The Bridal Party, page 12
‘It’s fine; I’ll go.’ Clarisse stepped forward slowly, making her way through the others. ‘If Tamsyn booked this … I’m sure it’ll be fun.’ Her voice wavered a little, but her tone was one of resolve.
There it was, that line again. It will be fun, because Tamsyn booked it.
But you don’t know what Tamsyn booked, Nada thought. You don’t know where the costumes came from, or that we were in the woods, chasing a man who was spying on us. You don’t know what these people are capable of.
But the moment was lost; Clarisse threaded through them, and even though Nada had an urge to reach out to stop her, the bride-to-be headed out into the courtyard and took the Executioner’s outstretched hand. He led her away from the light of the house and towards the light of the torches. Everyone followed, Gaia holding the axe awkwardly as she walked, and they made their way across the crunching gravel and onto the soft grass.
The Executioner brought Clarisse between the two torches, and the rest of them gathered around in a circle at the border of the light. The torches flared, blazes of red and gold, casting everything in a restless, devilish glow. Faces gleamed, bathed in the colour of embers.
‘Sit,’ the Executioner said, and Clarisse, after some hesitation, obeyed, sitting cross-legged on the grass. Gaia didn’t like this; Nada was standing next to her, and saw her hiss and clench the handle of the axe tighter.
‘Are you ready?’ said the Executioner, his theatrical voice crying out into the night.
Clarisse nodded.
‘Then let’s begin.’
Did Clarisse just shudder? Nada wondered.
The Executioner raised his thick arms into the air with a slow, dramatic swing, until his fingers were stretched towards the stars.
‘Hail! Hail! Hail!’ he bellowed, and everyone jumped, the loud noise a marked contrast from the previous silence. It seemed like he was in thrall to something, some kind of power beyond himself.
And then there was a response.
It came from somewhere behind them; deep in the woods, in the darkness.
A thud. Then another. Thud. Thud. Thud.
It was the beat of a drum, rhythmic, slow. It was like the heartbeat of a slave ship – or the countdown to an execution. And it pulsed through the night air, rolling and echoing around the hills, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once.
It signalled the beginning of the Executioner’s performance.
To the slow beat of the drum, he lowered his arms, then started to make shapes with them in the air, as though he was carrying out a tribal dance. His arms and wrists twisted as he swayed and writhed, the light from the flames playing over his bared flesh.
‘What the fuck …’ Gaia whispered.
Nada couldn’t stop looking at his bulging forearms. She wondered what this slow dance was for. His movements were exact, she realised, and timed precisely to the drumbeat.
After a few minutes, he stooped and unlaced his boots, somehow making the movement part of the dance, then stepped out of them. His feet now bare, he incorporated his legs into the performance, swaying this way and that, falling, rising. It was not graceful, exactly, or sophisticated. But there was a jerkiness to the movements that was calculated and powerful. It was like a celebration of some god of old; like he was part of an ancient religious ceremony, readying something for sacrifice.
The beat was growing louder, Nada realised. As though the drummer was coming closer as he played. And was it her imagination, or was it getting a little faster, too?
Clarisse glanced back to her friends, uncertainty on her face. Elena and Afreya attempted to smile, to give her a kind of isn’t this outrageous look. Gaia’s expression told her she was watching the Executioner closely.
Nada hoped that her eyes would make clear to Clarisse all she wanted to say: Don’t worry, everything will be all right. I’m here.
The Executioner let his limbs and body drop, falling to the ground to the beat of the drum. With his arms covering his head, he rolled into a ball in front of Clarisse.
The drum stopped. There was silence; only a sigh of wind and the distant rumour of the sea filled the air.
Clarisse put her hand forward, as if to touch him. Nada wasn’t sure why, but in some strange way, she thought that in Clarisse’s position she would do the same. He was as still as the stars; as still as death.
And then, as Clarisse’s fingers were about to brush his arm, the drumbeat started again, louder and faster now, and the Executioner rose in an unbroken movement, reaching up to the sky again. But this time, his hand held something: a black cloth.
He had taken off his hood.
He had curly ginger hair, made blood red by the light of the torches, and stubble that darkened his chin; his face was gaunt and long, with eyes that were wide and seemed to protrude from their sockets more than they should. Despite this, there was a hint that he had once been handsome, in another life.
Nada exhaled slowly, releasing a little tension. It was a relief, and yet also a bit of an anticlimax, to think that the person before them was just a normal human being like the rest of them. With all that had happened, she realised, she had come to see the murder mystery people in a kind of a supernatural light, larger than life and able to merge with shadows and mist.
And yet here was a modern man, just like them. He could be defeated; he could be overcome.
She pondered this for a moment, and then, with a rush of recognition, she realised that she’d seen that face before.
It was Paul Durond, the man whose mother’s cat had been mutilated.
Nada’s mind raced. What was this supposed to mean? What was the newspaper clipping telling her?
He was dancing increasingly quickly now; the arms waving madly, with more abandon and less precision. Along with the quickening beat, he seemed to be entering into a trance, closing his eyes, spinning, arcing his arms through the night air. He began running in circles around Clarisse, and she cowered as he brushed past her to leap over the flames of the torches. He shrieked as he did so, yelping some indiscriminate sound into the night.
The bridal party looked at each other with questioning glances. Was this person in front of them a madman? Was he dangerous?
Nada looked behind her; the drummer, louder than ever, still could not be seen. It sounded like they were out in the lane, though. Whoever was approaching, they were using the road.
Paul waved his hands this way and that, whirling through the air, skipping, shouting. With a flamboyant gesture, he ripped off one of the short sleeves of his tunic, baring his shoulder.
Nada gasped at the sight, and everyone turned to her.
‘What is it?’ Gaia hissed, leaning close. Her fingers were wrapped so tightly around the axe handle that her knuckles were a bloodless white.
‘The tattoo …’ Nada breathed.
On his shoulder was an inked pattern of three interlocking shapes, weaving in and out of each other. Again, she recognised it from the newspaper clippings; it had accompanied the interview with the witch shopkeeper.
It was the Wiccan symbol of the triple goddess; the mark that had been carved onto the bodies of animals across Jersey. The mark of the cult.
The clippings weren’t telling them that Paul was a victim of the cult, but warning them that he was the cult, or at least a part of it. That he was responsible for the deaths of the animals, including his own mother’s cat.
‘The cult … the Jersey Witches … that’s their mark, tattooed on his arm!’ Nada said.
Gaia took a step back, her eyes wide with surprise. The others had moved closer, asking what they were whispering about, but Nada ignored them, keeping her eyes on the Executioner as he flailed about in the grass.
The drumbeat was going at an incredible speed now, a rumble that never faltered, rolling around the Jersey hills. It could not build much further; it was reaching a climax, and Paul was dancing like he was on fire, howling and screeching, his feet never resting on the ground for more than a moment.
Finally, he let out one last bellow, and tore at the remains of his tunic, ripping pieces off until there was little left but tatters held together by the belt.
Then he stopped, and the drums did too, and breathing heavily, he opened his eyes and looked down at Clarisse.
Elena made an involuntary noise; it was a sound of shock, of fear … but of something else too.
Paul’s body was unlike anything Nada had seen apart from in films and on television. It was a cord of muscles, perfectly sculpted. Shadows underlined his ribs, his abdominals; there was not an ounce of fat on him.
Then it hit them. Gaia and Nada looked at each other, and then Afreya said it:
‘Hang on, was that a stripper dance?’
Paul was still looming over Clarisse, whose mouth was actually hanging open; it would have been comical if the circumstances weren’t so strange.
‘So, Priestess,’ he said, the torchlight making his eyes gleam. ‘Are you ready for the Wild Hunt?’
Eighteen
The drum started to sound once more; slow, mournful. Like the whole performance was going to start again.
Clarisse got to her feet, but stepped on her cloak as she did, tripping over. Paul caught her and smiled. She made a little noise and pushed him off, then composed herself, smoothing down her costume.
Nada felt a burst of pity. Clarisse was shaken; that much was certain. Her eyes were darting from one friend to another, as if to guess how she should react.
‘Well,’ she said at last, wobbling a little. ‘I did ask for a party.’ Her lips curved in a weak, mirthless smile, and she looked towards the road; possibly searching for the drummer, or perhaps contemplating escape.
Paul walked to her and made to take her hand, but she whipped it away. ‘I think that’s enough for now, though,’ she said. ‘I’m just going to …’
And without finishing, she strode away from them. Away from the firelight, and towards the house, trying to hide her tears.
The bridal party looked at each other; wordlessly Elena volunteered herself to accompany Clarisse. Normally that would be my job, it occurred to Nada. I’m normally the one who listens and makes Clarisse feel better. But there was something breaking inside of her, some wave that had been cresting all evening and was about to crash onto the shore. She’d done so much to keep Clarisse happy; to ensure that she wasn’t upset.
And now it was for nothing – because of what Paul and his company had done.
Anger coursed through her; uncontrollably, wildly. She wanted to lash out; she wanted to confront him, and demand answers.
Paul shrugged at Clarisse’s departure, and turned towards the others. Even though the dance was finished, he still looked entranced.
He held up his hand in invitation.
‘Anyone else?’
There was the sound of the front door closing; Elena and Clarisse had gone inside.
‘What the hell was that?’ demanded Gaia hotly; she’d been waiting for Clarisse to be out of earshot.
Paul grinned. ‘I was told that we’d be celebrating the Wild Hunt. Weren’t you?’
‘Tamsyn wouldn’t have asked you to do that,’ protested Gaia. ‘It’s not that kind of hen do.’
He shrugged, and smiled again.
Afreya strode up to him and pointed a finger at his face. ‘Gaia’s right: Tamsyn wouldn’t have hired a stripper. So what are you guys playing at?’
Before she knew it, Nada was walking forward too. She didn’t know whether it was anger, or the fact that she was flanked by the strongest women she knew, but her fear and inhibitions had suddenly left her. Rage churned around her, driving her forward.
She put a hand on Afreya, urging her to step aside. Then she was face to face with Paul, and his grin, and his rags.
‘Paul, right?’ she demanded.
He didn’t answer; just looked at her.
‘Show me your arm.’
He turned. ‘My flesh for you, Jester.’
Nada touched the tattoo on his shoulder; the skin there was soft. ‘It’s real,’ she said. ‘Permanent.’
‘Of course.’
‘Which means …’ She breathed heavily, and started again. ‘Which means you’re really into the Wiccan shit. Does that mean that the newspapers aren’t fake? That you’re some kind of pet-killing psycho?’
Paul smiled. ‘Sacrifices have to be made. You of all people should know that.’
Nada’s eyes widened. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Leave him, Nada,’ came Afreya’s voice. ‘It doesn’t mean a thing.’
‘She’s right,’ said Paul. ‘I meant nothing, of course. A joke, a wry aside. Shouldn’t that be your speciality, Jester?’
Nada pursed her lips. For a moment she didn’t say anything; the drum was getting closer, louder again.
Then there was an explosion within her; a fire and a fury she’d never known. She was blind with rage. ‘You know,’ she seethed, ‘I don’t even care whether this is all a prank or not. Maybe your job is to freak us out; I don’t give a shit any more. Either way, you’re a terrible person, who does terrible things.’
Paul did not visibly react; the rictus grin did not budge.
‘Morality from the Jester? Interesting.’ He leant in, and whispered, ‘You are the smokescreen, the diversion. While you play and dance, you cover up for plots of murder and lies …’
‘Step away, Nada,’ said Afreya. ‘He’s just trying to rile you up.’
‘Yeah?’ Nada snarled. ‘Well it’s a bit late for that. I’m already riled up, I’m pissed off, and I’m upset.’ She wiped a furious tear that had pooled in the corner of her eye. ‘Now you’re going to give us answers. You work as airport security, or used to, at least. That’s what the newspaper said. So you’d know the airport inside and out; you’d have access to the luggage.’
Paul looked vaguely impressed, in a kind of mocking way.
‘It must have been you who put the deer head in the luggage and left it on the carousel,’ Nada continued. ‘You could have replaced our costumes too. So I have a question for you, and you’d better answer me, or else.’
‘Or else …?’
Nada ignored his comment.
‘Where is Tamsyn?’ she said.
The drum rumbled in the background, so close that it seemed as if the drummer could appear on the road at any second.
‘You took Tamsyn’s bag and put the head in it,’ Nada continued. ‘I want to know why … and I want to know what you’ve done to her.’
Paul finally moved, stepping aside and strolling to one of the flaming torches. He fished it out of the ground and held it up.
‘Don’t ignore me,’ snapped Nada. ‘Answer my question!’
‘Dear me, you’re loud all of a sudden,’ he said. ‘You were supposed to be the mousy one, I thought. And you’ve been so quiet all day …’
All day. The words caught in Nada’s thoughts; how long had he been observing them, spying on them from the woods?
With renewed anger, she spat, ‘Not going to give me a straight answer, Paul? I thought that was what the Jester was supposed to do—’
‘Yes! Finally!’ Paul burst out in laughter; they could even see it in the way his bare stomach tightened, the shadows slipping around his ribcage. ‘You could get the hang of this yet!’
‘Where is she, Paul?’ Nada kept on saying his name, she wasn’t sure why. It was the only hold she had over him, to show that she’d figured him out, that underneath all the medieval posturing he was just like everyone else.
‘Well that’s the mystery, isn’t it, Jester?’
Fury blazed through Nada again. She felt a hand on her arm; it was Afreya, telling her to calm herself, to back down. But her vision swam with anger, and it was like she wasn’t in control of herself any more. Through a blur of tears, she tore herself away from Afreya, marched up to Gaia and wrenched the axe from her grip. Striding back to Paul, she held the weapon aloft with both hands.
‘I’m going to ask one last time,’ she said quietly. ‘Where is Tamsyn?’
Hands on her back; her shoulders. Her friends, trying to pull her away. She tried to squirm away from them; she did not know who she had become, who this monster was inside of her, but she could not control it. It had taken her over, urging her forward.
Paul did not flinch. As Nada was drawn back, he called out, ‘You want to see Tamsyn? All you have to do is listen.’
At this, the hands released Nada.
‘What?’ demanded Gaia.
‘I promise. Just listen …’
Nada tried to pick out sounds, but all she could hear was the slam of her own heartbeat, her heavy breath.
‘The drums have stopped,’ murmured Afreya.
‘That’s right, Doctor. Which means that it’s time for her arrival.’
‘There!’ cried Gaia, pointing towards the road. Nada whipped around.
Coming up the boulevard from the woods were two lights; two flaming torches, weaving through the gloom.
They waited; Nada’s heart was in her mouth.
What now?
Slowly, slowly, the lights inched forward, and at last they could make out a figure pulling a cart with two torches fitted to the back. They couldn’t see who the figure was; it was silhouetted by the flaming lights behind it.
But they could tell what was in the cart.
A body, draped with a cloth.
‘No …’ squeaked Nada. She let the axe fall to the ground as a huge weight seemed to descend and crush her chest, so much that she found it hard to breathe, hard to move.
It was what a part of her had feared, had suspected, for hours. But she hadn’t wanted to say anything, hadn’t even wanted to think about it.
Tamsyn is dead. That’s the murder mystery: to figure out what happened to her.
She studied the cart as it rumbled closer, hoping to see a sign of life, a sign that it was all part of some performance. The body juddered a little – but was that just the movement of the vehicle?
It wasn’t until it left the road and started towards the group on the lawn that some light was thrown on the figure pulling the cart.
The vision hit Nada with stunning force.
