The Unhappy Medium, page 39
‘Dr Barlow, there you are!’ said Jameson, somewhat brusquely. ‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘Yes, sorry. Problems with the phone. Look, I don’t know how much Sixsmith got through to you but here’s the facts.’
‘Go on,’ said Jameson.
‘First, the McCauleys are helping La Senza.’
‘So I heard,’ said Jameson earnestly. ‘Well at least we know where they’re headed then.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Dorset,’ said Jameson. ‘The horrible little creeps have their HQ down there. It’s in an old mental hospital in the Purbecks, Hadlow Grange I think it’s called. Nearest village is Langton Hadlow.’
‘OK, gotcha,’ continued Newton. ‘But did you realise they’ve got the device, this bloody machine thing?’
‘Oh no!’ said Jameson. ‘Really?’
‘Yes really,’ said Newton. ‘It was hidden in a ruined chapel north of Zaragoza. They whacked it into a big eighteen-wheeler, then got it onto the ferry from Bilbao to Portsmouth. We got there just as the ferry was leaving.’
‘We?’ said Jameson.
‘Yes, I’m here with the Reverend Bennet.’
‘Ah ... you met. Yes, he’s a good man in a tight spot is Bennet.’
‘So I noticed,’ said Newton. ‘Anyway, they have some heavies working for them, really mean ones. Guns, lots of big guns.’
‘I see ... OK, what else?’ asked Jameson
‘Well,’ continued Newton, ‘we reckon they’ve picked up considerable funds, probably in gold. That means whatever fun and games La Senza’s planned can be financed without him begging for a loan from any of the high-street banks.’
‘Yes ... I see,’ said Jameson thoughtfully. ‘His plunder could go into the millions.’
‘Oh and we caught a glimpse of him on the deck of the ferry,’ said Newton .
‘Who, La Senza? What did he look like this time?’ asked Jameson.
‘Well, he was a long way off,’ said Newton searching hard for a comparison. ‘But to be honest, he hardly looked like an Inquisitor – he looked more like a thirty-something bloke in a red cape.’
‘Ah, well that will be the body he’s taken you see.’
‘So it’s a possession then?’
‘Oh for sure,’ said Jameson. ‘These creeps must have set him up with a body donor. Some hapless sap with health but no brains.’
‘OK, so what now?’ asked Newton.
‘Well I guess we can take it from here Dr Barlow,’ said Jameson. ‘You’ve done well, but it’s a purely tactical effort from here on. No need for you to get in the line of fire. Can you put Bennet on? I’ll be handing the operation over to him now.’
Bennet took the phone.
‘Yes Mr Jameson,’ he said, with a professional air. ‘Yes I see ... No, that’s not a problem ... Yes ... I can assemble them in a few hours ... There may need to be a cover-up afterwards, so we’ll need cleaners ... you will? Excellent. I’ll do my best ... yes ... you can count on me, Mr Jameson.’ He listened intently again, then ended the conversation and handed the iPhone back to Newton.
‘So that’s that then?’
‘Yes Newton,’ said the vicar, smiling. ‘I must say though what an absolute delight it has been.’
‘Likewise Rev,’ said Newton. ‘It’s been a blast.’
‘It most certainly has. Well ... there’s a train station up the road. I’ll need to get going if I’m to get back to my parish in time for the briefing.’
‘Of course,’ said Newton, ‘I’ll let you get on.’ They shook hands and the Reverend Bennet left his colleague standing by the car.
Newton watched the unlikely tough guy walk away in the crisp winter sunlight before finally turning back to the phone. Scrolling through the missed phone calls and texts he opened the message from Gabby. A sinister coldness began creeping up Newton’s legs.
There was a photo of an old glass cabinet with Viv to one side and an elderly man with thick spectacles on the other. Slap bang in the centre of the cabinet between them sat a grotesque carved box topped with the vile figure of a 15th-century Inquisitor, his clawed hands gnarled like angry talons .
‘Hi dad, viv and I found your funny box thing! At museum in dorset ... c u soon, gabbs xx’
Horror engulfed Newton. The implications chased each other around his writhing guts like fighting cats.
‘BENNNEEEETTTTTT!’ he yelled. With the mother of all sinking feelings coursing through him, he ran after the departing vicar like a Jamaican sprinter.
CHAPTER 33 – The gatherin g
‘I’m coming with you,’ said Newton, the tone of his voice declaring no room for argument. He was frantically texting, calling and emailing Gabby and Viv as he spoke. Uncharacteristically, neither was picking up. Gabby in particular was never, but never offline; it wasn’t looking good.
‘I’m not so sure,’ said the Reverend Bennet, shaking his head. ‘This is going to be a real slugfest Dr Barlow. You don’t even know how to use a gun.’
‘I’ll learn.’
‘Look, I understand your feelings, of course, but it’s better to leave it to the professionals.’
‘Professionals , are you sure? No offence Rev, but you’re a part-time ninja vicar, not the SAS. That’s my daughter and my girlfriend down there!’
‘What do you propose then?’
‘The police, the real SAS, MI5 ... I dunno.’
‘And risk the secrets of Purgatory leaking out into the mortal realm? No Newton. Dare I say it, there are more important things at stake here even than our loved ones.’
‘With all due respect 007, that’s easy for you to say. Bloody hell, anything could be happening to them! And what’s more, it’s my stupid fault that they’re there in the first place.’ Newton gave himself a self-abusive smack on his furrowed brow. ‘Oh I’ve been such an idiot!’
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself, Dr Barlow, you weren’t to know this would happen.’
‘Yes, but it has happened. I was sloppy with my cover story and I got them into trouble. Period. Say what you like ... I’ve got to be there or so help me God, I’ll break the story to the press myself.’ Bennet looked aghast at Newton’s biblically reinforced threat.
‘You wouldn’t!’
‘I bloody would,’ said Newton, knowing full well that no one would believe him if he did. Still, it seemed to shake Bennet, which was the whole idea. The vicar was wavering .
‘If you did come down to the, err, combat area, would you stay out of the way?’ Bennet looked into Newton’s darting eyes. ‘No heroics, Dr Barlow.’
‘I promise,’ said Newton, knowing that on all balance of probability, he was lying. Bennet looked at his watch and pulled a face.
‘Look ... I can’t pretend I like it, but we’re wasting valuable time. First we’ll go to my church in your car, meet up with the assault squads and get tooled up before we head down to Dorset. But I mean it Dr Barlow – no heroics.’
Newton nodded and crossed his heart in a very poor genuflex. The vicar rolled his eyes. Newton shrugged with a sigh of resignation as Bennet climbed back into the Citroën. Once again the two of them were back on the road, tearing out of Newhaven towards Bennet’s parish.
It took them a mere thirty minutes to reach the church in the sleepy old village of West Belvingdon. The Norman church dozed amongst gravestones and gnarled trees, while Tudor half-timbered houses crowded against the churchyard’s walls. Newton screeched to a halt by the churchyard gates. Bennet leapt from the car and dashed frantically up to the door, Newton close behind.
‘Wait here,’ said Bennet. ‘I need to get some keys.’ Newton rang both Gabby and Viv’s phones again. Both were still dead. His teeth grinding, Newton no longer feared the worst, he positively felt it, all the way from his toes to the tip of his quiff. As he dialled again, without success, Bennet bustled back out with a large bunch of keys and beckoned Newton into the frosty graveyard. ‘Here!’ said Bennet. ‘You’d better prepare yourself for this, might be a bit of a shock. Again, Dr Barlow, I must urge you to remember that you’re sworn to secrecy – if this little secret got out, well, it would take a lot of explaining. They stood at the door of a large family crypt. Bennet fitted an old key into the lock and with a heavy push, the door swung back.
‘OK, Dr Barlow, this is it. Let’s get organised.’
There was a distinct oily smell in the gloom. Bennet hit the lights, then they descended some clean and modern steps into a lower chamber. In time, the low-energy bulbs gradually started to light up the cramped space; Newton stopped in his tracks.
The vault was packed with racks of powerful modern weapons, cleaned and ready in purposeful, organised rows. There were sniper rifles with huge sights, grenade launchers, body armour, mortars and light machine guns. There were two-way radios, flare pistols and claymore mines.
‘What the hell ...’ gasped Newton, flabbergasted. ‘Is this legal? There’s more weaponry here than in the whole of Afghanistan. What is this place?’
‘Oh this is just my little arsenal,’ replied the vicar cheerfully. ‘Have to put it somewhere.’ Bennet lifted an assault rifle with a laser sight and grenade launcher. He loaded a clip and pulled back the charging handle. He switched on the built-in targeting laser and moved it from point to point around him like a seasoned pro.
‘Do you mind,’ said Newton, as the bright red dot settled between his eyebrows. ‘Oh gosh, sorry,’ said Bennet. ‘Force of habit! Actually, this isn’t that good to be honest. It’s two years old. The new ones have a far greater lethal range, increased muzzle velocity and they’re 200 grams lighter – makes for a really nice action.’
‘Looks pretty lethal to me,’ said Newton, idly picking up a grenade. ‘Do you get air miles on any of this?’
‘Please, Dr Barlow,’ said Bennet, rushing forward and plucking the sinister egg from Newton’s hand. ‘I must ask you to refrain from playing with the weapons.’ He placed the grenade carefully back in its holder. ‘They’re not toys. This is a strictly tactical effort now, and you must consider yourself a civilian amongst soldiers.’
‘OK, if you say so,’ said Newton. ‘But shouldn’t I at least have a small hand gun, you know, for my own self-defence? How about that one there?’
‘The Beretta Tomcat? Are you sure? A very popular gun with the fairer sex, that one. Hardly an assault weapon, but you’ll probably be safer with that than something meatier. Here, let me show you the basics.’ Bennet popped the small pistol open, loaded it and then pointed sternly to the small button on the side. ‘That’s the safety catch, Dr Barlow. Please keep it on unless you really mean to use it. Don’t want you winging any friendlies.’
‘OK, understood,’ said Newton, placing the small gun inside his jacket pocket. He looked anxiously at his watch.
‘Worried about the backup? Please don’t, Newton, they’ll be here. I’ve worked with these people before. They’re the best we have. If anyone can sort out La Senza and his little minions, it will be this lot. Come on, let’s go topside and see if they’ve arrived.’
They climbed back up into the cold bright air. On the road beside the dry-stone wall, an old minibus was pulling to a halt. On its side, Gothic letters proclaimed: ‘Parish of St Vincent on the Marrow, Church of England’.
‘Excellent!’ said Bennet, slinging the rifle over his shoulder by its strap and switching on his field radio. ‘The St Vincent’s are absolutely first-rate. All dead-eye shots and exceptionally cool under fire.’ Newton looked at the newcomers with a mixture of disbelief and horror. This ‘first-rate’ squad was nothing but a mix of paunchy vergers, overgrown choirboys and a woman who Newton was guessing did the flowers. ‘Oh don’t go by how they look, Dr Barlow,’ said Bennet, noticing Newton’s disbelieving expression. ‘These people are fully combat-hardened. Trust me. They’re as hard as bloody nails.’ Newton noticed that one of the hard-as-nails squad seemed to be nursing sciatica in his lower back.
‘I hope you’re right Reverend, because these people may be the only way I’ll see my daughter again.’
‘Oh look,’ said Bennet excitedly, ‘it’s the Catholics!’ A new van stopped and disgorged another squad of unlikelies. ‘Sacred Heart School, St Malden on the Weave’, said the sedate typography. The priest in charge walked briskly up to Bennet and clipped his worn brogues together with a mild click.
‘Well hello there, Reverend Bennet. It’s been a while now!’
‘Hello Father Finnigan,’ said Bennet, shaking his hand warmly. ‘It certainly has. Haven’t seen you since that business up in Lymeswold!’
‘So it was, Reverend, so it was. That was a fine old scrap, was it not?’
‘It certainly was,’ said Bennet, smiling at the memory. ‘Please, Father, let me introduce Dr Newton Barlow.’
‘Hello doctor,’ said Father Finnigan. ‘Are you not the atheist fella from the telly?’
‘Yes ... er ... sorry,’ said Newton sheepishly.
‘Ah don’t you worry now,’ said Father Finnigan. ‘This is hardly the place for a whole load of theological argy bargy. This is a time for action. Reverend Bennet, are the old Sikhs and Muslims here yet? We’ll be needing all the firepower we can get on this one, so we will.’ Bennet looked over to see two more vans rolling up to the church wall.
‘That’s them now,’ said Bennet, checking his watch. ‘All we need is the militant agnostics and we’ll be ready to roll.’
‘I’m sorry? How, er, why ...’ said Newton, for whom the situation was fast becoming ridiculous and not a bit comforting. ‘No forget it,’ he said, changing his mind. ‘I’m all bemused out.’
‘Sorry, Dr Barlow,’ said Bennet. ‘I’m afraid this must all seem quite bizarre to you. Understandably so. But it is all rather typical for us I’m afraid. All faiths and no faiths are in on this one. La Senza is simply too ghastly to be allowed to continue his little enterprise. So we’ve had to call in all the battalions.’ Bennet called over to his late arrivals. ‘Hello Mullah Arani, Narinder. Help yourselves to some weapons. Radio frequencies set to two please. It’s likely to be a night assault so dress dark and warm please. If you need to fill a thermos, please feel free to use the vicarage kitchen.’
Greeting each other warmly, the various faiths and denominations bustled away into the depths of the vault. Newton’s gaze drifted onto an old lady cleaning away dead flowers not more than fifty yards away from the crypt, seemingly oblivious to the bizarre goings on. He debated with himself for a second whether he should tell Bennet that an outsider could see them. However, the woman knowingly answered his gaze and winked; opening her warm winter coat, she patted what looked like a magnum. Newton, incredulous, smiled back.
The squads were all pouring back up into the graveyard, tooled up and looking slightly more sinister now they were adorned in their combat vestments. Even so, it was a bloody long way from Who Dares Wins .
‘Dearly beloved,’ said Bennet, ‘listen up.’ Everyone gathered around him. One of the Catholics took out his hearing aid and turned up the volume. ‘Now chaps, this is a tricky op from the get-go. You’ve been told what we’re up against, so you’ll know that we will need to be on our toes. Stay alert! We’ve got boots on the ground, and after they’ve done a proper recce of the target, I’ll be able to draw up a proper plan of attack. Time now is ...’ He looked at his cheap watch and they all followed suit, one with a fob chain. ‘Thirteen hundred hours. Set your watches. Be advised we have friendlies in the target area, so go easy with the spray and pray stuff. Oh, and I don’t need to tell you that God is on our side.’ There was a murmur of agreement. ‘We’ll be setting off in a moment. If we get separated on the way down, just head straight for the village of Langton Hadlow – Finnigan here will show it to you on the roadmap. We’ll rendezvous there. OK,’ said Bennet. ‘Good luck and good hunting!’
Everyone filed away to their minibuses. As Newton watched them, every bone in his logical body told him to phone the police, the army or even the Automobile Association, anyone other than this bizarre assault force.
‘You really believe in these people, don’t you Reverend?’ he said doubtfully.
‘Yes, Newton, I do. Don’t worry. We’ll find your girls.’
‘I hope so,’ said Newton, ‘I really hope so.’
******
It took the multi-faith convoy the best part of three hours to reach Langton Hadlow. The sun was starting to dip behind the surrounding hills, and it leant a deep orange to the bracken of the heaths extending west towards Juggin’s Lump.
The minibuses pulled up to the war memorial and the squads piled out around the old tank. Frantic, Newton positively flew from the wreck of the Citroën and located the museum. The old door stood open. It was eerily quiet inside, and calling to his daughter and his girlfriend, Newton ran from room to room, but found nobody. But he found the case he had seen in Gabby’s photo. It stood shattered and empty, and sickeningly, his daughter’s mobile phone lay broken and dead upon the floor beneath it.
Newton realised that no matter how bad he had felt during his fall from grace, he had never felt as bad as this. Fear, dread and guilt gnawed and spiralled around his innards, bringing forth a first-class nausea that threatened to bring up the breakfast and dinner he hadn’t eaten.
‘I’m sorry, Dr Barlow,’ said the Reverend Bennet, placing his hand on Newton’s bowed shoulder. ‘I’m really sorry.’
‘The McCauleys have taken them, haven’t they.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry, I’m afraid they have. A couple of mechanics working on the tank saw them bundled into a Land Rover. Ascot McCauley and the Cardinal took them, by the sounds of it. Terrible bad luck.’
‘It’s not bad luck, though, is it Reverend?’ said Newton, looking sadly at the shattered screen of Gabby’s phone. ‘It’s my own bloody fault for leaving that damn silly picture out.’ Father Finnigan came into the room, his assault rifle slung over his shoulder and a black vest over his thick jumper liberally stuffed with ammunition.
