The Aurora Journals Part Four Read online

  David trod around the perimeter wall to the opposite side, and I could hear him dump the bag of tools down on the ground.

  “There’s a door on this side.” He said, prompting me to follow in his footsteps and join him. “Locked, of course, and the handle removed.”

  We examined the frame. A thick bitumen coated the wooden door up to and beyond its boundaries, sealing over the keyhole. Nothing short of an axe could gain entry to this place. Undeterred, David returned to where the water culvert funnelled under the walls of the structure.

  Ripping away great sods of turf, David exposed the edge of a slate capping stone that was cracked in two. With the aid of a crow bar and my added elbow grease, we managed to lift the broken section to reveal the flowing water beneath. Across the aperture was an iron grill, bolted to the dome wall; another later addition to deter wildlife.

  “Simple.” David muttered, almost to himself. “We climb down, unscrew the bars and bob briefly under the water until we are inside.”

  “I wouldn’t call that simple.”

  “I can go in alone, if you are scared?”

  My glare went unnoticed in the darkness, but my snort of derision made him smile. I peeled off my borrowed raincoat and lay it over the tool bag. If I was going to be submerged in muddy river water, I did not want it dragging me down. David struggled with a couple of rusted bolts, lower down the grill. The crow bar came in handy there too.

  “Try to keep the torches above the waterline, as much as you can. It said waterproof on the packaging, but, you know.” He said, before grabbing my arm and helping me down into the frigid water. I felt every muscle in my lower extremities constrict as I gasped my breaths through the shocking temperature change.

  “Bracing, isn’t it?” David laughed.

  “Master of understatement. By Christ, that’s cold.”

  “I guess it takes a while to filter down from the mountains after all that rain.” He bashed the trunk of his flashlight in response to an ominous flicker, and then took a deep breath. With one arm hooked on to the inner wall of the icehouse, David ducked under water, and disappeared from view.

  His torch glowed dimly, lighting my way. Inside my mind, I issued a few curse words and sent them heavenwards to my grandmother, and then bobbed down. The inward rush of icy water enveloped my senses, disorientating me. I thrashed my arms, trying to grasp onto something solid. Before the threads of panic could take hold, I felt David’s hand at the back of my neck, clutching my collar and drawing me from the channel.

  “I gotcha, old man. You know, on second thoughts, I don’t think you’d make a very good spy. Your sense of direction is terrible.”

  I pulled myself up onto a ledge and spluttered. In my relief, I couldn’t bring myself to think up a witty retort. David swept his light around the inner surface of the ice house. His survey yielded nothing useful. The visible brickwork was impressive; laid in a herringbone pattern which spiralled up to the top. The lower regions scarred with layers of detritus, deposited over centuries of flooding, and this night look set to be one of those times. Already the rising water escaped the confines of the central culvert and rose above our ankles.

  “Can’t hang about. Let’s find the tin and get out of here.” I stood up, dipping my chin to my chest to avoid collision with the sloping walls. With our flashlights aimed at floor level, David worked clockwise from the channel entrance, while I moved in the opposite direction. As far as we could tell, there were no loose bricks, no hidden recesses and the circular ledge was of solid stone.

  I began to shiver. The water seemed to quicken its flow, surging in wavelets through the gap in the wall. It was past my knees and rising fast.

  “Maybe we should come back another day, when the water has receded.” I ventured. David heard the tremor in my voice. He turned to face me, and I could see the conflict in his expression. He had not spoken to his family since last night. His morning call was unanswered, as was a second, third and fourth attempt to reach them later in the day.

  “What if someone has already taken the tin? Perhaps the person Wendle employed to manage the grave site, already found the symbol underneath the granite vase, used the map to find the journal, and then replaced the parchment at a later date. No one would ever know.”

  “Except we would be able to trace that person via Wendle. If it had been taken, the grave would be left unkempt.”

  “Unless Wendle hired someone new to look after the headstone.”

  “It’s possible, I suppose. One last look, then we must get out of here.”

  Patting the walls above and below the creeping water, we worked our way around a second time. I stood on tiptoe to prod around above the door lintel while David stood astride the channel, waist deep to examine the space above the culvert entrance. His torch sputtered once again, its bulb failing in spasms.

  “Bloody thing.” He bashed it against his palm. The light extinguished. “For crying out loud…” David smashed it against the ice house wall, crumbling old mortar and brick. There was a terrifying moment, as the mouth of the culvert shattered into pieces and plummeted in cascades of falling stone and earth. We stood frozen to the spot, wondering if the entire spiralled entity would follow suit, burying us in a makeshift mausoleum. It did not. The ice house stood firm, but now more than ever, it felt like our final resting place. Our exit was blocked.

  I aimed my torch at David’s face, his expression a curious mixture of apology and fear. “I’ll see if I can loosen the hinges on the door.” He said, taking out a multitool pocket knife from his jeans, but I knew it was a futile gesture. Providing the light source for his endeavours, I stood behind my son, registering the cold swell of flood waters rising up my torso. I waited for him to realise that the screws were rusted in place, while I estimated the likelihood of clearing the obstruction, one brick at a time before the dome completely filled with water. Our chances were slim to non-existent.

  Admittedly, I thought only of myself at this critical juncture. Of how my heart would break to see David drown right before my eyes. That our family name would fall upon his death, leaving Mary at the mercy of at least three remorseless organisations. My only comfort, was that Mr Bunyan and his colleagues, would smooth the transition of Phebe’s considerable assets to my darling granddaughter. She would want for nothing ever again.

  As the liquid surged ever higher, I thought at first, that Phebe’s visions had not shown her this rather important detail. That her insistent quest would be our ultimate downfall, rendering her journal a moot point. My second thought, wallowed in the notion that this was retribution for perpetrating the deaths of Fletch and the Charities. Fire and water. Both had a biblical ring to them.

  David had moved on from the hinge screws and was scoring the penknife blade through the thick tar sealing the doorframe. I adjusted the flashlight to better assist. And then it dawned on me. If the doorway was sealed, and the mortar between bricks held fast, how then was the water level able to rise? The air had to be pushed out somewhere. Hold an empty soda bottle upside down in water and it remains unfilled, until a hole is pierced to allow the air to escape. Somewhere in this dome was a vent. I moved the torchlight to the highest part of the structure and explained my theory to David.

  “Not bad, old man. You’d make a fine agent after all.”

  “Not for a billion pounds, would I work for that brash little deviant, and the sooner we get you out of his clutches the better.”

  The ceiling was just at arms-length. I handed David my torch and dug my nails into the mud and filth accumulated at the apex. As I scraped and clawed, great clods of earth showered down on my head, revealing a metal plate about two feet in diameter.

  “Must be where Phebe got the idea from for the gravestone.” David muttered.

  “I can’t quite reach. Can you give me a boost?”

  He groaned, handing back the torch. With a vast inhalation, he reached facedown into the water with his fingers locked together for
ming a foothold. I steadied myself, holding his shoulder and treading on his hands as he hoisted me upwards.

  Gripping the flashlight between my teeth, I sunk my fingers into the mucky space surrounding the metal plate and clung tight. With all my weight pulling down on the vent mechanism, I rattled and tugged until the entire apparatus gave way, propelling me into depths below. David came to my rescue once again, hauling me from the culvert onto the slippery ledge.

  “Jeez you were lucky it hit neither one of us.” He said, before plummeting back into the water for the flashlight. As he did this, I watched the luminous beam flicker over an object resting against the capped shaft of the vent. David surfaced with it in his arms. “Eureka!” Cradled like a baby, was the sealed tin from my vision, caked in silt and mud, but wholly intact.

  My relief was palpable, but we had still to extricate ourselves from this dome. With hope once again restored, I looked up through the hole in the roof to the night sky. At the very least, we could wait until the ice house filled entirely and swim to our escape. I mentioned my plan to David.

  “No need for that. Help me shift this vent over here. It’ll hold our weight long enough to climb out.”

  He was right. With the vent mechanism righted, it formed a neat platform on which to stand. David went first, loosening bricks on either side of the hole, enabling him to wriggle his shoulders through. He slid the tin down the outside of the dome wall, and then crawled out with caution, aware of the friable nature of the old cement.

  In a similar manoeuvre, I shimmied through the hole too, dragging myself across the dome roof as though it were made of thin ice. Spreading my weight as best I could, I edged down the walls after my son and the tin box.

  Anticipation got the better of me. I grabbed at the lid, thumbing off the wax, eager to see if the journal had survived its ordeal. Just as my vision had shown me, I found the resinous parcel inside. David took the tin and watched as I unfolded the leaves of oilskin as carefully as if it were a medical procedure. There inside it lay. Phebe’s leather journal, the muted doll’s face shining under the moonlight.

  “We did it.” David enthused. “I was starting to think this was some fantasy you had dreamt up.” He sniggered, thumping my shoulder in gentle camaraderie. “A quick stop to clean up at the hotel, then we can go and get Lily and Mary from Wales.”

  “It’s the middle of the night?”

  “I’ll drive. You can sleep in the car.”

  I did not reply. He had, after all, put himself entirely at my disposal, angering a very important man in Whitehall in the process. I gathered up the borrowed raincoats, David grabbed the tool bag, and we retraced our path back towards the Ford.

  Leading the way with the only torch between us, I nursed the tin box in the crook of my arm, the journal safely stowed inside. Ahead of us, the trees and thickets ended, marking the beginning of the clearing near the gateway.

  The sheep stirred, bleating their distress and thudding against the peaty ground as they ran. I shushed David, and motioned for him to stay hidden by the trees. As I crept to the edge of the shrubs, I saw a woman in heavy boots, her hair scraped into pony tail, her arm tucked behind her back.

  “You can come out now, my lord. I think this game of hide and seek has gone on long enough, don’t you?”

  Where had I seen her before? I passed the tin back to my son and walked out into the open. The aurora had evaporated, but the moonlight was strong enough to see the details of her features. Realisation hit me. I had seen her face through the laser sights of a sniper rifle in my vision. She was by David’s side, signalling his hitman. She was the voice at the end of Anthony Knight’s telephone call to Jeddah, while I bargained for my son’s life.

  I stood tall and fronted her, but said nothing.

  “Where is David?”

  I remained silent.

  She moved to my side, glaring into the dark vegetation behind me. That was when I saw her gun. The same pistol my son had described, silencer and all. I needed to take her attention away from the tree line. “He returned to Brighton earlier this evening.”

  “That’s a lie for a start. The farmer said the both of you were lurking around the church. Said he saw your red car parked up along the road here too. Tell me where he is, and I will make this as painless as possible.” She edged closer to the undergrowth, holding the gun level with my chest, while she squinted into the gloom.

  “Let me get this straight, young lady…” That did it, she snapped her head back in my direction, her spine facing the wooded copse. The use of that phrase riled her. I continued. “You are here as Anthony Knight’s paid assassin, are you not?” Her lip curled. I fuelled her revulsion. “Why on earth would a pretty little thing like you, want such a vile job.”

  She snorted. “It gives me ample opportunities to off sexist old pricks who think a woman’s place is in the home.”

  “Now, now. Don’t get yourself in a tizzy.” Maybe that was pushing things a bit far. Her inhalations became angered panting. She flicked off the safety catch, and aimed squarely at my face. At this distance, there was no way she would miss, and no chance for me to duck for cover. Still, as petrified as I was, I had to keep her rooted to the spot. David approached with stealth from behind.

  “You know, when I take up my seat in the House of Lords, I could elevate you far beyond any promises Knight could make. What do you say?”

  “You think I need your help? You misogynistic old git. Now for the last time, where is your son?”

  “Right here.” David swung the snow shovel with such force, the keen edge sliced through her skull and embedded itself in her brain. He let go of the handle as her knees buckled, sending her jittering and convulsing to the ground. I watched, horrified, as the life ebbed away from her juddering body until she was gone.

  For a few chilling moments, David and I just stood there, looking at the lifeless body of his former colleague. Four deaths, directly attributable to my decisions. I have made my boy a killer, and what is more troubling, is that he appeared to be completely unperturbed by the event.

  David handed me the car keys. “Get the bag and coats, then start the car.”

  “What are you going to do?” I stammered, shaken by his forthrightness.

  “We need to get rid of the body. Slow the local cops down.” He turned and looked pointedly at the giant wood chipper next to the gate. I have seen my fair share of blood and guts over the course of my medical career, but I could not face what he was about to do.

  I dashed back into the wooded area and grabbed our things, and then hurried to the car. As I turned the ignition key, I heard the powerful diesel motor of the shredder, chug into action on the other side of the stone wall. The sound of bones crunching through the steel grinding wheels was enough to turn my stomach. It was followed by the gagging smell of human offal.

  Lower down the lane, I saw the lights come on in the lodge house, and then the sound of barking. It was hardly surprising given the racket. David hopped the gate, jumped into the passenger seat and we were away. Covered head to toe in mud and soaked through, but with barely a splash of blood on our clothes.

  Saturday August 4th 1990

  Repeating David’s trick at the ferry terminal, we put the raincoats on over our filthy clothes, and tossed the boots back into the pile drying in the hotel porch area. David leaned in at the night desk, and asked the porter to arranged for our bills to be made up. We were leaving within the hour.

  As I opened the door to my room, David handed me a scrunched up ball of black plastic. I gave him a puzzled look.

  “Bin liner, to put your clothes in. We’ll have to burn them.” He said, and then squeezed my shoulder gently. There was an air of pity about him, as though he was sad that I was exposed to this dark and cold-blooded side. He may be hardened to killing in his line of work, I certainly was not. Were bin liners part of the standard field kit issued to MI6 technicians, or is my son always prepared for premeditated murder?
My innards lurched, but I could see his logic. I took his offering and hurried into my room.

  Standing inside the rubbish sack I removed my clothing, tucked them down into the plastic pleats and then stepped into the shower. I knew that our haste was paramount, but the more I tried to reconcile David’s actions, the more I thought of her expression the moment the shovel hit. I tried to push it from my mind, rubbing my scalp with increasing vigour until I thought my skin might tear. I was falling apart at a time when I needed cool reason. I switched the temperature from warm to cold and blasted myself with a jolting torrent of frozen spray. That focused me.

  With a towel wrapping my lower regions, I hovered over the tin box lying on my bed. Its allure was impossible to fight. I had to have another little peek inside. With the waxy cloth spread out across the eiderdown, I opened the journal to the inner leaf. There was the parchment letter my grandmother addressed to me, more than 63 years before I was born.

  My dearest grandson, Pip.

  Though I am not yet one and twenty, I know that you will be the joy of my declining years. You must heed the words I send you, since you face the same dilemma as I have done; a danger that has sent me into a life of obscurity.

  Yours is a hefty burden. I leave you my journal as a guide through the most perilous of times. You will know how best to wield its contents, since you too have the gift of foresight. The future, as I have documented it, is bleak. Only you can instigate the change needed to bring about a fairer outcome for the entire human race. I have made clear which of the pathways are strongest in my sight. Navigate wisely, young Pip, and mankind will owe you a debt of gratitude.

  The issue you currently face with a man of noble name, but lacking nobility, can be eased but not erased. His own words will provide proof with which to condemn him. Look to a man called Jenkins. I think you will find him more than receptive to your request for assistance.