The Trespass (32 page)

“Just hold tight, sir.”

The car careered around the next corner. Better let Charles know that trouble was on the way. He fished out his mobile and keyed the ‘on’ button. The car lurched into another turn and he nearly dropped the phone as the LED lit up with the familiar network logo. Dracup thumbed ‘contacts’ but was interrupted by a beep.
You have a new message
. The car straightened and hurtled on down the inner distribution road.

“Hey – be careful! You’ll have the entire Thames Valley force on our tail,” Dracup yelled at the driver.

“Don’t worry, sir. I’ll lose ’em all.”

Dracup turned his attention back to the mobile. He pressed ‘view media message’ and fell back in shock. It was Natasha. She was standing by a river, or pool. There was a waterfall and... sirens began wailing somewhere behind; blue lights were flicking against the cream upholstery of the taxi. They were heading up to the University, negotiating the narrow roads circling the campus. Natasha’s face looked out at him from the mobile. She was alive. She looked all right. His heart was thudding in his ribcage as he opened the accompanying text message. And then it almost stopped altogether. He read and reread the text, with its final, mocking statement.

Up to now you have shown creditable resourcefulness. Please don’t disappoint me

He thumbed at the phone’s buttons and found one of Bek’s images he’d backed up from the camera. His fingers moved urgently over the keypad.
Create message
. He wrote:
I’ll be with you shortly. Directions helpful
. He pressed the ‘send’ key with as much vehemence as he could muster.
Forty-eight hours?
But when had the text been sent? Presumably at dawn on the twenty-sixth. Today
was
the twenty-sixth. Less than thirty-six hours, then. Dracup pocketed the phone and leaned forward.

“Next corner – it’s a tight one. Pull into the side and let me out. Then keep going.” He pressed a twenty-pound note into the driver’s raised hand. “Don’t get caught.”

“No problem, sir. Thank you kindly.”

The cab screeched to a halt. Dracup grabbed his bag and flung himself out. With a melodramatic whirl of rubber the minicab disappeared around the bend. Dracup sank into the shadows. Thirty seconds later the BMW hurtled into view, this time accompanied by a squad car, siren blaring like a demented operatic. Dracup hopped over the campus perimeter fence. It was dusk and the grounds were quiet. He leaned against the fence and wondered what to do. Images of Sara came back to him, the night they had fled from the assassin. The dead man lying by the bridge, pale-faced in the moonlight. Dracup took a deep breath and strode on. The gatehouse was only a minute or so away. He fretted that Moran would appear before they had a chance to examine Bek’s photos. He skirted the lake and crunched up the few metres of gravel before Charles’ gatehouse came into view. It, too was in darkness. Dracup was unperturbed. His friend could be anywhere on campus – it was not unusual for Charles to be seen pottering around the various faculty buildings well into the evening. Dracup resolved to wait.

He approached the door and stopped, shocked into indecision. The porch was protected by a blue-chequered
‘Police – keep out’
tape, and standing nonchalantly a few metres away by the road was a young, bored-looking constable. Dracup retreated into the bushes.
Oh no, not Charles
. He thought rapidly.
Check the back, Dracup, you idiot
. Risky with the police presence, but he had to see for himself. He cautiously circled the gatehouse and, when he was satisfied the rear was unguarded, walked quickly to the back entrance and tried the door handle. Locked. He moved stealthily along to the casement window. The small window at the top was open. He inserted a hand and slid the brass handle upwards. He paused and listened. A car rumbled past. He heard a faint whistling. The policeman, bored out of his mind.
Quietly, Dracup, quietly...
He inserted the tips of his fingers and pulled slowly. The window opened. He went in.

The house felt cold. Dracup picked his way through the bedroom and into the hall. Charles’ study door lay before him. He peered through the hall window and checked the policeman’s position. He was sitting on the wall with a notebook balanced on his lap, writing or doodling; it was hard to say. Dracup tiptoed into the study. He waited until his eyes had become accustomed to the gloom. He ran a finger along the desk. It came away covered in a powdery substance, like talcum powder. Forensics.
Oh Charles, Charles. What happened to you? What happened here?

He slid his hands across the bare desk. Nothing. All of Charles’ chaotic correspondence had gone. Probably in a polythene bag in Moran’s office. Dracup staggered out of the office and back to the window he had left ajar. The cool air helped, but it was several minutes before he was able to climb out and retrieve his bag. He walked along the familiar path and found a bench. He heard Charles’ voice in his head, as clear as a bell:
I’ll pop something in the old electro-post if I think it’s worthwhile
. Dracup got to his feet and strode resolutely towards the main University buildings.

His office was another world, one he had left behind. There was his inkstand. There was the pile of unmarked essays, the old jacket draped across his chair. And his PC – an ancient machine he’d constantly berated IT resources to replace. He sat heavily in the chair and switched it on. He emptied his pockets onto the desk as the PC booted. Mobile, airline ticket, passport.
Camera
. Dracup slid the memory card out and placed it carefully in his top pocket. The PC presented his desktop and he logged into hotmail. Dracup groaned.
You have 507 new messages
. He scrolled impatiently through the junk mail, deleting offers of Viagra and hot dates in his area with resolute clicks of the mouse. And then he found it.
Sturrock, Charles. Received: 4 Oct. Subject: As discussed
. Dracup hesitated, fingers hovering over the keys. Was that a noise in the corridor? He went to the door and looked out. There was no one. He sat down and opened the email.

My dear Simon

I hardly know where to start this communication. I would recommend you make yourself comfortable, pour a stiff drink and prepare for my unusual, but I have to say logical, conclusions.

Dracup shook his head. Charles was Charles, even via email; abbreviation would never have occurred to him. His smile faded as he remembered the dark gatehouse, the emptiness. He could be just visiting friends. Dracup ran a trembling hand through his hair. He caught himself in the mirror and groaned at the sight. Sunburned, haggard. He took a deep breath and read on.

I took the liberty of examining British Museum manuscripts from several ancient sources. The first of these is a manuscript I mentioned to you before we parted – my dear Simon – how remiss of me. I quite forgot to ask how you were, and if your adventure in Africa is parting the clouds of confusion for you. No doubt you will furnish me with all your news on your return.

Now, this manuscript, the ‘Cave of Treasures’, is a compendium of early Biblical history although it also strays into New Testament territory. It is an embellished book, in that it was written to promote a sense of wonder and awe concerning the early dealings of God with man. It is also, I should say, considered apocryphal. I’m quite sure I don’t have to explain the term, but for the sake of clarity I shall remind you. The scriptures considered to be the very word of God – i.e. recorded by man under divine inspiration – and known to us as the canonical scriptures were approved to be such by common agreement at around the time of the council of Nicaea, although some argument and debate continued for several years after the council over theological issues such as the nature of Christ’s divinity and his human nature. The canonical scriptures were deemed authoritative because they had been considered authoritative from the times of the original apostles who had walked with Jesus. That, I trust, will serve as a brief reminder. The point I am making is that one has to take great care when dealing with the apocrypha and not get too carried away by some of the more fanciful illustrations.

Come on, Charles. Get to the point. Dracup scanned down the email.

Now, bearing all this in mind, Simon, please indulge me by reading the following extracts from the ‘Cave Of Treasures’:

‘
But command thy sons, and order them to embalm thy body after thy death with myrrh, cassia and stakty’ [God speaking to Adam]

‘
And when Adam was dead his son Seth embalmed him, according to Adam’s command, and they took Adam’s body and buried it in the Cave of Treasures’

‘
And God said unto Noah, Take thy wife, and thy sons, and the wives of thy sons, and get down from this holy mountain. And take with thee the body of your father Adam and set his body in the centre of the Ark, and lay these offerings upon him. He is to be revered unto all generations and I will set apart a people for his care and preservation until the end times.’

Dracup frowned. Adam? Care and preservation...?

My dear Simon, I can only imagine how you are feeling having read these small excerpts. Let me first tell you, should you be inclined to write them off as speculative, that other ancient writings lend support to the ‘Cave Of Treasures’ text. ‘The book of Adam’, for example, states that Noah was entombed beneath a mountain, that the Ark was closed during these latter days of Noah but that Noah went into it each night to light the lamp he had made, and which burned before the body of Adam. He carried in his hand a staff of unparalleled workmanship, fashioned from Eden’s Tree of Life and surmounted by a beautiful interlocking crest, the two halves of which form the recognisable Christian symbol of – a cross.

Dracup was shaking like a leaf. He realised he was saying, over and over again, “It can’t be. It can’t be.” He read on.

I would put it to you, Simon, that your sceptre is none other than the legendary staff of Moses, handed down directly from its first owner, Adam, through Noah’s line to the patriarch Moses himself.

Also note that the Cave of Treasures itself appears to be a physical location, a subterranean mausoleum of the patriarchs, perhaps. And I have no doubt that, when properly translated, the remarkable crest of Noah – or should I say Adam – will pinpoint that location.

This may seem a fanciful observation, Simon, but I recall that the grandfather clock in your aunt’s house was set to seven minutes past seven. This was the indicator that led you to the sundial and so to the artefact buried in your grandfather’s garden. You will know that the number seven is deeply significant in ancient literature. And I believe your grandfather intended to show you more than just the location of the artefact when he set the timepiece so. The ancients divided the human frame into seven parts; the head, the chest, the stomach, two hands and two feet; and man’s life was divided into seven periods. Consider: a baby begins teething in the seventh month; a child begins to sit after fourteen months (2 x 7); begins to walk after twenty-one months (3 x 7); to speak after twenty-eight months (4 x 7); ceases sucking after thirty-five (5 x 7); at fourteen years (2 x 7) he begins to finally form himself; at twenty-one (3 x 7) he ceases growing. The number seven points to the human span itself, and what better example of a perfect creation (seven being the perfect number) than the first man, Adam?

A final, it seems to me, defining observation is that the name Adam [Adamah] in the Hebrew means ‘earth’, the red earth of the Euphrates from which, according to the Bible, Adam was formed. This, I believe was also the name your American friend gave as the codeword for his little operation?

Dracup was gawping at the screen. He recalled Potzner’s lugubrious face referring to his remit for recovery of the stolen material: Operation Red Earth.

I must press on – there is much more to discover, I am sure. I trust this will suffice for the time being. My thoughts are with you and my prayers also – I know that young Natasha will be reunited with you in due course. Press on, Simon, and God speed.

Yours,

Charles.

PS – I can see your expression, Simon – have a look at Luke 3:23; it may help. Do note that the last line of the genealogy ‘son of God’ is lower case – i.e. it doesn’t refer to Jesus – otherwise it would be u/case. Jesus, of course, in the New Testament is referred to as the second Adam, the one sent to reverse the curse of Eden. Now dammit, there’s someone at the door. No rest for the wicked, eh? Must go – C.

Dracup’s mind was paralyzed, almost numb. Charles’ assertions rang in his head like a detuned bell. It wasn’t
Noah’s
body Potzner was after. Noah’s body had been a mental stretch for Dracup to accommodate, but
Adam’s?
Adam and Eve? The Garden of Eden? Dracup’s anthropological professionalism fought against Charles’ conclusions for all it was worth. The Genesis story was a fable, a helpful story of origins for an ancient and unscientific people. Adam’s body? No, no, no. The Ark, maybe. But Eden? No. Never. He closed the email and with both elbows on the desk cradled his head in his hands.
Luke 3:23.
All right, Charles. Just for you. Dracup pulled a Bible from his shelf and flicked through the pages to the New Testament. He began to read: