lunged towards Maxwell, but was horrified to see him being pulled into the inner cave, encircled by several tentacles, his face a picture of abject terror and hopelessness. He disappeared into the blackness.

“Flash bang,” called out Steve. “One away!”

He turned away to avoid the effects of the shock grenade. As soon as it went off, he and Troy darted through the doors with assault rifles at the ready. Peri stepped through behind them and dropped to one knee, her pistol in the two-handed grip Troy had shown her. She looked all round, her gun muzzle tracking her view. She could now see that the cave was almost black, with a tiny sliver of light at its far end. Both Steve and Troy were using their night-vision monoculars, and moving steadily forward, one to her left and the other to her right, looking for their target. She began moving cautiously forward up the middle of the cave. She heard Gus enter behind her, and called out to him.

“Hang back by the door, Gus. If it doubles back past us, do not, whatever you do, let it get out of this cave. If you need to shut us in, just do it.”

“Hey,” came Troy’s voice. “Do we get a vote in this?”

“No, mate, we don’t,” said Steve. “Peri, why don’t you give Gus some back up?”

“Tired of my company already, boys?”

“I take it that’s no.” said Troy.

“Movement,” said Peri. “Dead ahead. It crossed that little light, my right to left.” It dawned on her now that the distant gleam must be a small hole in the cave wall, leading out to the cliff face where Chen had fallen. The creature must have been feeding tentacle tips – chain snakes – out through that hole for days.

“I see it,” said Steve. “I can’t see Maxwell though.”

“Oh fuck,” came Troy’s voice, from off to the right. “I just stepped in something squishy. I think it’s part of Maxwell, but there’s not a lot of him here.”

“Assume he’s gone,” said Peri in a cold voice. “See if we can hurt this fucking thing.”

“I have him,” said Steve calmly, “Directly to my front, about ten o’clock from you, Peri.”

“Got him,” she replied.

The two marines opened fire with controlled, carefully aimed three-round bursts. The creature hissed and they could hear it moving in the darkness. Steve and Troy kept up a steady fire, but Peri had fewer bullets available to her, so she waited until the faint light was obscured by the beast’s bulk, and emptied her pistol at it. When the light stayed obscured, she realised that meant it was moving straight down the middle of the cave, and started back-pedalling quickly, calling out, “It’s in front of me and closing fast.”

Peri ejected the magazine from the pistol but fumbled the replacement, and heard it skittering across the cave. “I’ve dropped the fucking reload,” she shouted. “I’m getting out.” She turned and started running.

Steve called out, “Flash bang. One away.”

A couple of seconds later came the loud crack and bright light. The creature hissed and growled, and they caught a glimpse of something big retreating back up the cave. They ducked out through the doors and slammed them shut.

“I need a reload,” said Peri. She accepted two spare pistol magazines and loaded one of them.

“I don’t think we were hurting it,” Steve said.

“Just annoying it,” added Troy.

“It didn’t like the flash-bang,” observed Peri. “I think it was the light that bothered it. So come on, boys, let’s take stock. What resources have we got?”

“Bullets,” said Steve. “I’ve got three full rifle mags plus what’s loaded, call it one hundred rounds.”

“Same.” said Troy.

“Nine mil rounds, call it sixty apiece and Peri has thirty,” Steve said. “Gus, what about you?”

“Twenty,” said the Swede.

“None of which seem to bother the beast,” said Peri. “What about things that go bang?”

“Between us, me and Troy have one frag and three flash-bang grenades.”

“And let’s consider what we’ve learned,” said Peri. “Bullets, at least in the quantities we’ve got, only irritate it.”

“Chop the end off a tentacle all you have is a chain snake plus an annoyed beastie,” said Steve.

“It doesn’t like flash bangs.”

“We haven’t tried a frag on it yet,” said Troy. “Would it do enough damage to kill the main creature without just throwing out a load of snakes?”

“And that’s the big question,” said Peri. “Do we have anything big enough to really hurt it?”

There was an ominous sound of hissing and scraping at the door.

“Well,” started Gus, but he was interrupted by a resounding crash against the door.

“Did that just move?” asked Amanda.

“That just moved,” confirmed Peri. “Come on, hold the door!”

“Well,” Gus said again. “I believe this type of creature can regenerate itself from large enough parts, as we saw with the tentacle tip. So a large explosion risks just scattering parts that will grow into several more creatures. All weaker, but all capable of killing and growing.”

“Fuck, Gus, how long have you known that?” asked Peri with anger in her voice. “It didn’t occur to you to maybe let us know what you know about the fucker, like, hours ago?”

“Peri, I have only seen it just now. It is only now that I recognise it. I am not holding back information, I assure you.”

“Okay, sorry, Gus, I’m just a bit – how I can put it best? – a bit shit-scared. I’m not at my best when I’m a bit shit-scared. Now that you have seen it, how do we kill it?”

“It is similar to creatures that manifested in Japan, in Nagasaki, and the USA, at Mount Saint Helens.”

“How were they dealt with?” asked Steve.

“Nukes,” was Peri’s terse reply.

“Yes,” said Gus. “I believe the only solution the authorities could come up with was vaporisation.”

“So, Steve,” said Peri conversationally. “I don’t suppose that’s a nuke in your pocket?”

Troy answered for him. “No. He’s just that happy to see you.”

“Hilarious,” Peri replied with a note of irritation. “So, Gus, let’s think about this. What we need is something that delivers a really high temperature, such as burning very intensely and energetically. Am I right?”

“I think so. But it needs to be intense enough to vaporise its tissues, not just scatter them.”

Steve was nodding his head. “Sounds like we need a fuel-air bomb, or a shed load of white phosphorus.”

But Peri was shaking her head at the same time. “They use atmospheric oxygen, and loads of it. I suspect we couldn’t get the effect we need down here because there isn’t enough oxygen. That was why the Yanks had to nuke Mount – no, forget I said that, or I’ll have to kill you all. Guys, where my head is at, is that we have two options here. One is a complex mission to use bunker-busters to open up the cave system and let in air, quickly followed by intense incendiary action. The other is simpler: programme a Trident to just nuke the fucker. No doubt the top brass can think of other options besides. Steve, can you get up to ground level and update Captain Mike?”

Steve nodded and made for the stairs.

Peri continued, “The rest of us, we’ll try to secure the door again. Then it’s mission accomplished and over to the Ministry to arrange a big bang, and we can all Foxtrot Oscar out of here before the shit hits the monster. Grab the iron bar, people.”

* * *

Peri moved to the left end of the bar, Troy went to the right, and Gus and Amanda spaced themselves in the middle. They squatted to take hold of it. Troy counted down, and on ‘go’ they heaved it up to waist height and shuffled a few paces closer to the door before letting the bar drop.

“God, that’s heavy!” complained Peri. “How the hell did Bandra manage to chuck it on her own? Come on, let’s get this done. Ready? Count us in, Troy.”

This time, though, before they managed to get it to waist height, there was another crash against the doors. They flew apart, striking the iron bar a double blow that pushed it back, bowling over Amanda and Troy. Peri and Gus both managed to hop backwards out of its way.

“The doors!” yelled Peri, jumping over the bar and hurling herself against the left door to try to force it shut. Gus jumped for the right door. Glancing back, he saw that Amanda was shouting in pain, an ankle trapped under the bar, and Troy had taken a blow to his head that left him dazed. Gus eyed the dog sitting calmly behind them all.

“Tash!” he shouted. “Come and help! Throw your weight onto this door!”

“No.” The dog’s reply shocked him. That it was audible, rather than telepathic, also surprised him.

“What are you thinking?” he yelled. “Come on, Tash!”

“What’s in it for me, Gustav?” asked the dog. “Come on, what’s my incentive?”

“Tash! Help us, please!”

“Nah, don’t think so.”

“What do you want, dog?” Peri all but screamed.

“Opposable thumbs,” said Tash. “That’s all. It’s not much, really, is it?”

There were a series of ominous thuds against the doors, and Peri and Gus struggled to hold them closed.

“No,” said Gus, firmly.

Troy was back on his feet. He tried to lift the bar off Amanda, but without success.

Seeing him struggle, Peri spoke up. “Gus, I’ll move to the middle and hold both doors, if you grab the bar and get Amanda out.”

“No,” he replied. “You cannot hold it alone. Tash will help. You will, Tash!”

“Opposable thumbs,” said the dog again.

Peri shuffled sideways, towards the centre of the doorway, her back against the door and her feet pushing, hard. “We’ve got to get her out, Gus. Now, go!”

She moved sideways another foot, and now she was pushing against both doors. With a grunt of frustration, Gus pushed off from the door and joined Troy. The two men heaved the bar up at one end, and with a sob of relief Amanda rolled free.

There was another crash against the door. Peri was jolted forward. The door opened. A black tentacle lashed out and wrapped round Peri’s middle, its sharp spines digging in. She yelled with the pain. A second limb flashed out from behind the door and whipped around her leg. Blood sprayed the air as a barb hit an artery. Troy jumped forward and slammed against one leaf of the door, slamming it shut, but a third tentacle slapped across Peri’s face. She screamed. The creature hissed and whistled in triumph from behind the door, tightening its grip and dragging Peri toward itself, the knife-like spines slicing into her flesh, and contracting muscles breaking bones with a sickening sound. Someone – it might have been Troy – grabbed her wrist to try to hold her back, but slippery blood was everywhere now. Peri felt rather than heard a roaring in her ears, the sound of screams, shouting – and then her world blacked out.

Chapter 24

Somewhere, at some time, impossible to define

Peri suddenly blinked awake. She instantly knew something was wrong, because the clamour, the shouting and the screaming had faded into silence. Strange.

She sat up, and was surprised to find that her wounds no longer ached. She looked around herself, confused, but could see nothing but fog.

She poked a finger into the gaping rent in her abdomen. It sank in and she felt warm, wet blood and slimy viscera, but no pain. When she pulled the finger back out, it was clean and dry. Strange, again. She wondered if she was dead.

“I thought we should talk,” said a soft voice.

Startled, she looked up and saw a tall, slender, white woman who seemed to exude a bright white light. The woman was completely white from top to toe – alabaster skin, flowing white gown, long white hair, eyes so pale they seemed to consist of nothing more than pupil and sclera. She was astonishingly, breathtakingly beautiful, but with a delicacy of features that was ethereal. The proportions of her face hinted at an other-worldly nature. Come to think of it, her slender figure was quite androgynous, but Peri decided to think of it – her – as female.

“Is this a good time? In the middle of…” She stopped abruptly. “That’s not important. Tell me, am I dead? What is this place?”

The woman smiled. “The answers are, ‘Not yet,’ and, ‘We stand – well, to be accurate, I stand and you lie – on the floor of a cave in the rocks beneath Anifail Island.’”

“Then where has the fight gone?”

“It remains around us.”

“Can you just tell me plainly, what has happened!”

The woman looked thoughtful, as if trying to find a good way to explain. “Think of it like this… Time is a river, ever flowing by, and you and I have stepped away to stand on the bank for a few moments.”

“What?”

“Or perhaps… Yes, this will work: consider that we occupy the space between the tick and the tock of the universe’s clock.”

“You’re saying that you just stopped time.”

The woman smiled again. “Not precisely. We have moved aside from time’s flow.”

“So you yanked me – somehow – out of conventional spacetime,” Peri tried. “Time has flowed on, beyond us. What are the others experiencing? Have I just… vanished in front of their eyes?”

“You are acquainted with the concept of the universe’s many dimensions,” the woman said, with an approving tone. “That is good. When I reverse the process and restore you to the universal coordinates from which you were translated, the time coordinate will be restored. Your companions will not observe any discontinuity.”

“Okay,” said Peri. Then a look of horror crossed her face. “No – wait – not okay! Wasn’t that thing in the cave just killing me? You put me back, I die. That doesn’t sound good! What’s going on, lady? Who the fu – er, who the heck are you? And why am I here?”

The strange woman waved a hand and a pair of white armchairs emerged from the white fog. “Please,” she said. “We should be comfortable while we talk.”

“Ah, I’m not sure I can stand without my insides falling out,” said Peri. The woman merely smiled again. Peri stood and sat without spilling anything. She noticed that her blood did not stain the furniture. “Hmm. You seem to have a thing about white, don’t you. What’s that about? Symbolic of something? I hope it’s not purity and innocence, ’cos I don’t have much of those any more.”

“Your sense of humour is returning,” she replied. “That is good. No, what you are perceiving as white is an absence of colour. Without time there is no motion, and without motion, photons cannot arrive at the receptors in your eyes. You are experiencing artificial neural stimuli designed to lessen your anxiety. The effect operates monochromatically, because colours would draw too much energy and reduce our time together.”

“But I can see my own red blood,” objected Peri, holding up a sticky hand.

“I take no credit for that,” the woman said. “You know it is blood, you know what colour blood should be, and so you add details of your own devising to the neural experience.”

“But if there’s no time dimension, how does cause and effect work? How can we be talking?” asked Peri. Then abruptly she held up a hand. “You know what? I don’t understand much of what’s going on here, and I don’t really think I care anyway. Let’s get back to questions I do care about. Who are you?”

The woman smiled. “In a sense,” she said, “I am your true mother.”

Ah, definitely female, thought Peri.

“And your true father.”

Okaaaaay, maybe not, Peri thought.

“My function is that of your planet’s Servator. You may use that title, if you wish.”

“Okay, three things, really quickly. One, that isn’t your name; two, I clearly remember my mother and father, who didn’t look anything like you; and three, what’s a Servator?”

“Servator is a Latin word that comes close to describing my role. I am, at once, the Watcher, the Observer, the Listener, the Deliverer and the Preserver. But I recognise that there is a cultural inhibition to addressing someone by their function rather than by their name. My true name… that is difficult to render in a form comprehensible to you. Humans have used a variety of names to refer to me in the past. Perhaps one of those might satisfy your need? One of the oldest is Avalokiteshvara, but that is rather long to my mind. You were conceived among the Hmong people, so perhaps Kab Yeeb would be acceptable. You were born in Vietnam, where I was known as Quan Am among other names.”

Peri’s eyes opened wide. “Guanyin,” she breathed, remembering Shanghai.

“That name was used by the Han people of China,” she confirmed. “If you wish, I would be content to use that name.”

“You’re not really a – a goddess, are you? I mean…”

“Sufficiently advanced technology,” was all the Servator needed to say. Peri nodded her understanding.

“I guess you should call me Peri. Though you already seem to know a lot about me. I mean, ‘Conceived among the Hmong people’. How did you pick up that little detail? And you missed a question.”

“I was present in the temple in the forests of Laos,” said Guanyin.

Peri frowned. “I was told earlier today that I’m not quite a standard human. What do you know about that? Did you have something to do with it?”

“That is one of the points I wished to discuss with you. Yes, I did have something to do with it. But let me explain my role.

“The functions of a Servator are essentially passive. I am not permitted to intervene in human affairs. Nevertheless, humanity is at risk, and I am reluctant to see it ended. I therefore found what I believe you would call a ‘grey area’ in the directives that govern my actions. You, Peri, occupy that grey area. I judged that humanity would benefit from the existence of certain capabilities. I set up a laboratory beneath an abandoned and forgotten temple in the Xieng Khouang region and set about engineering someone who would, in time, develop useful capabilities.”

“Are you telling me that I’m the result of your tinkering with my mother’s eggs?” Peri was horrified. “What am I going to turn into – some kind of monster like the thing on Anifail Island? Are you responsible for that, too? And just how is that not intervening in human affairs?”

“Your mother’s eggs – that is, your birth mother’s eggs – were not involved in your conception, nor was your birth father’s seed. I engineered what was needed and implanted it into a surrogate – your mother – to bear and nurture you. But please do not be anxious. You will not become something to be shunned or feared on sight. My goal is the preservation of humanity, so it is essential that you can work towards that goal from within humankind. I will not intervene in human affairs – but you can.”

Peri huffed impatiently. “Preservation? From what? Or who? What is this risk that you talk about?”

Guanyin’s smile faded into a frown. “I regret that I must exercise care in what I tell you today, because we must stay within our grey area. Too much information poses a risk to your continued existence. Suffice it to say, as you have discovered, humankind is not alone in the universe. Humanity is broadcasting the presence of intelligent life on this planet at an exponentially increasing rate. Such broadcasts are becoming detectable even in the higher dimensions. Not every intelligent species is altruistic.” She fell silent.

“That’s all I get?” asked Peri, frowning right back at her.

“For now,” replied Guanyin.

“Okay. That thing on Anifail, that’s certainly not altruistic, is it, and frankly it’s kicking our ar – our backsides. If you have so many human names, then you must have intervened in the past, like a lot. Can you intervene now? I could use some help.”

The ethereal smile returned. “In the past I was authorised to stop and reverse the activities of an ancient being who formed your planet around – well, let us just call it a machine. While waiting for its plans to mature, it amused itself by playing the part of a malevolent and vengeful god. In fact, it played at being many gods, manipulating many of Earth’s tribes. Once it was neutralised and imprisoned, my authority to act was ended.

“This is your help, Peri. You have several enhanced capabilities at varying stages of development. I am going to make some changes to accelerate development and better equip you to deal with the Devourer and with… whatever comes next. Remember, I cannot intervene against it, but I can speed your development so that you can.”

“The Devourer? That’s what you call the creature? Quite an apt name, because when you yanked me out, it was busy devouring me. When you drop me back in, it’ll finish the job.”

“Yes it will,” said Guanyin with a look of deep regret. “And I am sorry that it will be exceedingly painful for you as it does so.”

“What? That’s your idea of help?”

“Bear with the pain, it will quickly be over. I will use the liberated matter, combined with more of what Gustavus calls ‘exotic matter’, to reconstruct you. The enhanced capabilities are fuelled by exotic matter, but your body secretes it quite slowly. Too slowly. I thought you would have ample time to grow into your powers, but I now see that you will not.”

“Oh,” Peri said, surprised, though she realised she should not be. “You know Gus and Tash?”

Guanyin looked equally surprised. “Of course I do. Gustavus is the latest in a succession of custodians of the imprisoned being I mentioned. The exotic matter I will need is the dog.”

Peri’s eyes were wide in shock. “Whoa! You’re telling me Tash was a malevolent god? And you’re going to tear him apart to rebuild me?”

“The being is imprisoned within an exotic matter construct projected from the collar around his neck. I cannot destroy the being. He will remain imprisoned within an exotic matter shell. Only now, he will be imprisoned within you, Peri.”

“Me?” Peri’s voice was faint.

Guanyin fixed her eyes on Peri’s. “This is important, Peri. Your newly emerged and matured capabilities will suffice to avoid being killed by the Devourer. But you will not be able to kill it. It can be imprisoned.”

“How?” asked Peri. “What do I have to imprison it?”

“Grey areas again,” replied Guanyin. “Think about it, Peri. You will have what you need nearby.”

“Bloody marvellous!” said Peri, bitterly. “I have no idea how to fight it, but even if I do, I can’t kill it, I just have to imprison it, and I have no clue how to do that. Is that supposed to help? Really?”

“Energy is depleting,” said Guanyin. “This interaction must end soon. You have all the clues you need, save one. There is a question you have not yet asked.”

“There are many questions I want to ask,” said Peri. “Which one – ah, wait, it’s obvious. I need to know about these enhanced capabilities you’re going to all this trouble for me to develop. What will I be able to do that I can’t do already?”

“Very little,” said Guanyin, infuriatingly. But before Peri could snap at her, she continued. “But your strength will be greater, and you will have better control. You already have remarkable capabilities for a human. You have exceptional powers of recall. Most human scientists believe that ‘eidetic memory’ or ‘photographic memory’ does not really exist, though some people have remarkable memories. You, uniquely, have a genuine photographic memory, though you may not have realised how exceptional you are. You also have exceptional proprioception, a trait sometimes referred to as kinaesthesia. Have you come across these terms?”

“Yes,” said Peri, thoughtfully. “Some teachers at school said I seemed to be kinaesthetic, and I would make either a brilliant gymnast or a dancer. My grandmother wanted me to take ballet classes, but I – er, let’s just say I declined. I wasn’t very nice about it, as I recall.”

“We both know that you recall it perfectly,” replied Guanyin. “You know how rude and hurtful you were.”

“Ah, yes, I should have guessed that you’ve been keeping an eye on me.”

“You have a perfect sense of movement and positioning of your entire body. This is important.”

“Well, if I wanted to dance with a Devourer, I suppose,” Peri said sourly.

“Think back. Your military companions commented on your accuracy when using a pistol instinctively rather than consciously. Your proprioceptive abilities go far beyond that. Next. The key to unlocking a huge number of scientific achievements is an understanding of the time dimensions. Humanity lacks the necessary understanding.”

“So do I,” Peri interjected.

“Yes. But you have some control over the time dimension of conventional spacetime. You can manipulate the flow of time to some extent. You have already done so more than once.”

“I can? Really? I have?”

“Yes,” said Guanyin. “Hongfeng Road, Shanghai. Instinctively, you used two aspects of time manipulation. How did you know the young boy was in danger? And how did you reach him so quickly? There have been more recent examples of short-term precognition.”

“Precognition?” said Peri. “I guess I have some kind of heightened sense of danger. But isn’t time unidirectional? How can anyone experience the future and then come back to make use of the knowledge?”

“How is unimportant. You may as well ask, ‘How do I control my digestive system?’ It is enough that it works. Your precognitive sense operates over a very short interval. You can see the possible futures a second or so ahead, and identify high threats, in time to take action.”

“I can’t get my head round that,” said Peri. “If I see the future, but then act so as to change it, that’s meddling with the law of cause and effect. Isn’t it?”

“I repeat…”

“How is unimportant.”

“Yes,” said Guanyin. “Now, the other aspect is the ability to slow down or speed up the rate at which time flows relative to yourself. Do you see how useful this would be?”

“I think so,” said Peri. “Since time and motion are related…”

“Good,” Guanyin interrupted. “We have only moments left.”

“But how do I make it work?”

“Use a metaphor. Picture something that represents time passing, something you can manipulate, and will it to be manipulated. Your capability will do the rest.”

The white light began to grow dim, and Guanyin sighed. “Energy depletion is upon us. I am sorry, but this is going to be exceptionally painful.”

The slender figure of the Servator faded away, as did the armchair Peri was sitting in. The white fog and white light faded to black and she felt growing pressure round her abdomen and her limbs. Black tentacles edged with sharp bladed spines began to materialise, and Peri began to scream as the returning agony blazed through her.

Chapter 25

Beneath Anifail Island, North Wales May 29 Last Year

The pain that ripped through Peri was excruciating, all but indescribable. The creature’s black tentacles were wrapped around her neck, her abdomen and her leg. The knife-blade spines were digging deeper into her flesh as its muscles contracted and wrenched at her. She could feel air leaking from punctured lungs, blood flooding from ruptured arteries and her own screams fade into nothing as her larynx collapsed. There was a snapping sound and she could no longer feel the agony below her waist. Another snap and for a fraction of a second she glimpsed her torso being carried away into the darkness towards the creature’s mouth before, mercifully, blackness took her.

The others watched, horrified, as Peri came apart and the monster pulled the pieces back behind the iron doors.

“Ooh!” Tash was audible in each of their heads. “Another one down! Wonder who’s going to be next, eh, Gus? So come on, opposable thumbs isn’t much to ask for, now, is it?”

The big dog sat with its head cocked to one side, and Troy could have sworn it was smiling. With a yell of outrage, he levelled his assault rifle at it and squeezed the trigger. The bullets passed through leaving the dog unharmed. “Now that might have made you feel a little better,” said Tash inside his mind, “But it really didn’t do anything for me. And the door’s about to open really wide. What should we do, eh, Gus?”

Gus fiddled with the ring on his finger, and bowed his head.

“That’s it!” yelled the dog into their heads. “I can feel it working!”

All around the dog, tiny spheres of energy hovered, sparked, repelled and attracted each other in a random dance. The randomness of the dance rapidly diminished. Tiny energy packets, attracting each other, were forming larger parcels, and these in turn were overcoming repulsive forces to grow, dance more slowly, and merge into something greater. The pungent smell of ozone filled the cave. A low rumble became audible and the ground trembled. There was a sudden sharp rise in pitch, culminating in an unnatural scream, and the luminescent blobs of energy abruptly coalesced into a large glowing sphere, which blew outwards with a loud crack. The dog was gone. In the centre of a blackened patch staining the cave floor, there stood a human figure.

“Gus! This is fantastic!” Tash’s voice was audible now, as well as inside their heads, and the four humans blinked, disoriented and astonished. “Wow! Look at me! I’m a girl!”

Steve, Troy and Amanda gaped. The figure was a woman, naked but for a dog collar, skin the colour of olives, her small breasts tipped by brown areolae and nipples, dark-eyed, her black hair standing out from her head and crackling with static.

Amanda hesitantly whispered, “Peri? You changed Tash into Peri?”

Gus was shocked. He muttered, “It wasn’t me – really, it wasn’t.”

“Yah!” the figure replied excitedly. “It’s me! Tash! Hey Gus, look what I can do!”

The woman reached up to grasp the dog collar, which she unclipped and dramatically tossed onto the ground at Gus’s feet.

“See? Opposable thumbs, Gus, opposable thumbs! Fuck you and fuck your magic collar! Now you know why nobody else was ever dumb enough to give me opposable thumbs! I’ll be going soon, Gus, but before I do, just let me…” She ran her hands over the skin of her new body, and gave a whimper as they brushed over her nipples.

“Ooh, Amanda, how do you manage to leave your tits alone? Boys, you don’t know what you’re missing! This is amazing! I could do this all day. In fact, I think I will!” She tugged on her nipples, giving them a squeeze and rolling them in her fingers. “Ooh, yes, yes, yes! What other erogenous zones do we have…?”

Suddenly a voice crashed like thunder into each of their minds: “TAKE YOUR STINKING PAWS OFF ME, YOU DAMNED DIRTY DOG!”

Tash guiltily dropped her hands to her sides, and looked even more dumbfounded than the others. “Peri?” she said, aloud, hesitantly.

“Yes, Peri,” she replied to herself. Or more correctly, Peri replied to Tash. She looked around. “If anyone’s confused right now, let me just say, me too!”

Her eye fell on the dog collar at Gus’s feet, and she realised that she knew what the Servator’s hints had meant. She really did have what she needed.

The iron door creaked as something pushed from the other side. “Okay,” said Peri. “I guess it’s finished eating me, and it’s looking for dessert, so I vote we take care of business. I want a flash-bang in that door to distract it, Troy. Stand by with another one, just in case. Gus – you’ve got the controller for the collar, right? Get ready to shape something small and helpless.”

“But how…” began Amanda.

Peri smiled an enigmatic smile, and replied, “How is unimportant. Stand by the door, we go on a three count, right?”

Peri closed her eyes, and synchronised herself with her own heartbeat. She reached out, feeling with her mind for the faint ribbon of time streaming by. Ah! There it was. She gently closed her mind around it, like a fist, letting it slip through her fingers.

“Three,” she said.

She tightened her mind’s grip on the ribbon, slowing it just a little, becoming accustomed to the force it exerted, before squeezing a little harder, slowing time a little more relative to her pulse.

“Two.”

She picked up the dog collar. From the way Gus’s eyes tried to follow her movement – slowly – she realised her motion had been a blur to him. She grabbed time’s ribbon and clamped down with her mind, hard.

“One.”

It seemed to take a very long time for the iron door to start moving, and Troy’s flash-bang to float slowly through the gap. She closed her eyes and clamped her hands over her ears, and waited for the detonation. When she felt the rumble, she launched herself in through the door, and opened her eyes.

Peri realised that she could see in the dark this time. A large shape was retreating into the depths of the cave, and she threw herself into the middle of the mass of tentacles with the dog collar in one hand. The creature was moving absurdly slowly, or rather, she corrected herself, it was moving quickly but she was moving unbelievably fast. She saw movement in her peripheral vision, and ducked under one swinging tentacle and hurdled over another. She seized a third in one hand, and deftly slipped the collar over its end and tried to push it along its length. The collar snagged on the first spine it came to, and as Peri tried to force it over, something – yet another tentacle – crashed into her back and sent her flying across the cave and into the rusty iron wall. She cried out with pain as spines punctured her back and then was silenced as all the air whooshed out of her with the impact against the cave wall. She distinctly heard several ribs break. She sagged, gasping for breath, and felt blood running across her skin from multiple lacerations. Another dark shape was flying towards her face – another tentacle. She tucked her limbs in, wincing with the pain, and rolled across the cave floor out of the way. She felt the spines whip through her hair and scratch the top of her head as she scrambled past the creature’s groping tentacles. She looked up, in time to see something catch the light as it flew towards the back of the cave – the collar had flown off.

“Fuck this,” she muttered aloud. “It’s got too many bloody tentacles. How the hell do I dodge them all?”

The answer came to her and she slapped the cave floor in fury. “Fucking stupid bitch! Idiot!” she snarled at herself. She forced herself to calm down, and reached out with her mind to take a firm grip on the ribbon of time. A pair of tentacles were closing in from the sides, and were about to slap together and crush her. She yanked on time, as hard as she could, dragging it to a halt, and visualised tying off the ribbon so it could not move. She glanced around herself to see if it had worked.

Dust motes hung in the air, unmoving. The creature was still. The tentacles were close, but coming no closer. She could see the thing’s huge eye, focused on her, and its gaping circular maw ringed with pointed teeth. Carefully she stepped through the tentacles and past the beast’s head. As she bent to pick up the dog collar, her vision swam and it dawned on her that her body’s energy was all but drained by the effort of controlling time. She needed to get a move on.

Peri picked up the collar and unsnapped it. She wrapped it around a tentacle near its junction with the hideous head, and fastened it. Immediately, the collar tightened and clung to the beast.

Her heart pounding and her pulse racing, Peri moved to the cave entrance and stepped through into the outer chamber. It should not have surprised her, but nevertheless there was a moment of shock as she caught sight of her companions, stock still, with various expressions of horror or disbelief on their faces. She moved close to Gus, her limbs burning with the effort, and knew she could hold on to time no longer. Her vision went dark around the edges and time tore free from her mental grasp, as she collapsed onto the floor. Abruptly, her surroundings picked up speed and noises crashed back into her ears.

She called out, “Now, Gus! Now! Trap the fucker!”

Gus’ eyes went wide and he looked down in disbelief at Peri, lying in a bloody heap at his feet. But he obediently squeezed and turned the ring on his finger. There was a hissing sound and a flare of white light from the inner cave.

“Did it work?” demanded Peri. “Let me see!”

Troy looked round the door and laughed. He and Gus dragged the door wide, as Amanda helped Peri to stand. Amanda looked up at the cave, and she, too, started to laugh. Peri finally got her eyes to focus, and they narrowed as her sight landed on a small, surprised-looking sheep, wearing a dog collar.

“Right,” said Peri. “Now get me a flame-thrower, and a big fucking bucket of mint sauce. Stat!”

Gus quickly laid a hand on her arm. “Peri,” he said urgently. “I fear the containment of the collar would be destroyed…”

She laughed. “Relax, Gus. I just felt the circumstances called for a memorably badass line. I don’t really intend to barbecue it.”

“If that’s all your blood…” Troy started to say, before Amanda cut in.

“She’s healing already. Peri, you were cut up very badly, and you’re covered in bruises, but the wounds aren’t bleeding, in fact they have mostly closed up. What on earth happened… It killed you, but you came back!”

“Let’s just say I’m tougher than I look and leave it at that,” Peri said firmly.

Steve reappeared. “Okay, is it secure…?” he started to ask. But then he stopped dead, and stared at the improbable scene in the Mithraeum. The open doors, the sheep, the naked bloody woman. “What the hell? I only stepped out for five minutes! What happened? Why is there a sheep in there? And why is Peri covered in blood?”

“She’s also stark naked,” said Amanda, unbuttoning her top and stripping it off. “Take this. It’s opaque at least, even if it is a bit short. Gentlemen? Can any of you contribute towards preserving Peri’s modesty?”

* * *

They all needed to get out of that cave.

As soon as she reached ground level once more, Peri had to borrow a mobile phone. Her personal phone and her Sectera phone had both been in the pockets of her cargo pants, and goodness only knew where they were now. She called Tommy in London to provide an update – in guarded terms given the unencrypted channel – and to make sure the military had stopped whatever planning they had started for a big bang on Anifail. She was insistent on the latter point, telling Tommy in no uncertain terms that if she was accidentally nuked, she’d hold him personally responsible and make him suffer, even if it meant coming back to London as a zombie to eat his brains. He took the opportunity to let her know that she should be wary of Victoria Bandra, because his team thought it was likely to be a false name. To this, Peri’s response had been typically terse: “No shit.”

Steve had used his personal role radio to report in to Captain Mike on the mainland, stressing that the threat had been contained, but – at Peri’s insistence – providing no details by radio. Mike had sent more troops over to comb the island for chain snakes, and the scientific teams were following them to pick up any interesting samples they might come across. Commando Engineers were also on their way to repair the iron defences of the cave system.

The team sat or lay under the stars, outside the little chapel, to wait for helicopter transport back to the mainland.

Peri moved beside Amanda. “Hey,” she said. “Remember earlier, when you asked who you needed to sleep with? And I said that would be me?”

Amanda gave her a quizzical look. “I remember.”

Peri laughed. “Well, I know you haven’t got a room for the night. So, I’m not propositioning you or anything, but you’re welcome to sleep in mine. Unless you want to be propositioned, of course?”

Amanda gave her an appreciative smile. “Maybe another night. The propositioning, I mean, not the sleeping. I’ll take the sleeping now, thanks. And I’m babbling a bit, aren’t I?”

“Yes, you are,” Peri confirmed. “But relax, I got the gist.” She gave Amanda’s shoulder a squeeze, and leaned to her other side where Gus was lying on his back looking tired.

“Lost without your dog?” she asked softly.

He propped himself on elbow and gave Peri a tight smile. “A little,” he admitted. “I have been looking after Tash for a very long time. When I think back, it is a surprisingly long time.”

Peri nodded. “You’re the Gustav Adolph, aren’t you? Gustavus the Second Adolphus, King of Sweden, Lion of the North, champion of the Protestant Reformation.”

Gus simply shrugged by way of reply.

“And that would mean you’ve been looking after Tash for about four hundred years.”

Gus nodded. “About.”

“Now what?” asked Peri.

Gus looked into her eyes, as if searching for something. “He’s in there, somewhere, isn’t he?”

She nodded. “I can feel him,” she said. “That isn’t the right word. I can – sense – him inside me. When I came back, he fled. It’s like he found a corner and curled up in it, and pulled a barrier round himself to cut himself off from me. He isn’t talking, he’s just there.”

“So now, I guess you are his caretaker,” he said, wistfully. “I am not sure what I am any more.” He slumped back down and stared at the stars.

“My valued advisor?” suggested Peri.

“It would be unfair on you not to be,” he answered. Then he propped himself up again. “When you – went away – and then came back,” he said, slowly, “Did you meet someone?”

“The Servator.”

“So you did meet him,” he said with a nod. “Or her. A remarkably vague and ambiguous individual.”

“Indeed. She is definitely both of those.”

Gus sighed. “So she – or he – snatched you from death and sent you back to carry out a task.”

Peri sighed, too. “If she is to be believed, she is responsible for my birth, and my more recent re-birth. I know little more than that. I really would appreciate your help to understand what the hell has happened to me, and what I need to do. Will you help me?”

“Yes,” he said without a moment’s hesitation. “I will help you.”

Peri smiled in appreciation. She stood and walked over to sit between the two marines.

“Well, that was fun,” she said. “Did we all have fun? How was it for you?”

Steve gave a snort. “If that’s your idea of fun, then I’d hate to be around you on a bad day.” He paused, and diffidently remarked, “I’m not really sure what to report back, though. Any suggestions?”

Troy added, “We talked it over a little, and let’s face it, things happened so fast that we’re not actually sure what went down.”

Peri smiled gratefully. “I’m glad. Can you please do me a favour, and keep it that way? Better to say you didn’t see what happened than come out with some story that’s hard to believe. You don’t want to sound like you were seeing the impossible.”

“The impossible?” asked Steve. “You mean, like, a woman being torn apart and then a dog being transformed into a replica of her? That kind of impossible?”

“Yes, that kind of impossible. You see, Steve, that sort of impossible nonsense could lead to two outcomes. Either you need serious psychiatric help, or I end up on a dissecting table so the powers that be can try to work out what I am. Worst case Is, both outcomes come to pass, and none of us sees daylight again.”

“Can’t have that, now,” said Troy. “I’ve always been partial to daylight.”

“So the best thing all round is probably that you guys stick to the truth, namely, that you’re not sure what happened. Because let’s face it, it happened to me, and I’m not sure what happened, so you’ve got no chance. Can we live with that?”

“I can,” said Steve.

“And me,” said Troy. “But you’ll owe us a beer.”

“I owe you at least two,” said Peri. “Thanks, guys.”

The sound of the rotor blades of an incoming Dauphin helicopter made further conversation impossible. It was time to go.

Epilogue

United Nations Building, New York City, 12 July, Last Year

Peri Carlton sat in a comfortable armchair in the waiting room of the UN Security Council Affairs Division, with her eyes closed. She may have looked asleep, but she was not. She was focused inward, trying to strike up a conversation with the second personality hosted by her body.

“Come on, you can’t hide forever. We both know you’re in here.”

This was a daily routine that she had followed for the last six weeks, since the Servator somehow re-animated her. Every day, she had set aside time to try to establish communications with the ancient being, and every day she had been ignored.

“You know I can sense your presence, and your mood. So I know you’re in there, I know you’ve walled yourself off, and I know you’re sulking. But there’s no need to stay in a foul mood. It won’t change anything.”

She huffed out a deep breath in frustration.

“I think you’re being childish. I do. And that’s weird for somebody your age. I mean, you must be millions of years old and you’re carrying on like a five-year-old. What the hell is THAT all about? Still not talking?”

She registered the fact that someone was walking along the corridor, approaching the waiting room. She could not hear their footsteps, exactly, but she knew they were there. She was not sure how she knew, in the sense of the mechanism by which the person’s approach was detected and signalled to her consciousness, but as she kept reminding herself, ‘How is unimportant’. It was just another of her new alien capabilities, and she accepted it as such. Just as she accepted that the image formed in her mind identified the approaching person as Colonel Li Lixia of the Peoples’ Liberation Army.

Li pushed the door open and strode briskly inside. “Peri,” she said. “Thank you for waiting.” She spoke in Mandarin.

Peri simply inclined her head in response.

“Come with me,” said Li, and set off towards the door of a small meeting room. “After a frustrating day of trying to follow the fractured and illogical arguments of diplomats who foolishly think their English is better than it is, I want to speak naturally for a while. Will you indulge me?”

Peri replied in fluent Shanghai-accented Mandarin. “I would be happy to join you, Colonel Li. Opportunities to practice are few and far between.”

Li waved a hand, dismissively. “You need no practice, Peri. Your Mandarin is already perfect. And will you stop the ‘Colonel Li’ nonsense?”

The two women sat, facing each other across the table. Li took off her shoes with a sigh of contentment. “Please forgive me, but I made the mistake of wearing new shoes when the situation really called for comfortable ones. Now that is much better.” She massaged the soles of her feet by rubbing them across the carpet.

Peri grinned. “Be careful of the cheap carpets in here, Lixia. You might electrocute both of us.”

“If it meant no more meetings like that one, I’d welcome it. So. To business. First, thank you very much for your presentations this morning. I would also add, thank you for your patience in answering stupid questions, except that of course, being Peri, you showed none.” She laughed. “You were justified in questioning the point of preparing written reports if the delegates could not be bothered to read them.”

“I did not say—”

“I know, you did not say ‘bothered’. You dropped the deadly F-bomb on a roomful of people, without mercy or remorse.”

Peri opened her eyes wide in mock surprise. “Am I being reprimanded?”

Li laughed. “I would not dare. No, your report on the demise of Chen Yongjun was an exemplar of clarity and conciseness. It left no questions unanswered.”

“And yet questions were asked.”

“By idiots who had not read the report.”

The two women shared a laugh.

“Your summary of the Welsh incident was also excellent.”

“But short of detail, I know. The British government would have preferred even less, but I let Damon Wilkinson run with that, and he can be very persuasive.”

“It certainly helped support the argument of the third presentation,” observed Li. “Particularly the casualty figures, given that the creature never made it out of the caves.”

“Yes, the third part. How was the discussion after I left?” asked Peri.

“My, my, you are impatient! I will come to that.” The Chinese woman flipped open a notebook and glanced over what she had written. “So,” she continued. “First, the facts presented. There was some debate about the accuracy of your data.” She held up a hand, seeing Peri about to speak. “Patience, Young Carlton, patience. The committee members were very supportive. They attested to the accuracy of information supplied by their own countries and their allies. The assembly agreed, in the end, that the rising trends over time could not be disputed, and that the extrapolation over time that you produced is, if anything, conservative. So, your first conclusion was accepted. The threat level is rising at an accelerating pace.”

Peri permitted herself a smile of satisfaction.

“Debate moved on to the question of what should be done about it. A stronger, Security Council led, initiative, well, that was the inevitable conclusion. We expected nothing else, let us be honest with ourselves. Expanding the remit, powers and global presence of the Transnational Incidents and Emergencies team was the main option considered, though some delegates did propose alternatives on the fly. But your suggestion of building on UNTIE was accepted in the end. As expected, there were objections to the suggested fine detail. Just about everyone, all fifteen permanent member nations and a dozen or more from the non-members, suggested that their country should host a regional team. They could all smell the gravy-train, and all wanted a share of gravy.”

“I’m shocked. Truly shocked,” Peri interjected.

“You do not sound shocked. Anyway, the argument was accepted that thirty regional offices is far too many. The council President was quite firm in insisting on two principles, namely co-location in existing UN premises, and starting with the minimum presence to provide a follow-the-sun management structure. It could be expanded in future if necessary. So, the conclusion reached was that there should be four regional offices, to be sited in New York, Vienna, Bangkok and Seoul.”

“Not Geneva?” Peri asked.

Li gave a snort of derision. “The council President needed to leave his fingerprints on the proposal. The task of mobilising the new organisation was given, as expected, to Ad-Hoc Committee 23. The job of director of the new organisation was debated.” She smiled at Peri.

“No! Not me!” Peri looked genuinely alarmed.

Li laughed. “No, not you. Your carefully planned F-bombing run earlier in the day had the effect you intended.”

“I don’t know what you mean…”

“Yes, you do. I know you think you would be a disaster in such a role. No, the honour goes to the People’s Republic of China.”

“You?”

“Me. On a two-year secondment to the UNSC.”

“Congratulations, I think.”

“We’ll see. What is the phrase the Americans use? A hospital pass? I suspect it was intended as a hospital pass. But my eyes are wide open.”

“And now you need to recruit your team.”

“Do I hear you volunteering?” asked Li.

Peri laughed. “I might be persuaded, as long as you don’t have crazy ideas about letting me anywhere near politicians. I’m not only an expert in dropping F-bombs, I’m good with a lot of bombs in a lot of different languages.”

Li smiled. Peri suddenly realised it was not a happy smile. “Could I trust you, Peri?” she asked.

Peri stared, and stayed silent for a minute. Li just sat there, and waited.

“Damon Wilkinson asked me that, six weeks ago, in the Annex,” said Peri, slowly. “He asked, because you asked for me by name. He wondered why. He wondered whether I could be trusted.” She sat forward suddenly, and observed that she had startled Li. “It was because you knew, didn’t you? Somehow, you knew.”

Li looked slightly nervous. “I knew? I knew about what?”

“You know about what. How did you know?”

Now it was Li’s turn to remain silent.

Peri asked again. “How did you know?”

“I was stationed in Shanghai, eight years ago. My work required that I take an interest in foreigners. Your saving a small boy came to my attention. The Public Security Bureau preserved camera footage for the purpose of prosecuting the taxi driver, so they carefully studied the vehicles. I believe I was the only one who paid closer attention to the pedestrians, simply because one of them was British.”

“So?”

“Did you realise how fast you moved, to reach the boy?” She shook her head, reliving her own astonishment. “Inhumanly fast.”

The silence stretched out. Li was tense. Finally, Peri sagged back into her chair with a sigh. “Being quick is a long way from being untrustworthy.”

The stiffness in Li’s posture faded slightly. “Help me, Peri,” she said, softly. “Tell me what you omitted from your report. It does not need to be written down, but for us to work together there should be no secrets.”

There was another lengthy silence. Li more than half expected Peri to question whether either of them could trust the other. In the end, though, she heard Peri begin, “I became aware on Anifail Island that I am not human. It seems I never have been, not one hundred percent, and now I am less human than ever…”

About the Author

After a varied career in the IT industry, David Wallace retired from consulting and is now spends his time writing, and independently publishing novels. He has two grown up children and a lovely grand-daughter. His debut novel, “Child of the Servator” was published in 2017.

Whether you loved this book, or hated it, please let David know by leaving a review.

To keep in touch and find out about future publications, please join David’s mailing list by visiting http://www.david-wallace.co.uk, or http://eepurl.com/dAHuWH

Copyright

“Island of Fog and Death” – Copyright © 2018 David Wallace

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the author.

Book design by David Wallace

Cover design by David Wallace

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

This work originally published under the title “Child of the Servator” in 2017.

Content

David Wallace
ISLAND OF FOG AND DEATH

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Epilogue

About the Author

Copyright