The Unhappy Medium, page 35
In the morning, after a shower in a bathroom that actually made him feel dirtier, Newton stumbled out, bought a detailed local map then sat down at a cafe in the Plaza Mayor, ordering the strongest coffee available.
Halfway through his breakfast, Newton was distracted by the growl of a very cheap moped. A man on an aging Vespa made two sedate laps of the square. He seemed to clock Newton, then rolled up to the small cafe and stopped. Climbing from the scooter, he unfurled spider-like in a thin black suit and clergyman’s dog collar, and stretched. He removed his crash helmet revealing a balding head, buck teeth and enormous pink ears. He smiled politely to Newton before taking a seat at the next table, then ordered himself a coffee.
‘Turning into quite a nice day,’ he said in an obviously native English accent, after watching Newton scrutinising the map.
‘Yes,’ said Newton, trying to keep his usual mass of disparate thoughts in a coherent pattern.
‘On holiday?’ asked the priest.
‘Yes, that’s it,’ said Newton, keen not to engage.
‘Me too,’ the priest said. ‘Sorry, I’m interrupting you. Is there something particular you’re looking for?’
‘No,’ said Newton warily.
‘That’s the spirit, see how it pans out eh? Best kind of holiday there is,’ the priest said jovially. He finished his coffee then dropped some coins onto the tabletop. ‘I’d best be on my way. I’m sure we’ll see each other on our travels, good day!’
‘Err yeah, right,’ said Newton, and he turned his attention back to the map as the priest donned his helmet and scooted away in a cloud of dust and noise. After finishing his own coffee, Newton folded his map, climbed into the DS and drove out of town. Heading west, he was soon in the area where Diego had reported the last sighting of Lupero. He pulled up.
The fields hadn’t yet started their spring growth and a brisk wind was cutting across the farmland, making the low pine trees sway gently as Newton walked along the single-track road. To the south, low hills ran a pale green along the horizon while in the fields around him the flat farmland was broken at regular intervals by deep channels, formed by the winter rains. Small dwarf pines and thorn bushes dotted the roadside. It was a tough landscape. Looking back towards the town, Newton could see the church tower and the roofs of some of the larger buildings poking up above the scrub. Diego’s lookouts had been up in the tower, but by all accounts, they only saw the horsemen, not the machine. Lupero, being of a military bent, would have chosen a site that had good cover, and it was reasonable to assume that La Senza would have wanted the town secured before they’d rolled in with the beast itself. Consequently, it was a reasonable hypothesis that the machine had to have been farther back. Newton walked a few hundred yards to where the road bent around a rise in the ground, and as he suspected, the church tower was no longer visible. Happy with that line of enquiry, he decided to test a few of the other ideas he’d mulled over on the motorway.
The machine, drawn by eight oxen, had moved so slowly that it simply couldn’t have outrun Diego’s search parties. Lupero must have decided to go to ground. Newton quickly eliminated where he couldn’t have gone. One small lane ended in a path through some rocks that had clearly been drilled and split in recent times, so that was out. The other routes merely led to locations that would have afforded Lupero no sanctuary whatsoever. The farmland was just far too open to enable them to escape; they’d have been very conspicuous and Diego would have had to be blind or drunk to have not seen them.
To the left, the road was nestled against the low rise – hardly a mountain at some fifteen feet or so, but steep enough that there could be no way that it could have been climbed head on. Newton strolled back down the road again and stopped in the shade of a few taller trees tucked into the bank until, frustrated by the lack of resolution, he headed back to the car. But when he put his key in the ignition, his mind snagged on a detail. ‘Hold on,’ he thought, and he got back out then walked purposefully back to the trees. Just as he suspected, there was a dip in the bank, the fig trees and pines making use of its protection to grow larger than the vegetation around them. Safe from the rain, the sun and decades of farming, they had grown to what was, locally at least, a respectable size.
Picking his way cautiously forward through the thorn bushes, Newton confirmed a notch in the bank. It wasn’t that wide, but to Lupero it may have been just enough to enable him to drag the behemoth through the rise and into cover before Diego and his horsemen arrived. Newton broke through the shrubs to find that the other side was flat, hemmed in by a series of low banks and ditches. It made up an area around half the size of a football pitch, and all of it would have been out of sight of the road. Towards the back, Newton could see a series of low walls.
There wasn’t much, just enough to imply the outline of old farm building, the walls and weathered timbers hinting at destruction by neglect rather than force. It was also plain that someone had been there – recently. Something had flattened the thin grass and there were fresh tyre tracks, enough to suggest a vehicle had pushed through the undergrowth. Searching, Newton came across a pile of discarded burger wrappers and several garish cartons that had once contained McFlurries. They were fresh; the flies and the beetles had not had time to clear them out. Newton stumbled on the receipt – they had been bought in Tudela to the west only the day before.
At the back of the ruined farmhouse, a fresh spoil heap indicated that the occupants of the vehicle hadn’t just been there for a picnic. They had levered up a large stone slab, sliding it out of position to reveal a deep cellar. Footprints in the mud nearby implied several men. Newton, hardly a fan of dark underground spaces, took a deep breath, then cautiously went down the steep steps with his small Maglite shining.
A mass of cobwebs trailed from the cracked ceiling down to the damp ground, where huge spiders were dashing erratically past gouges and scratches that criss-crossed the floor. Heavy objects had recently been dragged outwards. Newton followed the marks on the ground until they stopped.
Then he found the body.
It had been there a long time. It was darkened and stained by subterranean condensation, the man’s skeleton still partly clothed in the rags he had been wearing on the day Lupero appeared. Newton’s scientific curiosity overwhelmed any squeamishness as he knelt down to examine the body, a simple silver crucifix still in place around the neck. As Newton handled the cross, he once again began to feel the odd sensations he had felt after the auction; his new ‘sensitivity’ began to kick in.
Jumbled images started to flash and surge through his mind. The old man was rushing out, oxen pulling a large tarpaulin-covered machine over a bank. Lupero’s men charging forward. Then they seized the poor hermit, leather-gloved hands cupped tight over his mouth. Other wagons, filled with gold and plunder were being unloaded. Now the cruel men were busy dragging the boxes of gold down into the deep cellar until finally, as the darkness fell, the old man was brutally hurled in with the treasure and, to his horror, entombed. His pitiful cries went unanswered; there was no hope of rescue. Eventually, the rumbling above him faded as the men and their machine left, and alone in his tomb, he awaited his inevitable end.
Newton dropped the cross back onto the skeleton. ‘What a bunch of bastards,’ he said to the body, his outrage giving him a renewed determination to follow Lupero’s trail. And although his mysterious vision was hardly something he’d want to include in a scientific paper, Dr Newton Barlow knew he had picked up the trail.
******
Viv was waiting cold and awkward at the station as Gabby lolloped out from the train in her huge Dr Martens. Every inch the pale Gothic runaway, Gabby was lugging a bag that seemed twice her size.
‘So this is Greenwich?’ she said, with her eyes everywhere but on Viv. ‘Doesn’t look that special to me.’
‘Oh this isn’t the famous bit,’ replied Viv, apologetically. ‘I’ll show you all that later. Let’s go and drop your bag off, then we’ll see what you feel like doing.’
They walked in silence until they reached Viv’s flat. Once inside, Gabby sat defensively on the sofa, her arms folded, until Viv gave her a mug of tea. Thankfully, the mood began to lift.
‘So where’s Dad?’ she asked.
‘Spain, northern Spain somewhere, apparently,’ said Viv. ‘I don’t think he wanted to go, it’s to do with his new job.’
‘Yeah, whatever,’ said Gabby. ‘So you’re stuck with me.’
‘Oh I don’t feel like that Gabbs,’ said Viv brightly, hoping the abbreviation wasn’t crossing a line. ‘I’m cool about it if you are.’
‘Cool?’ snorted Gabby. ‘Yeah, I’m ... cool . It’s not like we haven’t met before is it?’
‘Exactly,’ said Viv, ‘and I love showing people around Greenwich. It’s a fun place.’
‘What’s this?’ asked Gabby, holding up the artist’s impression of La Senza’s box.
‘That? I’m not sure I want to know!’ said Viv. ‘It’s some antique your dad’s looking for. Horrible, isn’t it? Actually, seeing as he wants it so bad, I thought I might have a go myself – I used to be a picture researcher you know. Would be a nice surprise for him if I could find it while he’s away. Wanna help me?’
‘Well I am good on the net,’ offered Gabby. She looked at the foul hood and grasping evil hands. ‘Wicked! Can’t be many of those around. Bet we can find it. Dad’s smart, but he’s not that clever. Bet we can do better than him.’
‘I reckon you’re right,’ said Viv, and they both laughed. ‘First though, I owe you a guided tour of Greenwich. Help you get your bearings, and maybe we can find somewhere you want to eat later. Your dad’s left us a fist full of notes – loadsamoney – so let’s splash out!’
‘Really, what, anything we want?’ asked Gabby.
‘Sure, why not?’
‘OK,’ said Gabby. ‘It’s a deal. I’ll bring my laptop.’
‘Sounds like a plan – let’s go!’ said Viv. Throwing on their coats, they barrelled enthusiastically out into Greenwich, the weekend ahead of them.
******
Back in Sierra de Luna, feeling pleased with himself, Newton climbed out of the Citroën. He went straight to the town hall. A man appeared at the front desk when Newton rang the buzzer.
‘Si?’ he asked, looking Newton up and down suspiciously.
‘Buenos días, can you help me?’ asked Newton.
‘No sé,’ said the man, shrugging. ‘You have not told me yet what you want.’ Newton walked up to a large and detailed topographic map of the district then pointed to the ruins he had just explored.
‘These buildings here – can you tell me anything about them?’
‘Those? Just ruins Señor, they’ve been ruined as long as anyone can remember.’
‘Who owns them?’
‘A foreigner, we’ve not seen him in years. A Dutchman I think he is. May I ask what is your interest please?’
‘Oh, I’m thinking of moving here,’ Newton lied. ‘I notice no one’s farming the land and the buildings haven’t been renovated. Any idea why?’
‘Hard to say. It’s had some odd stories attached to it over the years. Not sure anyone would like to work that land even if it was offered to them for free.’
‘What sort of stories?’
‘Curses, ghosts,’ huffed the man. ‘All nonsense, of course. The people round here have always been a bit loca. It’s probably something to do with the landscape. Luna by name, luna by nature! I’m a Zaragoza man myself. Not sure what I’m doing here.’
‘Well, it’s certainly the middle of nowhere,’ said Newton. ‘I gather the town has an interesting history. Something about the Inquisition?’
‘How would I know. I’m just a funcionario, not a historian.’
‘Right, OK. Well, thanks for your help,’ said Newton. With the man’s eyes locked on the back of his jacket, he opened the door and headed back to the square. Shielding his eyes from the climbing sun, he wandered away into the backstreets. Behind him, as soon as he was sure that Newton was gone, the man in the town hall lifted the receiver.
‘There’s been someone here,’ he said. ‘Yes just now, an Inglés, he’s still in town. He was asking about the farm, I think he might have found something.’
******
Newton wandered around the small town’s dusty streets for a good half hour, looking for inspiration but coming up short. Frustrated, he began to mull the clues as he ambled on, oblivious to his surroundings while his mind whirred on like a laptop.
He was lost in these thoughts when, from nowhere, a pair of hands shot out, grabbed Newton by his lapels and with terrifying force swirled him off the bright pavement and into a dark side alley. He was caught completely off guard and tumbled arse over tit into a pile of overdue dustbins, landing hard on his backside. But instantly he was back up on his feet as the dark figure of a man headed aggressively towards him. Newton edged fearfully away. A thin watery light was seeping down between the buildings as Newton looked in alarm at the swarthy bulk of one of Van Loop’s henchmen. The glint of a wicked-looking switchblade was waving from side to side just inches from his chest.
‘Hello Engleeesh,’ he hissed. ‘You been asking questions, eh? Well, I gonna teach you a little lesson about minding your own business.’
Scared as he was, Newton was not inhibited enough to drop his trademark sarcasm.
‘Where do they train people like you to talk like that?’ said Newton. ‘You must practise a lot.’
‘Qué? You think you funny Engleeeesh? Maybe I teeeeech you some manners, eh?’
‘Teach me some manners ? Oh that’s just priceless.’
‘What? What do you mean?’
‘Well its textbook assassin-speak, isn’t it. And good for you! Why don’t you tell me I’m going to sleep wid-da-fishes? That’s always good. Stitch me up like a kipper, why don’t you.’
‘Cállate!’ screamed the man. ‘I will keeell you!’
The man began to move towards Newton, who backed away into the dead end, his sinking feeling in no way assuaged by the satisfaction of annoying the knifeman. Newton was flat against damp bricks awaiting the fatal stab.
‘Excuse me,’ came a voice from behind the assassin. Surprised, the thug turned to face the thin silhouette of a man blocking the light from the road behind him. Newton instantly recognised the large ears of the vicar who he’d tried ignoring over his coffee mere hours earlier. The knifeman held up his six-inch blade.
‘No te metas! Get away from me or I keeeel you also priest,’ he snarled.
‘Oh I don’t think so sunbeam,’ came the reply, and with an astonishing sweep of his thin right leg, the vicar sprung his shiny shoe upwards into the thug’s jaw where it impacted with a sickening crack. Spinning round, the vicar then threw his other sensible shoe hard into the knifeman’s solar plexus, where it landed like a claw hammer on a toy train.
‘Argghhhhhhhhh!’ yelled the goon, recoiling backwards, a mass of arms and legs, fighting to keep his balance amongst the filthy dustbins. With a roar of pure rage, he launched himself back at the vicar, knife extended before him like a bayonet. However, the clergyman had correctly anticipated the move and deftly, swerving to the side, he allowed the yob’s momentum to carry him into empty space before ramming his thin elbow hard into his neck. The blow sent the thug crashing like a drunk into the rubbish. Squealing with frustration, he raised himself painfully up again, desperate to equal the score. Before him, the vicar swayed gently from leg to leg, his thin hands all kung-fu in readiness.
‘I have to warn you that I will almost certainly harm you substantially if you do not desist,’ said the priest. But the heavy wasn’t in the mood for defeat. Despite his flagging energy, he came hurling back at the clergyman.
‘Hijo de putaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!’
The priest dissipated his violence with childlike ease. The knifeman’s thick head was rammed, with an awful clang, directly into a water pipe. Once would have probably been enough, but as the vicar was keen to resolve the matter decisively, he treated the thug to two more impacts.
Clungggg! Cluunggggggg!
The blade dropped to the ground with a clatter as the knifeman sank slowly to his knees. He balanced there for a brief second before finally, he collapsed head first into the discarded remains of a tortilla and was still. Newton’s jaw was right there on the ground beside him.
‘The Reverend J. M. Bennet,’ said the priest, holding out one of his lethal hands. ‘You must be Dr Barlow? I’m so very pleased to meet you.’
CHAPTER 30 – El combat e
Dr Newton Barlow and the Reverend J. M. Bennet sat quietly in the sun with their coffees. Only minutes earlier, Newton had witnessed the impossible – a Church of England priest with the physique of a prisoner of war battering a fifteen-stone hoodlum to a pulp in an alleyway with his bare hands.
‘How did you do that?’
‘What? The unarmed combat? Oh that’s all part of the training,’ said Bennet, wiping the blood off his fingers with a paper napkin.
‘Training?’ asked Newton incredulously. ‘But you’re a vicar. Vicars don’t do that kind of thing!’
‘You get warrior priests in all the other faiths don’t you? Buddhists, Ninjas, why not in the Church of England?’
‘But surely you’re meant to do weddings, baptisms, fêtes and jumble sales.’
‘Oh of course I do, most of the time,’ said Bennet. ‘But it can get so awfully boring. That’s why I signed up for the organisation.’
‘By organisation, you mean ...’
‘Yes, the Purgatorians, same as you. Been in it a couple of years. Always been a big fan of the martial arts, you see, and as there was a chance for a bit of hard action, I thought I’d get stuck in. Of course, it’s murder keeping things secret from the bishop and the parishioners.’
‘So you were following me?’
‘Sorry. I have to confess I was,’ said Bennet. ‘For months actually – back-up, you see, just so things don’t get ugly, which of course they just did.’
