Once. Part 27

arms. She let the bag containing the swab fall to the floor where she would retrieve it later. She began to pull off the surgical gloves, slowly, almost like a stripper going into her act. 'An' there's always different potions for different things, Hugo. My, I've hardly shown you anything, there's so much more you'll appreciate.'

He made to move towards her again, but she stepped back, the movement languid, sensuous.

Hugo's bulging eyes were pleading and his thick lips were wet where his tongue had flicked out between them.

'Nell, please ... just...'

He looked downwards, then up again and Nell groaned inwardly, knowing what the gesture meant.

She would have to please him, otherwise he would be useless, sulking like a little boy refused his treat.

She dropped the gloves by the plastic bag and went down on her knees.

'Come here, Hugo.' Her voice was low and she made it sound as though it contained pleasure. 'I know what you want. We must be quick though, Hugo. We've got a lot to do.'

He licked his lips again as he moved forward and his hand was trembling as he pulled down the zip of his trousers.

She delved inside, took him out, secretly disgusted by the flaccid p.e.n.i.s that would take so much effort on her part to embolden.

And there, by his dying father's bedside, she leaned forward and took him into her mouth.

While outside the door in the antechamber of the rooftop quarters, a tall but stooped figure pressed close against the panels to listen.

THE SORCERESS ROOM.

THOM PULLED up before the broken picket fence and surveyed the creeper-covered house beyond it. Nell Quick's home looked empty; but then it had when he'd driven past yesterday and he'd known Nell was inside because he'd just left her. He realized the apparent emptiness was because the windows were so black, both downstairs and upstairs. The blackness seemed to represent an absence of life.

Nevertheless, he was here now and he was going to knock on that door - there were questions that had to be asked.

At the site of the accident Thom had used his mobile to call the casualty department of Shrewsbury's main hospital but, Thom not being a relative, the person he spoke to was reluctant to impart any information other than that Ms Budd was in a 'serious but stable condition'. Possibly tomorrow they would be able to give him a little more information.

He opened the Jeep's door and stepped out. He had to lean against the vehicle's roof for a moment as dizziness almost caused him to overbalance. Tired, he thought. Dog-weary beat. Too much had happened this day. He had learned so much, witnessed so much, and now this, Katy's accident.

Accident? Thom wondered.

With an effort he pushed himself away from the Jeep and went through the gateless opening, his gaze skimming over the house as he limped up the short path. The dizziness receded, but the anxieties would not leave him alone.

He found himself in front of the porch, the shadows inside somehow discreet, as if hiding the front door. He stepped inside and pounded on the door with his fist.

The top section of the stable-door rattled in its frame, but there was no response from within the house itself. Thom cursed under his breath.

Stepping back outside the porch again, he peered at the upper windows, perhaps hoping to penetrate its blackness at that angle. There was nothing though, no sign of life at all. He went over to the downstairs window, treading through the long gra.s.s and weeds to get to it, and put both hands on the gla.s.s to form a darkened tunnel through which to look. He could plainly see the opposite window, the one that overlooked the back garden, but still detected no sign of Me. Next he moved along to the kitchen window, s.h.i.+elding the gla.s.s against the glare with his hands once more. All he saw was the usual kitchen paraphernalia and shelves stocked with jars and tins, but no signs of life. Something - that sly little nagging voice of his? - told him not to give up. Even if Nell Quick was not at home, he might still find something useful inside the house, anything that might provide a clue to Nell's true nature and intention. Rigwit had called her a h.e.l.lhagge and although a few days ago Thom would have scoffed at the idea, now he was inclined to believe. There might be something in the house that would confirm the

elf's a.s.sertion; there might also be an indication of Nell's game plan. She appeared to have her hooks into poor old Hugo and Thom wanted to know why.

Moving stealthily, careful not to trip on weeds or tangled undergrowth, Thom turned the corner of the house and crept towards the rear. He hoped Nell's neighbours in the adjoining house had not noticed his approach along the path to the porch; with luck, they were not even home, for there had been no vehicle parked in front of their fence. Cautiously, he peeked around the corner, afraid that Nell might be sunbathing or attending her back garden.

And attending it needed. He had observed the garden once before, through the window of Nell's parlour, and had noted its cluttered disarray, but now it seemed even wilder. Yet... and yet, there was some order to the mess. He could see that now, for what had appeared as total disorder -abandonment even - now took on some placement logic, for among the wild ferns and overlong gra.s.s there grew herbs of all kinds, screened by the brambles around them, but obviously carefully tended, for they appeared fine and healthy with s.p.a.ce to allow in suns.h.i.+ne and for uninhibited growth. In fact, rather than neglected, the plants and herbs in this apparently fiercely overgrown garden were skilfully protected; or perhaps skilfully hidden.

Towards the end of the garden was the battered and flaky wood-framed greenhouse, its gla.s.s rendered almost opaque by rain-smeared grime. Out of curiosity, Thom made his way towards it, finding thecracked, broken remains of a centre path to make the journey easier, brus.h.i.+ng aside tall ferns and taking each step with caution because of the slippery, moss-covered slabs of stone beneath his feet.

Occasionally, he looked back over his shoulder at the house, half-expecting to see Nell's shadowy figure watching him from one of the windows. There was no one, of course -hadn't he rapped hard on the front door earlier? - but he

could still feel eyes on the back of his neck. He realized it was the house, itself, that he could feel watching him. A silly notion, but one he was unable to shake off.

When he reached the greenhouse he saw it was in an even worse condition than he had first thought.

Not only were the panes of gla.s.s filthy, but several were broken or cracked. Bird droppings decorated the slanted roof and bedaubed the side windows and the wooden-framed structure looked as if one strong push would send the whole lot cras.h.i.+ng. There was something dirty, unhealthy, about it and Thom had no wish to enter. Instead, he found a broken pane and peered through.

Like the garden, everything inside looked to be growing wild, but he soon realized that this was only because the greenhouse was overcrowded with herbs, plants and fruits, most of which he did not even attempt to identify. But among them he did recognize the same orchids that he had found at Little Bracken earlier, the soil beside these disturbed and empty, as though their companions had recently been uprooted. Thom could not even guess at the significance of this; maybe Nell had thought they would make a nice gift, something to brighten up the cottage.

Okay, so what did all this tell him of Nell Quick? That she was an enthusiastic but untidy gardener? Or that she really was a maker of potions and herbal cures? He pictured Nell dressed in black, wearing a witch's pointed hat, stirring a huge cauldron of bubbling liquid, and he almost laughed aloud. What a stupid picture. But how far from the truth was it? Forget the black attire and ridiculous hat, forget the bubbling cauldron and broomstick in the corner; forget the heart of a frog, and puppy dog's tail, the black cat 'familiar', the book of spells, the ... wax ... the wax effigy with needles sticking into it - no! nonsense, forget that too. Forget all notions of witchcraft and sorcery. But remember the succubus, remember the battle for his own s.e.m.e.n,

remember Nell's own exotic allure, remember the uneasy feeling the magpie gave him each time he saw it - somehow he knew it was the same magpie each time - and remember a magpie had been seen flying from the shattered windscreen of Katy's ruined VW.

He straightened and slowly turned his head to look at the house again.

The back door had been left unlocked (not all the old country ways had died), and after a brief look around the downstairs rooms - the tiny kitchen, parlour and lobby -Thom found himself upstairs in Nell Quick's bedroom.

He felt guilty that he'd entered another's home this way, even ashamed, but he wasn't deterred in any way. In fact, he thought this surrept.i.tious search was essential, even if he didn't quite know why just yet;he'd know when he discovered something relevant, G.o.d knows what. He was acting purely by instinct, Katy's accident jolting him from any reservations he might have. Besides, if Hugo was in trouble - blackmail was Thom's best guess, the blackmailer being Nell Quick, Hugo the victim - then it was up to him to help his friend in any way he could. Whatever Hugo had been up to, whatever indiscretions or transgressions he had committed - and there were any number of foolish situations Hugo could have got himself into - Thom would support him. They'd take on Nell Quick together. It was the least, and probably the most, he could do for his friend.

The ground floor rooms had not revealed much more than he had expected, for although his perusal of the parlour yesterday had been cursory, the room had no hidden secrets of any interest. An ancient, handwritten book on herbs and their properties for healing, a drawer full of bills, many of them red-inked final reminders, old letters still in their torn

envelopes that he deliberately did not read - he was only prepared to take his snooping so far - and general acc.u.mulations that would not be out of place in any household.

The two upstairs rooms (not counting the tiny bathroom) were altogether different though.

The bigger one merely had a quilt-covered mattress on the floor's bare boards for a bed, a long oak sideboard set along one wall and opposite this a tall wardrobe featuring a full-length mirror on its door.

Unlit candles stood on the top of the sideboard, sharing s.p.a.ce with a few cheap jewellery boxes, make-up accoutrements and perfume bottles. Apart from another large mirror over the sideboard, its gilt frame chipped and flaked, that was the whole of its contents - no chairs, framed photographs or pictures, no books or magazines lying around, no flower vases or lamps, nothing at all to make the room more comfortable or personal. Behind him at the top of the stairs was the bathroom, its door open so that he could see inside. It was half-tiled with white squares, the rest of the walls a creamy shade of white; the bath itself was plain and small, the toilet and sink next to it equally plain and functional. However, the room next door to the bedroom was the very ant.i.thesis of its companions, for whereas they lacked clutter and colour, this room had more than enough of both.

Garishly painted in red and black - red walls, black ceiling and floor - it came as a shock. Thom gave out a quiet breathy whistle and remained on the threshold for several long moments. A gold pentagram, a five-pointed star, was painted on the floor, and when he glanced up he saw it was replicated on the ceiling. There were symbols or hieroglyphics painted at certain points, chiefly close to the apex of each triangular shape. However, whereas the five-pointed star on the floor pointed towards the window, the one above was reversed. At the far end of the room and beneath the curtained window there was what appeared to be a small altar covered in a black material, its surface littered with

odd-sized candles, some black, some red, some gold, most of which were burned down to varying degrees, their wax molten-like, spilling over on to their stands or receptacles. There was also a medium-sized bowl on the altar, its contents hidden from Thom's view for the moment. Piles of dusty-looking books stood around the walls, and some that lay flat on the floor and whose pages were open, looked to be original handwritten ma.n.u.scripts, their letters copperplate and inked in red. Abookcase occupied the corner to his right, but instead of books, objects filled its shelves: amulets, ointment jars, crystals, necklaces, unused candles, an ornamental hand mirror, an athame, which was a knife with a black handle and steel blade, both of which had lettering of some kind inscribed on them, a coil of red ribbon, cloves of garlic, and various pieces of small statuary and metallic symbols.

The combination of smells and scents was almost overpowering, the mixture unpleasant rather than pleasing.

There were daubings on the red walls, crude images of men and women copulating or performing lewd acts upon one another, some in groups of three or four, all badly executed in gold and black paint. A larger depiction was of a horned creature with the upper body and limbs of a man but with a distorted goat's head and cloven hooves for feet. A naked female knelt behind it and was lifting its tail to kiss its a.n.u.s. There were names inscribed among the pictures, set out randomly it seemed and rendered just as unskilfully. CRESIL, MERIHIM, ABADDON, BEELZEBUB, LILITH, JEZEBETH, BELIAL, HECATE, MOLOCH, PYRO, SEMIAZ, ZAGAM ... the list seemed endless and there were far too many names to take in. But he recognized a couple, for years ago most of his boarding-school friends had taken a keen interest in horror stories and movies and, although he was never so inclined himself, it was impossible not to borrow such books or magazines in times of boredom, or to overhear s.n.a.t.c.hes of excited conversations. Wasn't

Beelzebub the Prince of Demons, second only to Satan himself? And wasn't Hecate the Queen of Witches?

A looped cross made from twigs and straw decorated the opposite wall and close by it hung a fox's tail or brush, the reddish fur faded and matted as though many years had pa.s.sed since the animal itself had roamed the countryside. Next to this was a horseshoe, open end downwards, the opposite of good luck.

Even though he knew all this was ridiculous, merely evidence of an obsessed mind - no, more than that: Nell Quick was plainly crazy! - Thom could not help making the sign of the cross on his chest. He was hardly religious, but this came as a reflex action, for there was something evil about this room, something that made him feel terribly vulnerable. He figured he might have felt the same in a high-security lunatic asylum where all doors were left unlocked.

Fighting the urge to leave immediately, Thom took two steps into the bizarre room.

And wished he'd followed his urge.

A heaviness seemed to fall upon him, a lumpen weight that had nothing to do with the physical. Rather it was like a sudden feeling of oppressiveness that sank over his shoulders, an ethereal mantle that hung heavily. Even the air he inhaled tasted thick. And the conglomerate aromas were like poison.

This is not a good place to be, he told himself. But still he lingered.

He walked to the altar.

Thick black candles at either end had been used, their frozen wax spilling on to the black cloth beneath; other thinner candles of gold and red were welded by their wax into tarnished holders. He thought therewas a third black candle, but it was different from the rest, unburnt, its top curving slightly to one side, its surface smooth, l.u.s.trous in the light from the window behind. Curious, yet unthinking,

his mind a.s.saulted from all sides by other things in the room, he picked up the object. And quickly put it down again, for it had no wick and it was definitely not a candle. It was too heavy to be made of wax.

Why a black vibrator should be the centrepiece of an altar, he had no idea. But then, perhaps it wasn't an altar, perhaps it was a shrine, a shrine to eroticism.

Also on the crowded altar were three daggers, two of which had black blades as well as black handles, the third of normal steel and white-handled, a single but large rough crystal, a long, thin twig from a tree (Thom's experience with all kinds of woods and their origins told him it was from the willow), fairly straight along its length but unrefined, with no attempt to smooth out the knots. A wand of some kind? he asked himself of the latter object. Had to be, considering everything else that was on offer here.

Nell honestly imagined she was a witch and this room held the proof Christ, it was madness! But then, so was talking with faeries.

There were two receptacles on the altar he now realized, the smaller of the two hidden by the other when viewed from the doorway. The larger one was metal, a curved bowl with patterned holes around its rim, and its bottom was filled with broken pieces of charcoal and ashes. The smell of incense came from it, pungent enough to compete with the room's other odours. The second receptacle was of more interest to Thom.

It was made of dark-blue gla.s.s, broad at the top and curving down to a squat stem and base. It might have been a chalice, or at least represented one. There were oddments inside and it was these that caused Thom to catch his breath.

He picked up the container in both hands, hands that were not steady, hands whose grip was too wary, for the fingers

cupped the midnight-blue gla.s.s lightly, as if it might burn. He raised it to chest height and a foot away from his body, and stared at the contents.

Each item was innocuous in itself - a white s.h.i.+rt b.u.t.ton; a lock of hair, several strands separated from the main clump; a small set of steel dividers. Their bed was not the bottom of the receptacle itself but a crumpled photograph, and all conspired to create an ident.i.ty.

The b.u.t.ton might have come from one of his own old s.h.i.+rts. The hair had the same colouring as his own and could have come from his head. The small set of dividers had lost their s.h.i.+ne, the needles at the end of each arm almost black with age, and they resembled the first set he had ever bought himself when he had left college and was preparing to take up carpentry as a full-time occupation (in fact he knew they were his, for he had measured wood and cuts and grooves with them for so long that it was impossible not to recognize the blemishes and scratches in their metal; because he'd had them for such a time andused them for virtually every job since day-one, they had become a kind of good-luck mascot, a familiar tool he held in affection, no big deal, but a simple and sentimental token of all the hard work he had put in over the years).

What held the items together and made him sure they were all from the same source - Thom, himself - was the colour print he now reached in for with one hand. The other objects slid off its rumpled surface as he drew the photograph out.

He placed the 'chalice' back on the altar and smoothed out the photograph with both hands. One edge was torn, as if it was merely half or a part of a whole and, although the photograph had obviously been taken many years ago, he recognized himself immediately. It was slightly blurred, as if the photographer had a shaky hand or had moved as the shutter had clicked, and there was just part of another's elbow showing on the torn side, as if he had been standing

close to someone. In the shot, Thom was fresh-faced, a teenager, his hair too long, his clothes casual, and in the background was woodland. He could not remember exactly when the picture was taken, but he was fairly sure that the person who had been standing next to him, whose elbow was just in shot, was Hugo. Perhaps it was old Eric Pimlet who had taken the photo. Thom could not think of when he had last seen it, or if he had seen it at all, but a.s.sumed it had laid around in a drawer somewhere at Castle Bracken. Had Nell come upon it on one of her visits to tend Sir Russell? Or had she deliberately searched it out?

A b.u.t.ton from one of his s.h.i.+rts wouldn't have been too difficult to obtain - easy to slip into the cottage while he was out and snip one off. The hair? His teeth bit into his lower lip as he reflected. Yes. The other day, on her sofa downstairs. She had sat next to him, an arm going round the back of the sofa. Hadn't he felt a slight tug at the back of his neck when he'd leaned forward? Had she had a small pair of scissors concealed in her hand? Easy to drop them behind the seat or leave them on the windowsill after they'd done their work. But the dividers?

He had never met Nell before he'd returned to Little Bracken to recuperate and the little tool had gone missing long before that; before his stroke, in fact. They had never been in daily use, but were kept in a special compartment of his tool box along with compa.s.ses, Stanley knife, vernier gauge, sliding bevel, squares and various other smaller tools of his profession. One day they just weren't there and he'd a.s.sumed they had been left lying around somewhere after a job and he had chided himself for such tardiness. They'd turn up sooner or later, he told himself, but they never had. Until now.

How? Why? It didn't make sense. He was sure they were his, but Nell Quick could never have had access to them. There was only one possible connection between his London workshop and Bracken itself. Hugo.

Thom shook his head in dismay.

Surely not. Yet Hugo had visited him a month or so before his stroke. And it was a short time after thatthat Thom had discovered the dividers had vanished.

But why? Nell might take all this witch - this h.e.l.lhagge -nonsense seriously, but surely not Hugo? It made no sense at all. And what could Nell do with these personal items anyway? Did she truly believe she could cast some kind of spell on him? Thom remembered the succubus. And he remembered the stroke itself. Was Nell's magic the cause of that too?

Such a monster was hardly likely, yet Thom, himself, had borne witness to it. And the succubus had tried to steal the most intimate thing of all from Thom - his s.e.m.e.n! Was that to be added to the contents of this gla.s.s? The very thought made him feel nauseous. And the idea that his lifelong friend, Hugo Bleeth, might be involved in whatever nasty scheme Nell Quick had in mind made Thom feel suddenly cold.

DETAILS FROM THE BOOK.