‘How so?’
Eric grins again. ‘We could have let them in. Then we really would have had trouble.’
45
They hail taxis in the road outside Caitlyn’s apartment and head north of the river into the frothy wash of endless partyland. Eric and Leon make coffee in their adjoining apartment and watch a TV among a bank of monitors linked to security cameras on the landing, lifts, stairways and outside areas. They relax now that Caitlyn’s sulking in her room and they’re not traipsing around Soho or the West End watching her back. Neither really fancied another late night. Tomorrow they’ll think differently. Tomorrow they will know that amid all the shouting, kissing, comings and goings, they both missed something. Something significant.
Caitlyn.
The angry voice from inside the apartment wasn’t her voice. It was Abbie Richter’s. The young American is now snuggled up in Caitlyn’s king-size bed, ready for a good night’s sleep and no doubt a tongue-lashing from Eric in the morning when he finds out they switched.
Caitlyn is in the front seat of the VW Campervan Jake Timberland has hired for this very special occasion. He looks across from the well-worn steering wheel. ‘Vintage Type 2,’ he brags, adding ironically, ‘Whopping 1.4-litre engine that will whisk you to your secret destination at a dizzying sixty miles an hour. Check out the rock ’n’ roll rear seat.’
Like a small child, she scurries from the front to explore the back of the van. She finds cupboards stacked with snacks, a DVD player, flatscreen TV, fitted oven and fridge full of champagne, strawberries and three different types of ice cream. ‘Yay!’ she shouts as she inspects the flavours and eyes up a back seat that converts into a double bed.
Caitlyn returns to the front and pecks him on the cheek before sitting back down. ‘I love it. Love it, love it.’
‘Glad I could please.’
‘I’m so sparked up! So, where are we going?’
‘Somewhere you’ve never been. Where few have trod but many have dreamed.’
She play-punches him on the arm. ‘Cut it out. Tell me.’
He laughs. ‘No. It’s a surprise.’
They cross the river and head west out to Hammersmith, past Brentford, north of Heathrow then south down a river of endless black tarmac. They stretch their legs at a service station near Fleet, then climb back in and Caitlyn soon falls asleep.
Jake drives for another hour, fighting off tiredness by listening to the radio and taking occasional glances at the sleeping beauty in the passenger seat. Sometimes he lifts her hand. Just to hold it. His mind running away with him. Imagining their relationship is already more than it actually is. Finally he sees the sign he’s been looking for and pulls off the road. He parks up, kills the engine and retreats into the back to pull out the bed.
The sudden stillness causes Caitlyn to stir. He leans close and strokes her hair as he whispers, ‘We’re here.’
She murmurs. Her eyes flicker open but she’s having trouble fighting the pull of sleep.
‘Come and lie down in the back. You can sleep better for a while.’
She gets it together enough to stumble through to the bed he’s laid out. She curls up quickly and he lies next to her and pulls the quilt over them. Her eyes closed, she asks, ‘Where are we?’
‘Wait until sunrise,’ he says, kissing her lightly.
46
Lee Johns has lost track of time. He doesn’t know how long he’s been slipping in and out of consciousness. It could be hours or days. He’s only aware of those long moments when pain is clamping his limbs and screams are climbing his throat.
Left naked face-down on the floor of the Great Room, he’s been close to death and has lost several pints of blood. The icy Slaughter Stone under him has chilled his body to hypothermic levels.
He wakes. Feels a deep, rhythmical bludgeoning in his head. But is glad to be alive. He can move a hand. The bindings have been cut. Two robed and hooded Helpers see him stirring and step forward. They carefully lift him from the floor and wrap blankets around him.
It’s over.
Johns is stiff and barely able to walk. His senses are peculiarly heightened. He has no feeling in his feet but can hear loud echoes from his own footsteps like he’s walking on the surface of a giant drum. The Helpers support him as he sways unsteadily down the cold, shadowy passageways. ‘We are taking you to the cleansing area,’ says a distant voice. ‘You’ll be washed and dressed, then instructed.’
The words seem to leave an imprint in the air, like a sound wave on a recording screen. Johns strains over his shoulder and sees the syllables trailing behind him like the fluttering tail of a multi-coloured kite.
They must have drugged him. He’s hallucinating, that’s all.
They take him to a deep stone trench being filled by a roaring waterfall. It’s red. Blood red. And it’s steaming on the floor like a pan of spilled tomato soup. Johns stands naked, terrified, frozen to the spot.
‘It’s all right, trust us.’ A Helper holds his own hand under the cascading blood and as it touches his skin it becomes transparent. Crystal clear. As pure as a mountain stream.
Johns steps in and closes his eyes. The steam from the shower smells like rusty iron. It feels like a thousand needles are being jabbed into his scalp. His heart bucks hard as the hot spray spikes into his head like thorns.
Slowly his cold-numbed nerves come tingling to life beneath the warm downpour. Finally, he opens his eyes. He looks at his hands and body. The water is running clean. No blood. Everything’s normal.
The Helpers stand at the edge of the trench, holding towels for him. He steps out, leaving wet footprints as he pads across the slate floor, mist drifting from the cleansing area. In front of him are his own clothes and a rough sack robe. It is his. He is a member of the Craft. He’s been accepted.
There’s a full-length mirror in the corner. He twists his body to see the extent of the wounds caused by the Master. Strange. He twists his right forearm and then his left arm to inspect the initiation cuts. He checks the mirror again.
‘What’s going on?’
Those around him say nothing.
‘I was bleeding. But I can’t see any scars.’ He angles his body again in front of the mirror. ‘There’s nothing. Not a mark.’
A cloaked shape fills the doorway.
Johns looks across and recognises the rugged face beneath the hood. Sean Grabb, Serpens, his Craft brother.
Proud mentor smiles at protégé. ‘Get dressed, Lacerta. There are important duties to be done.’
47
Just after four a.m. the sky begins to lighten. Jake gently wakes Caitlyn.
She is jelly-legged as he helps her from the Campervan and starts to shiver in the cool morning air. He rushes back for a couple of blankets and the bag of goodies he’s packed up from the fridge.
‘Where are we?’ she mutters as he snuggles her beneath his arm and the warm wrap. ‘I still can’t see anything.’
‘You will in a minute. It’s a piece of old England. Tomorrow, it will be flooded with thousands of hippies like you, but this morning, right now, it’s ours. Just yours and mine. I booked it.’
‘Booked it?’
‘Everything is buyable these days. Others had paid to tour the site but I paid them off. Bought them out. Just for you.’
She’s too touched and tired to say anything.
They shuffle across the damp grass in the receding darkness and gradually she starts to see it. Something huge. Rising out of the rosy warmth of the breaking dawn. Her pupils pulse wide as she stares at the monumental shape. ‘Jesus, what is it? It’s like some weird space ship.’