The Unhappy Medium, page 40
‘Dr Barlow, Reverend Bennet, sorry to interrupt – it’s just that the Baptists are back from the recce. You’ll be wanting to hear their report, will you not?’
‘Yes. Thank you Father Finnigan,’ said Bennet. He turned back to Newton, whose eyes were staring out unfocused. ‘Come Newton, the best thing for you now is action – let’s get on with the operation, it will take your mind off things.’ Gently, he ushered the bereft Newton Barlow back out of the museum. The assault team, fully armed and, at a push, dangerous, was gathering in the fading light.
The Baptists, swathed in shrubs and greasepaint, ushered Bennet and Finnigan over to an old pub table where they had spread a map.
‘OK, here’s a basic outline of the target buildings,’ said their leader, his features hard to discern beneath his hand-knitted balaclava with appliqué foliage. ‘There are two buildings, both surrounded by a high wall. It’s a serious affair, a fifteen-footer, topped with a nasty range of sharp and pointy things. We’ll need to rustle up some ladders if we are going to get over it.’
‘Gates?’ asked a heavily armed Sikh, as he applied boot polish to his cheeks.
‘Only two that we could see. Both impossible to breach quietly, I’m afraid, and both are covered with machine guns. Our only option is to go over or through the perimeter wall.’
‘Tricky,’ said Bennet. ‘Any good news?’
‘Well there are a couple of tall trees outside the complex, so we can at least look down into the grounds.’
‘Well that’s something,’ said Bennet. ‘Pushpindar, Mullah Arani, Father Finnigan, can you have your best marksmen up in the trees to give us covering fire and keep us aware of any movements amongst the goons inside.’
‘Right you are Reverend,’ said Father Finnigan, nodding to his best men. ‘Now then, did you fellas by any chance get an idea of just how many of these bad guys we’re talking about?’ The recce chief consulted his notes.
‘We counted seven armed men patrolling the area behind the walls with an unconfirmed number inside the buildings. Could be as many as thirty.’
‘Well, we’ll have these recce boys here draw up a map for your squad leaders,’ said Bennet. ‘I’ll issue you with complete tactical orders in the next hour or so. All we can do now is wait for the rest of the squads to arrive. I imagine we’ll go in around midnight. ’
‘Midnight!’ gasped Newton, incredulous. ‘But but ... but it’s only six now! We have to go in immediately – they’ve got my daughter and my girlfriend!’
‘Now now, Dr Barlow, please!’ said Bennet. ‘We simply don’t have the numbers yet. There are only thirty of us here. They’ll pick us off like bargains at a jumble sale. We have to wait for back-up!’
‘But ... but ...’ protested Newton.
‘Seriously Dr Barlow, I know it feels wrong, but he’s right,’ said Father Finnigan. ‘If we go in half-cock, these fellas up at the Grange there will eat us for breakfast, lunch and dinner. We need the numbers.’
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ snapped Newton in a rage of frustration and fatigue. ‘I don’t believe this!’ He flounced away from the circle of warrior priests with his hands on his head like a footballer after a failed penalty, his troubled mind whirring away like a hacked electricity meter. Father Finnigan moved to calm him.
‘No. Leave him be Father,’ the Reverend Bennet said quietly. ‘He’s tired and emotional. We’ll just have to try and do our best to help these unfortunate women for him. Now ... where was I ...’ Bennet carried on with his eve-of-battle sermon while Newton, worn out, cold, damp and horribly worried about his loved ones, sat down heavily on upon the bonnet of the DS and dropped his head into his hands.
‘Well, that’s it for now,’ Bennet said to his troops. ‘Get some shut-eye, check your weapons and ammo. Make sure your walky-talkies are charged and set to the right frequencies. I’ll get the verger here to see if he can rustle us up some sandwiches.’
‘Excuse me Reverend,’ said Father Finnigan, looking away from the group towards the departing blue and white rear of a classic 1974 Citroën DS. ‘But where do you think Dr Barlow is going?’
******
Newton wasn’t thinking that logically any more. His swirling thoughts contained ghastly possibilities, things he didn’t want to even start entertaining. With his foot hard down on the accelerator, he charged away from Langton Hadlow leaving Bennet’s assault team staring after him.
‘Newton! Stop!’ said Sixsmith urgently from the back seat.
‘Can it, Alex,’ said Newton sternly .
‘Newton, please. You have to do what they say. You can’t do this alone.’
‘Just watch me,’ said Newton ignoring the vision.
Four heartbeats later he caught his first sight of Hadlow Grange. Dark and ominous in the fading crimson light, it stood clear of the surrounding gorse and heather in a sharp silhouette of Gothic architecture and gnarled trees.
‘Please Newton, I beg you to reconsider.’
‘Sorry Alex. I have to do this,’ said Newton. He slammed to a halt facing the wicked metal gates, his heart pounding in his rib cage. Ignoring Alex’s remonstrations from behind him, Newton eased himself from the battered old car and, indifferent to the brambles clawing at his fingers, pressed the buzzer.
The static crackle of the ancient intercom popped and fizzled then settled down to an awkward prolonged silence.
‘Can I help you?’ came the nasal answer. Newton swallowed hard as he leant in towards the microphone. There was no going back now.
‘My name ... is Dr Newton Barlow. I’ve come to get my daughter and my girlfriend.’
There was another heavy, crackling pause before Ascot McCauley spoke again.
‘You’d better come in.’
CHAPTER 34 – Machin e
The forbidding road into Hadlow Grange was lit only by Newton’s solitary remaining headlamp. As he crunched fearfully along the gravel driveway, the beam caught Van Loop’s mercenaries cradling their automatics and as he passed, they filed in behind him, their guns at the ready. Inexorably, he approached the offices of McCauley Bros, property developers, until finally, his headlamp lit Ascot McCauley standing arrogantly, his arms folded before him. Newton fought with a burning temptation to just run him over. Reluctantly, he stopped the car and stepped out onto the gravel.
‘So Dr Barlow, we meet again.’
‘I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that’s an awful cliché,’ said Newton, raising his hands as two thugs began a somewhat theatrical show of frisking him. ‘The gun you’re looking for is in my inside jacket pocket,’ he said. One of the gunmen looked him malignantly in the eye and pulled out the pistol. ‘I’m just trying to be helpful,’ quipped Newton, now armed only with his sarcasm.
‘That’s a pretty little gun,’ said Ascot. ‘Didn’t I see one like that on Desperate Housewives ?’
‘I had you down as more of a Cash in the Attic kind of guy.’
‘Very good, Dr Barlow, very funny. You should be on TV,’ said Ascot, as the hired muscle brought Newton forward. ‘Oh I forgot, you were once, weren’t you! How very tactless of me.’
‘It’s OK,’ said Newton. ‘I forgive you.’
‘Right then gentlemen, I’m sure our guest is only too aware that he’ll pay dearly and quickly for any foolishness. You can let him go.’ The big meaty fists released their grip. Newton made a point of re-arranging his clothing, a somewhat cheap attempt at nonchalance despite the fact he was actually bricking himself. Arms behind his back, Ascot turned towards the house. ‘Dr Barlow, if you please.’ Obligingly, Newton followed Ascot into the Grange. The goons followed three steps behind, trigger fingers twitching.
‘So, you feel comfortable about helping this nut La Senza, do you?’ said Newton, as they turned down one of the oak- panelled corridors.
‘Comfortable? Business isn’t about being comfortable, Dr Barlow. We are not cocooned academics. This is the real world. For us it is merely a business proposition. We scratch the Cardinal’s back and he will scratch ours.’
‘And how exactly is he going to scratch yours?’
‘Oh it’s simple enough,’ Ascot continued. ‘You see, the Cardinal is a very angry man. Absolutely livid. He isn’t at all pleased about what they did to him, and like all angry little men, he wants revenge.’
‘On the Church?’
‘On just about everything, as far as I can tell, but yes, mostly on the Church.’
‘So how does that benefit you? Do you hate the Church as well?’
‘Oh on the contrary, Dr Barlow – I love the very ground it stands upon.’ Ascot suddenly turned to face Newton and the thugs. Stopping in their tracks, they all piled up like cars on a motorway. Behind him, Newton felt the gun barrels nudge into the small of his back. Impassioned, Ascot’s eyes widened. ‘Do you have any idea just how much property the Church owns in this country, Dr Barlow?’
‘I’m guessing I’m about to find out,’ said Newton.
‘It’s worth about eight billion pounds. Let me say that again. It feels so nice when I say it aloud. Eight billion.’ Ascot closed his eyes to savour the figures. ‘Oh yes ... take St Paul’s Cathedral. It alone stands on land worth some £84 million, a truly prime development site!’
‘You want to develop St Paul’s Cathedral ... seriously ?’
‘Of course!’ said Ascot. ‘What is it now? An empty shrine to some worthless, meaningless God – we would make it live and breathe!’
‘How?’
‘Offices, shops ... some upmarket restaurants. And it’s not just St Paul’s, think about it. All the minsters, parish churches and abbeys. There are some 50,000 churches in these islands. All empty, dead and useless! I haven’t even started to add up all the synagogues, mosques and temples. Even the scientologists have a few dozen places we could scoop up. And that’s just the buildings. There’s also all the wonga in the offshore accounts and tax havens. But, one step at a time, we’ll start with the churches.’
‘Well,’ said Newton calmly, ‘that’s nice, isn’t it? All those beautiful buildings ... have you no soul, Ascot?’
‘Why should you care? You’re the big-mouthed atheist, not me. I’m not interested in anything but business. Business is pure, honest and clean, unsullied by superstition, and unpolluted by stark reason and moral considerations.’
‘In what way is it honest?’
‘Because Dr Barlow, it doesn’t hide how cruel it is. And what do people like you have to show for your integrity, eh? The moral high ground?’
‘Sure, but you know the problem with the moral high ground, don’t you?’
‘And what would that be?’
‘The view is terrible.’
‘I am immune to your smug criticisms Barlow, just as I am immune to your limp do-goodery. Nothing matters to us but our own material improvement and the removal of those who block it.’
‘What a lovely sentiment. Remind me never to get trapped in a lifeboat with you,’ said Newton. ‘However, I’d feel somewhat remiss if I didn’t point out that you’re making a laughable mistake.’
‘And what that would be?’
‘You’re trusting La Senza, one of the most evil, self-serving monsters ever to have walked the earth. A man who’s trustworthiness can be measured in microns. He’d stab himself in the back if his arms were long enough. What on earth makes you think he’ll keep his side of the bargain?’
‘We know we can trust him,’ said Ascot. He was keen to look like he meant it, but his Adam’s apple went up and down like a blob lamp. Newton twigged that he had a knife worth twisting.
‘Ha! You can’t trust him at all, can you McCauley? Did you bother to do any research on La Senza by any chance?’ continued Newton. Ascot hesitated. ‘You didn’t, did you – oh priceless! This is a man who would destroy his own family, his own supporters, innocents. He’ll do you the first chance he gets. You scratch his back Ascot, and he’ll use yours to make a lampshade.’
‘We’ve thought of that!’ protested Ascot angrily. ‘He needs us. Without us he’d be doomed. Tied up forever in this Purgatory place they all keep banging on about. Your righteous friends would be all over him like chicken pox unless we were here and he knows it. Who do you think has paid for all this?’ Ascot waved his needly finger around like a wand.
‘Didn’t the Cardinal’s fan club chip in?’
‘What the La Senza sect? Oh sure, they donated some funds ... but it was McCauley Brothers who put up the serious capital. We know a good venture when we see it. Anyway, that’s not the point,’ said Ascot, trying to reassure himself. ‘La Senza can’t do anything untoward. We’ve insured against that.’
‘Really? And how have you done that then?’
‘We’ve er ... got a contract.’ Ascot’s Adam’s apple convulsed again.
‘Ha!’ said Newton. ‘Well if you’ve got a contract , that’s alright then!’
‘Oh you can laugh all you like Dr Barlow,’ said Ascot furiously. He turned on his heels and the party began once again to walk down the corridor. ‘But, I should be careful just how much you laugh in a moment, because you will be meeting the Cardinal in person. Trust me, the only jokes he laughs at are his own.’
‘Yeah whatever,’ said Newton. ‘Just take me to my kid and my girlfriend.’
‘Your daughter ... yes ...’ said Ascot through gritted teeth. ‘A spirited child.’
‘I like to think so.’
‘Perhaps if you had been a better parent, she’d have been less inclined to bite.’ Ascot held up his hand. A new bandage was wrapped around his thumb, a spot of red forcing its way through the gauze.
‘Oh good girl!’
‘That is not how children should behave, Dr Barlow. Our father would never have tolerated such a thing, never! And as for your lady friend,’ Ascot hissed, ‘she called me an arsepipe!’ Despite the seriousness of the situation, Newton smirked.
They exited the rear of the Grange and Newton found himself face to face with the asylum. It reared up before him like a Victorian prison, its horrible detail thrown into stark relief by several powerful lamps. The big truck sat outside, empty.
‘What a charming little spot,’ said Newton. ‘Does it still have all its original features?’
‘The family bought it ten years ago,’ said Ascot. ‘It was a home for the mentally disturbed. ’
‘No changes there then,’ said Newton, and Ascot threw him another withering glance.
‘It suits our requirements admirably. It is large, remote and self-sufficient, and it has its own vegetable garden and generators. We can operate without any outside interference.’
‘OK so you can grow your own potatoes. Doesn’t stop it being a monstrosity.’
‘Actually, McCauley Brothers have always specialised in the more unusual locations. Places that the squeamish, the sensitive and the thoughtful frankly wouldn’t touch. More fool them. I don’t expect you to understand.’
‘I don’t,’ said Newton. ‘You just sound a tad mad to my untrained ears as it happens.’
Ascot opened a small side door and they entered the asylum. The atmosphere was clammy and deeply unhappy. Newton kept his eyes upon Ascot’s pin-striped back until finally they were in the atrium.
And there was the machine.
Its most shocking feature was the devil-like carved face, its mouth agape to portray the very mouth of hell itself. From its bloated blood-red jaws sprouted wicked, rapier-thin teeth in several cruel batteries, each as sharp and long as cavalry sabres. Above the gaping maw, two sets of evil eyes stared malevolently out at Newton, and as he was marched across the hallway he could feel its ghastly gaze following him. Lolling from its hideous lips there ran a primitive conveyer belt, looking for all the world like a horrendous tongue. The metal and leather belt was studded liberally by foul hooks and prongs, and spun around a series of old wooden wheels and rusted metal cogs like a caterpillar track.
Behind the monster’s head, reptilian scales and bat wing flaps gave way gradually to a cathedral-like structure complete with flying buttresses and stained-glass windows. The coloured glass portrayed a chilling series of tableaus – there were scenes of awful suffering and eternal damnation, often both at the same time. It was a triumph of medieval flat-packing, constructed for expansion after transport; some of Van Loop’s men were busy extending out towers or slotting mechanical elements onto the outside, increasing its dimensions even as Newton watched. There were gargoyles and bellows, wicked Gothic chimneys, wheels and pulleys. But its archaic lack of sophistication also gave it the air of an illustration by Heath Robinson. The hideous machine was now telescoping out, extending until it stretched on its huge wagon wheels all the way down the centre of the long atrium to a length of some 20 metres. All the while, Van Loop’s technicians were measuring and photographing the exterior of the unique contraption as if it were a saucer at Roswell.
‘So this is your little baby, is it?’ said Newton.
‘Not mine, Dr Barlow,’ said Ascot, stopping by the monster’s head. ‘This is La Senza’s device, and so it shall remain. We are not interested in the how and why of the plan, only the final accounting.’ Newton walked up to the vast mouth and lay his hand upon the theatrical carving, expecting to feel something, anything, of the people that it had so utterly consumed. There was nothing.
Newton shuddered. No connections, no residue, no spirits. It had erased them like a dead hard drive and powdered them into packet soup.
‘Dad!’ Gabby shouted to Newton from the top of the stairs and he looked up to see his daughter, Viv and the old man in the photo Gabby had sent from the museum. They were restrained by the heavies but otherwise seemed intact.
‘Gabby! Sweetheart!’
‘Sorry, Newton! I’m so sorry,’ shouted Viv. ‘I had no idea.’
‘Silence!’ said Van Loop senior from their side. He looked down to Newton, sneering. ‘Dr Barlow, you are very foolish coming here alone.’
