The Book With No Name (24 page)

‘Okay,’ said Dante staring hard at the sharp blade in Cromwell’s hand. ‘Do your worst.’

‘Are you sure?’ Cromwell asked.

‘Yeah, go on. Do it quick though, ‘fore I change my mind.’

Bertram Cromwell took a deep breath and then forcibly thrust the point of the knife into the inside of Dante’s forearm. Two things happened almost simultaneously. The blade went in a full two inches, and Dante let out an almighty shriek.

‘OW! … FUCK! … What the
fuck? …
OW! You fucking
bastard! Oh my God you fucking stabbed me!
SHIT! You – you
cunt!
’

‘Does it hurt?’ Kacy asked. Not one of her brighter remarks.

‘OF COURSE IT FUCKING HURTS! I’VE BEEN FUCKING STABBED!’

Dante was holding his arm, desperately trying to stem the flow of blood, which was impressive. Cromwell had picked a soft paper tissue from his pocket and was wiping clean the blade of his knife.

‘Can you feel the wound beginning to heal yet, Dante?’ he asked calmly.

‘
Are you shitting me?
You nearly cut my fucking arm off. Of
course
it’s not fucking healing. This will take fucking weeks to heal. I could need stitches. For Chrissakes, man, what the
fuck
were you thinking? I thought you were just going to scratch me, not cut my fucking arm off, for fuck’s sake!’

‘I’m sorry Dante. I just wanted to make sure it was a significant enough cut to be certain we could tell whether the stone worked or not.’

‘It fucking worked all right, if the aim was to scar me for fucking life!’

Cromwell pulled a clean white handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit and handed it to Kacy.

‘Here, Kacy. Wrap Dante’s wound up tightly with this. It’ll stem the flow of blood.’

Kacy took the handkerchief and grabbed hold of Dante’s arm. She wrapped it around the wound and tied the ends in a tight knot. ‘How’s that, baby?’ she asked.

Dante’s expression changed from one of severe pain and outrage to one of surprise.

‘Whoa, hold on a minute. I think the wound has healed,’
he exclaimed.

‘
Really?
’ asked Cromwell, clearly excited.

‘
No, you fucking moron
! Of course it hasn’t healed! You stabbed me in the arm, remember? Jeezus, and you’re a professor!’ With his good arm he took off the necklace and handed it to Kacy. ‘Here, take this piece of shit and smack him round the head with it, will you?’

‘Dante, I’m sorry, really I am,’ said Cromwell, sitting back down behind his desk. ‘Look, I’ll make it up to you, I promise. I’ll get you your old job back, if you want.’

Dante was calming down. In fact, he was actually beginning to feel slightly guilty for having sworn at the Professor, particularly the part where he’d called him a cunt.

‘Oh, forget about it Prof,’ he said graciously. ‘I’ll live. I’ve suffered worse than this before,’ he shrugged.

‘Nevertheless, Dante, if there’s anything I can do …’

‘Sure there is,’ said Dante. ‘Just tell me where I can sell this goddam necklace for the most money.’

Cromwell shook his head.

‘Don’t sell it, Dante. Just get rid of it, my friend. It will bring you even more pain and suffering if you keep it.’

‘Can’t be any worse than what I’ve just been through, can it?’

‘Actually, yes it can,’ said Cromwell, his voice grave. ‘There’s something else.’

‘What?’ Dante asked, squeezing his arm and still wincing with pain.

‘There is a solar eclipse tomorrow, at midday. Do not have that stone with you when it happens.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it would be bad. That stone belongs to the monks of Hubal. They will be looking for it, and they will stop at nothing –
nothing –
to return it to its rightful place. Your life expectancy gets shorter and shorter with every second you keep that stone.’

‘That so? Why’s it so important to these monk guys?’

‘Because, my friend, ridiculous though it may seem to you
and me, the monks believe that this small blue stone controls the movement of the moon. If it falls into the wrong hands, it could be used to stop the moon from orbiting the earth.’

‘Is that bad?’ asked Kacy. She knew it was a stupid thing to say, but the Professor, even the museum itself, made her nervous. When Kacy was nervous she babbled, and when she babbled she said stupid things. That’s why she loved to be with Dante. He was stupid, but it didn’t bother him because he was confident. She on the other hand was clever, but often came across as dumb because, although she was physically brave, she couldn’t control her nerves around important people and in unfamiliar surroundings, especially those as impressive as the museum.

Fortunately, Cromwell didn’t judge people on their intelligence, for the simple reason that most people appeared stupid in comparison with him. So he answered Kacy’s question without the slightest hint of self-importance.

‘Yes, it is bad. For a start, the moon controls the tides, but more importantly, and far more significant at the present time, is the fact that a total solar eclipse takes place at noon tomorrow. Now if the rumours are true, and the holder of that stone can control the orbit of the moon, then what do you suppose such a person might be planning for tomorrow?’

Dante didn’t want to look stupid, but he really didn’t know the answer to the question. It was probably obvious to most people, but he had no idea, and it didn’t look as though Kacy knew, either. In consequence, after a few seconds’ silence Cromwell answered his own question.

‘If the holder of the stone utilizes its power during an eclipse there is every possibility that he or she could be seeking to make the eclipse permanent. Although I won’t bore you with all the technical details of how this might be brought about, I can assure you that there is a very good chance that the holder of the stone could keep the moon permanently aligned with the sun, in order to block the light out of Santa Mondega. In other words, the city would be in total darkness for all three hundred and sixty-five days of the year. And that,
my friends, is not a great way to attract sunseekers. Indeed, all it would attract is weirdos.’

‘
Fuck.
’ Dante blurted out the first thing that came into his head.

‘That’s not quite how I’d put it.’

‘Who would want that to happen, though? You said people would want to get hold of the stone, but surely none of them would want to block out the sun. That would be stupid,’ Dante reasoned. He couldn’t think of a single benefit to anyone through doing something so irrational, other than maybe for money.

‘I quite agree, my friend, but again according to legend, there really are people who would want that to happen.’

‘Like who?’

‘I don’t know. Devil worshippers, maybe? People who are allergic to the sun, or worried about skin cancer? Your guess is as good as mine, frankly. But the fact is, Dante, that the Eye of the Moon has turned up in Santa Mondega just before a solar eclipse is due here, and consequently you have to wonder whether somebody brought it here with that in mind.’

Kacy felt the paranoia growing inside her like a malignant tumour. Devil worshippers? There were three things she knew about Devil worshippers:

One –
They worshipped the Devil. Obviously.

Two –
They were the sort of people who enjoyed sacrificing other human beings. Probably.

Three –
When they weren’t dressed up and carrying out satanic rituals, they looked just like anyone else.

It wasn’t even midday yet, and already the Tapioca was packed with strangers. Normally Sanchez would have been going nuts by now, but he afforded a certain degree of tolerance towards this particular occasion. The city’s great Lunar Festival was now in full swing, and that always brought a number of tourists in from out of town.

There was another reason for his toleration this time. He had been checking each and every one of his customers to see whether any of them was wearing a necklace bearing a blue stone around their neck. None of them was, not in the Tapioca, but Sanchez was heading out for the day, so he would get an opportunity to check out a whole load more people.

The Lunar Festival was only ever held when there was an eclipse. It would have been an infrequent event had it been held anywhere else in the world, but Santa Mondega, the lost city, underwent a total solar eclipse every five years. No one actually knew why this was, but all the locals were glad of it because when the festival was on, there was nowhere in the world they would rather be. The celebration had long been a part of Santa Mondega’s culture, for it dated back centuries, almost to the days when a handful of Spanish adventurers had established the original settlement on the site where the city now stood.

Sanchez’s favourite thing about it was the fancy dress. Everyone in town made a real effort to dress up, which made for a great atmosphere, lively and good-humoured. With everyone in a happy and friendly mood – despite the consumption of heroic quantities of alcohol – there was a lot
less chance of fights breaking out, which made his job a little easier, and the Tapioca’s customers, furniture and fittings a little safer.

The fairground was his other favourite attraction. A travelling fair had arrived in town a while back, as it did for every Lunar Festival, and had been in full swing for almost a week now. With only a day left before the eclipse, Sanchez had finally found the time to pay it a visit.

Leaving Mukka in charge of the Tapioca and the strangers who were filling it, he headed off to the fair on his own. His main reason for going was to gamble. There were all kinds of ways of investing your hard-earned cash at the fair. Sanchez had heard that there was a casino in one of the tents, and a miniature racing track for rats in another. Best of all, though, were the rumours he’d heard of a prize-fighting ring. One that had been packed out every day. It was one of those rings where any old joe from the street could challenge the fairground boxer to a fight, the aim generally being for the challenger to last three rounds without being knocked out.

There were giant brightly coloured tents and lavishly decorated stalls all around the fairground, and all of them were packed with wide-eyed tourists. The whole area seethed with humanity as people made their way from one attraction to another, to the accompaniment of several different tunes blaring from pole-mounted speakers. Sanchez cared not at all for such lesser diversions. There was only one tent he was interested in, and that was the boxing tent. The busiest tent of all. It seemed as though half the population of Santa Mondega had exactly the same idea as him: get to the boxing, and get there early. It was easy to find because lined up outside it in neat rows were hundreds of motorcycles, a sure sign that the Hell’s Angels were in town.

It took him a good twenty minutes to get into the giant tent. Inside, the hordes of people moving back and forth made it difficult, if not hazardous, to get anywhere close to the ring itself. The organizers were obviously aware of the potential for overcrowding, so the ring was set high up on a platform,
ensuring everyone a reasonably good view.

There was nothing of the Queensberry Rules about the fights here. This was bare-knuckle boxing, and while biting and gouging were not actively encouraged, pretty much anything else went, including the use of feet, elbows, and the edge of the hand.

When Sanchez finally got in, there was already a fight under way. A total mismatch, too. One guy was almost twice the size of the other. The larger boxer was a huge shaven-headed thug covered from head to toe in tattoos. His smaller opponent looked very much like a family man who was only in the ring because it represented his best chance of earning any decent money to pay for food for his wife and kids. A look at this guy suggested the fight had been going on for some time. He was a bloodied mess. One of his eyes was literally hanging out of its socket, and he was staggering around the ring holding on to his left shoulder, as if he had dislocated it and was trying to manoeuvre it back into place. In contrast, the shaven-headed boxer was as fresh as the cut above his opponent’s good eye, from which blood was spurting in all directions. It came as no surprise to Sanchez that within seconds of getting his first sight of the fight it was all over. The smaller man was soon being carried out of the ring and taken out back for some fresh air and potentially life-saving medical treatment.

Once the fight had ended some of the crowd dispersed and Sanchez was able to get a better view of the proceedings. An announcer wearing a top hat and tail coat had made his way into the ring and was holding a microphone close to his mouth, into which he was shouting something which, amid the hubbub in the tent, Sanchez was unable to make out. Someone obviously could hear what he was saying, however, because before a minute had passed another volunteer had entered the ring, to huge cheers. At least this guy looked like a better proposition than the last. The big shaven-headed fighter, who, it seemed, was known as something that sounded very much like ‘Hammerhead’, had stayed in the ring. It didn’t take a
genius to work out that he was the professional boxer who fought all comers on behalf of the owners.