Sacrifice (44 page)

‘My God, my God …’ Claire jabbered.

‘So spake this Puritan traitor when he slew the innocents at Wexford and Drogheda,’ Enwright responded. ‘One man’s God, it seems, is another man’s Devil. It doesn’t matter. Our rituals celebrate the holy and the unholy – we take no sides in the eternal struggle.’

Claire lay there shivering, barely hearing his insane rambling, new sweat seeping through the already sodden vegetation under her costume.

There was a sudden crunching of gears and a thunder of brakes. The interior of the vehicle jolted as she felt it skid to a halt on rough ground. A metallic clanking signified that bolts were being removed. Dim daylight filled her narrow vision and a cool breeze assailed her as she was hoisted unceremoniously to her feet, carried along the length of the lorry’s interior and lifted down onto what felt like a grassy verge.

She stumbled and fell to her knees; no one attempted to prevent it, or to help her up again. There was a clumping of feet as her captors scrambled back inside the vehicle. She listened in disbelief to the creaking of hinges as its heavy rear doors were closed, and then a series of echoing thuds as bolts were shot into place. With a shattering growl of engines, a
skitter
of gravel and a blast of warm, noxious exhaust, the vehicle pulled away.

Claire stayed on her knees, breathing hard, sweat soaking her entire body, unable to believe that she’d been left here. In only a few seconds, the sound of the lorry had receded until it was inaudible. Instead, she heard the twitter of birds, the faint hiss of a gentle breeze. With desperate urgency she began clawing at the rubber encasing her face, but the more she yanked on it, the more it tugged her skin. Her whimpers became yowls as that skin tore. Tiny rips in the mask became full-on breaches as she pulled and twisted. More of her skin was snagged, but at last large pieces of rubber had been peeled away. When the section over her nose and eyes had been removed, even if it had stripped off her eyebrows in the process, she saw that she was kneeling beside a beaten track running across empty heath-land dyed blood-red by the setting sun.

At first she couldn’t take it in. To her left, the track meandered away for a hundred yards before vanishing into a copse of silver birch. Clumps of gorse were dotted around, glowing gold in their spring plumage. They’d really done it. They’d simply abandoned her. They’d made a mockery of her and were now releasing her – that was the only explanation.

She heard a low laugh from behind.

Though still on her knees, Claire spun around.

The sight of Arnie’s permanent leer was like a blow from a mailed fist. To see that he was armed with an old-fashioned musketeer’s sword – a rapier, she thought it was called – was even more of a shock. ‘Thought you were getting off easy did you?’ he said, swishing the blade back and forth. ‘Traitor.’

‘Don’t you …’ Claire tried to sound less like a terrified prisoner and more like a disapproving adult. ‘Don’t you think you’re in enough trouble already without continuing this farce?’

‘I look at it a different way. I’m in so much trouble now that nothing else I do will make much difference.’

‘Where are your friends?’

‘Oh, they’re around … but they’re not close.’

‘Is this what Dr Enwright meant when he said I’d have a chance?’

‘Yes.’ If it was possible, Arnie’s sardonic grin broadened. ‘And you’d better take it, because you won’t get another.’

Claire stumbled to her feet, turned and tried to stagger away – but a stinging blow across the back of her legs knocked her down to her knees again.

The sword
, she thought, stunned.
He’s just hit me with a sword!

‘But first,’ Arnie said, strolling around the front of her, unbuckling his belt, ‘I’m going to have some fun.’

She gazed up at him, hollow-eyed. He was so young. He’d be so boyishly handsome if it wasn’t for that horribly twisted mouth.

‘I was in a car crash when I was nine,’ he said. ‘They rebuilt my face afterwards, but nothing’s ever perfect, is it?’

‘Stop,’ she said. ‘Please … just stop.’

‘I’m not supposed to be doing this, you understand? It wasn’t part of the plan, but as I say … nothing else will make much difference now.’

She tried to scrabble away, but he threw his sword aside, and leapt down on top of her, forcing her over onto her back and jamming his forearm across her throat, compressing her larynx. Claire’s eyes bugged in their sockets until she thought they would burst. When he released her, she coughed and gagged.

‘If I were you, I’d try to enjoy this … it’s likely to be your last experience on earth.’

She spat in his face, so he punched her. Claire’s two front teeth broke, her mouth filling with coppery blood.

‘For that, you’re going to get it front and back.’ He knelt astride her, continuing unfastening his pants – and she rammed her left knee up, connecting hard with his groin. He choked and toppled sideways, hands clutched between his legs. Claire scrambled away from him, breathing hard, and jumped to her feet, turning every which way, expecting the rest of them to suddenly appear. But no one else was in sight. She looked for the sword as well, but couldn’t immediately locate it, and there was no time to spread the search. Arnie still lay curled on his side, but was already craning his neck around to glare at her.

Wearily, spitting blood, Claire stumbled off along the track.

A helicopter sounded somewhere in the distance as Heck unfolded the fire-damaged map on the bonnet of his Volkswagen. He glanced up and around, but saw no sign of it yet. West Mercia had agreed to assist in any way they could, but they’d been caught unawares by his request, and though they’d put all officers on duty on ‘Operation Response’, it would clearly take some time to mobilise, especially as Heck hadn’t really been able to tell them where they needed to deploy.

He had stopped the car at the side of a rural lane. Below them ran a tributary of the River Severn. Far to the west, the last vestige of sunlight was winking out on the horizon, throwing purple-grey shadows across a quiltwork landscape of coppice and meadow. Even with the aid of his pen-light, it was increasingly difficult to make out details on the map. Arrows made in marker pen indicated various locations, none of which were specific to recognisable grid-references.

Visually, the battlefield hadn’t looked the way Heck had expected. There’d been plenty of signposts and route-markers, but the museum and visitor centre was apparently located in a place called ‘The Commandery’ in the middle of the town, several miles southeast of where they now stood, while the area of actual fighting wasn’t just an open plain; it had occurred on several different sides of the city at once, and covered a broad landscape of woods, streams, narrow lanes and humpback bridges.

‘Try to remember, Anthony,’ Heck said impatiently.

The schoolboy was still handcuffed to PC Mapling, but pored over the map, squinting. ‘I’m trying …’

‘What were you doing out here, Anthony?’ Mrs Clayley asked. She still spoke with a tone of disapproval, as if she was trying to understand a pupil who had bunked off school rather than a conspirator in a series of sadistic murders.

‘Things,’ he said, shrugging.

‘What things?’

‘I’m sure you don’t want to know, Mrs Clayley,’ Heck answered for him.

‘There,’ Worthington suddenly said, pointing out a single, unswerving line bisecting the upper right quadrant of the map. ‘That one, maybe.’

‘Any particular reason?’ Charlie Finnegan asked.

‘I remember we took the school minibus along this straight road with fields and hills on every side.’ Worthington ran a grubby, chewed fingernail along the line in question, even though there were no distinguishing features at any part of it.

Finnegan glanced at Heck. ‘This is bloody ridiculous. We need to wait for West Mercia.’

Heck folded the map. ‘If we wait any longer it’ll be pitch black out here … there aren’t even any streetlights.’

‘Heck, we’ve got two civvies with us.’

Heck paused, pondering this very real problem – but thoughts of Claire’s tear-streaked face overrode it. He shook his head. ‘They can stay in the car.’

‘At least wait for the chopper …’

‘I’m not waiting for anyone.’ Heck ushered them towards the Volkswagen’s doors. ‘We can give Air Operations the location while we’re en route.
Come on, move it!
’

Claire followed the track through the trees for about five hundred yards, before realising that it had never been intended for human passage. It crossed a small river by a stone bridge, and on the other side ended at a gate, beyond which lay a meadow filled with cattle.

She was already sick to her guts and faint from lack of food. But she knew that Arnie would not be far behind. She glanced over her shoulder. The track curved away into increasing dimness – and then something else caught her attention. A wooden stake had been hammered into the dirt on the verge. A sign fixed on top of it, painted in gold leaf, read:

The King’s Way

It pointed down a side-path, running along the top of the river’s embankment.

Was that the way they wanted her to go, she wondered … along the King’s Way? Well, she wouldn’t. She pivoted right. A mirror image of the path, minus the signpost, dwindled away through darkening thickets. She stumbled that way, constantly catching her outfit on thorns and other undergrowth. It had torn at some of its seams just because she’d been running in it. It was rubbish, little more than a carnival costume. She’d managed to pull out most of the nettles they’d stuffed it with, but her flesh underneath was raw, her puckered skin chafing every time it came in contact with the cheap, sweat-soaked material. The path veered away from the river, twisting and looping as the thickets turned to trees. This meant there was more space between them, less ground cover. She slowed down, struggling to get her breath – and in glancing left, spotted the dim shape of one of her captors watching from about a hundred yards away. She couldn’t tell which one of them it was – he (or she) was wearing a dark hoodie top.

Whoever it was, they made no effort to follow as Claire ran frantically on.

Ahead of her, the trees thinned and open, grassy ground rose upwards. She continued forward, but she was so tired that she only managed to ascend the slope at a sideways stumble. When she reached the ridge at the top, she found another of those makeshift signposts.

Here, gallant Sir Edward Massie was wounded

She tottered past it, now on flat but rugged pasture, covered with clumps of gorse. A figure emerged into view about thirty yards ahead, also with hood drawn up. Sobbing, she veered left, but the ground sloped downward again. She halted on the edge of it, sensing open space in front of her. A pale margin of dying light lay along what had to be the western horizon, but everything else between here and there was turning black.

She glanced back across the pasture. There was no one in view now, but night had fallen like a cloak; they could be creeping right up on her and she wouldn’t spot them.

Helpless, she lumbered down the slope, constantly stumbling in the damp, tussocky grass. Hot saliva seeped from her mouth; flaps of rubber slapped at the sides of her face. She descended onto flat ground, but again half-tripped, turning her ankle in the process. She yelped in agony.

A pillar of fire exploded upward maybe twenty yards in front.

Claire came to a staggering halt.

A huge pyramid of timber had simply exploded, gouts of flame roaring into the night, hot sparks cascading whichever way the wind blew them – as if petrol had perhaps been thrown upon it (which was almost certainly what had happened, she realised). Other, lesser bonfires erupted into life on various sides of her, throwing rippling orange light across the whole of the rugged meadow, revealing several other things at the same time: only twenty or so yards to her right, an ancient, rambling oak with a trunk as thick as three or four men and a colossal spread of branches; perhaps forty yards beyond that, more trees – a thick, dark belt – but in the middle of them a farm gate, and on the other side of that what looked like a road; a real road, made of tarmac. Claire’s heart leapt at the sight of this, and she stumbled forward, heart pounding, only to come to another tottering halt when she spied something to the right of the farm gate.

At first she’d taken it for a stand of foliage, but now she saw that it was a lorry parked under a green tarpaulin, with camouflage netting thrown over the top. Even as she stared at this, three figures in hunting garb filed out from behind it. They were Heather, Jasmine and Dr Enwright, the latter’s bespectacled eyes like two crimson blobs as they reflected the firelight.

‘No,’ Claire moaned, backing away, only for her boots to slide in the grass. ‘Nooo!’

When she tried to run the other way, more figures were coming down the slope towards her: the boy called Luke and a tall, robust, long-faced girl, who she hadn’t seen before. The driver, she realised. The one who’d driven the lorry here – to this fatal spot.

‘The traitor rejected the King’s Way,’ Dr Enwright announced. ‘Sure proof of guilt.’

Heather assisted the other two as they grabbed hold of Claire.

‘You bloody mindless idiots!’ she wept, but they ignored her, twisting her hands behind her back, lashing them together with ropes.

They frog-marched her around to the other side of the oak tree, where she saw several items so horrific that at first they didn’t fall into place: a noose fashioned from what looked like orange silk dangled from a lower bough; a three-legged stool stood directly beneath this; to one side, a trestle-table had been set out and was arrayed with glittering implements – knives, shears and cleavers, a heavy mallet and, more terrifying still, upright against the table, a five-foot length of serrated steel with grip-handles at either end: a two-man saw.

Before Claire could vent the horror she felt at this sight, there came a shout of ‘Dr Enwright!’, and another figure hurtled around the tree. It was Arnie, blowing hard.

‘What happened?’ Enwright asked. ‘She was expected fifteen minutes ago.’