Out of Reach Page 23

  Sally stood aside and allowed Schaefer to pass.

  “The car keys are in the bowl by the front door,” Ellen called after him.

  THIRTY THREE

  As he drove into Mayfair, Schaefer considered how he might have handled things differently with Obsidian. He remained convinced that the shark-eyed man knew something about Amber, but struggled to think what else he could do beyond the torments he inflicted last night. Relatives? Friends? But Obsidian did not strike him as the sort of man who would be moved by such leverage. Everything had felt right. No, right was the wrong word, it implied goodness, which was not something Schaefer would ever associate with his actions. Everything had felt as it should. There were times in life when Schaefer felt impelled by destiny, and he knew that a choice or action was correct because it moved him smoothly down the tracks to the next stop on his journey. Other times, when Schaefer had railed against fate and tried to resist its mighty force, he had struggled along a path that was doomed to fail. He could feel the universe push against his will and, as strong as he was, ultimately he would buckle and fate would push him, sometimes painfully, back to the correct path. What he had done with Obsidian felt fated. He had acted in accordance with the path laid out for him, and Schaefer felt that any other course of action would have led to the same point. The only thing that comforted Schaefer when he considered his role in the astronomic tournament of fate was that he had never been able to shake the rock solid belief that he would find his daughter. The torrent of destiny would sweep him into her arms and they would be reunited. Even in his darkest moments, that certainty gave Schaefer great comfort.

  There was something reassuring about a place that changed so little. Kelvin stood behind his counter near the draped window and nodded at Schaefer as he entered. The grey-faced, pock-marked customer acknowledged Schaefer and then turned back to the book he held in his hands. Schaefer could see why people would come back to Mathers’ shop day after day. Unaltered, it had stood in the Burlington Arcade for many years, like an unyielding rock against the stormy tide of progress. Technology could digest the world into bite-sized chunks to be fed to the soundbite-hungry attention deficit generation, but it would never be able to replicate the depth and richness of Mathers’ shop. It wasn’t just the books, which contained secrets within secrets; it was the experience of holding history. A physical link with a world long gone. Books that had travelled through time and brought with them the notations of their many owners, the intricacies of their journeys, their own histories. Even Schaefer could see the magical attraction of such artefacts.

  Schaefer passed between two bookcases and opened the door to the waiting area. The same motley collection of peculiar people waiting to see Mathers. Lost souls Ellen had called them, and, as Schaefer looked at the strange men and women, he thought it a most appropriate description. There was sadness about them. Something was missing from their lives and they all hoped that Mathers could help restore it.

  “Good morning, Mr Schaefer,” Penny said brightly. “I’ll just see if he can fit you in.”

  Penny looked more beautiful than usual. She wore a tight fitting black dress that was covered in red poppies. She smiled as she entered Mathers’ office and closed the door behind her. The woman with alabaster skin and blood red lips looked at Schaefer and frowned. It was the first time any of the peculiar people had ever acknowledged him.

  “You’re almost there,” she said. “He’ll help you.”

  “Excuse me? What?” Schaefer asked in puzzlement.

  “Don’t worry,” Alabaster said. “You’re on the right path.”

  “He’ll see you now,” Penny called across the room.

  Schaefer looked at the woman with the alabaster skin, who returned his gaze and smiled sadly. These people were even stranger than he’d first thought. The last thing he needed was another psychic.

  “Thanks,” Schaefer said insincerely. He followed Penny into Mathers’ office.

  The small custodian of ancient books was his usual brusque and busy self. He was using a magnifying glass to study tiny text in a large book.

  “Where have you been, Thomas? Penny has been trying to get hold of you,” Mathers said. Penny smiled her validation of her employer’s words.

  “I lost my phone,” Schaefer lied. “I’ll give you my new number.”

  “Do you want a drink?” Mathers asked.

  “No, thanks.”

  Penny withdrew and shut the door behind her, and Mathers looked up for the first time.

  “Good grief!” he exclaimed. “You look a mess. What happened?”

  “It’s nothing,” Schaefer dissembled. “It was just something that got out of hand. I’m okay.”

  Mathers frowned and then let the matter drop.

  “I wanted your help. A fresh perspective. I’m afraid I’ve hit something of a brick wall,” he admitted. “If you’ve been through the papers I gave you, you’ll see there’s plenty of evidence to suggest that the Collective is real, but who they are—”

  “I think I’ve found them,” Schaefer interrupted.

  “Really?” Mathers asked. Then it dawned on him. “The thing that got out of hand?”

  Schaefer nodded.

  “And your efforts yielded no fruit?”

  “No,” Schaefer shook his head. “I also hit a brick wall.”

  “I can’t see a way beyond it, Thomas.”

  “We’ve missed something,” Schaefer told him firmly.

  “How do you know?” Mathers asked.

  “Someone told me,” Schaefer replied.

  “Someone?” Mathers said, but he immediately let the question drop when he saw the look on Schaefer’s face, which suggested that it was better he didn’t know. “What have we missed?”

  “I don’t know,” Schaefer admitted. “But I was told I could help you. Where are the photographs?”

  Mathers rooted in one of his desk drawers for the photos Schaefer had given him of the interior of Leon Yates’ house and his nest at the tower block. He handed them to Schaefer, who laid them out across his desk. Four rows, twelve images in each row. A collection of illuminated symbols from within the house, and occultism disguised as graffiti from the corridor of the tower block.

  “What are we missing?” Schaefer mused. “What are we missing?”

  He and Mathers concentrated on the images, scouring them for clues. Satyrs, Latin inscriptions, pentagrams, a blur of signs and symbols, and then Schaefer saw it. Four images, two from the house, two from the tower block. He pulled them out of their rows and set them together to form a rectangle. Where the four photos joined, what seemed like disparate, incomplete symbols in each one became a coherent, complete insignia; the familiar mandala of the Collective. But this one was different; it had text written within the circle that surrounded the three overlapping triangles.

  “Do you see it?” Schaefer asked Mathers.

  The bookseller nodded, as he read the Latin text.

  “The Summoning of Carmichael. Fifth word,” Mathers said excitedly. He hurried over to one of the large bookcases in his office and searched the shelves.

  “What is it?” Schaefer asked.

  “The Summoning of Carmichael is an old book of black magic,” Mathers replied. “Those fearing persecution by the Inquisition would conceal the true darkness of their books by burying their meaning within a broader text. Fifth word is an instruction to read every fifth word. Ah, here we are.”

  Mathers pulled a small, leather-bound book from the bookcase and returned to the desk. He put on a pair of white fabric gloves and opened the unassuming tome. The yellow-brown paper was bone dry, and the hand-inscribed ink faint with age. The book’s title page offered no author’s name, but featured the image of a malformed demon with its tentacle-like arms wrapped around a young boy. The boy looked into the hideous creature’s eyes with an expression of love and respect. Mathers moved on, and turned to the first page of text. He began to translate the Latin, falteringly at first, and then more fluidly
as he grasped the rhythm of the encoded message.

  “The … constraints … of human life can be … defeated. For those … willing to tread … the dark path, death is not absolute. For those that can find her, Astranger can teach the secret of recurrence. Only by following the tenets of the Collective, and submitting to the will of Astranger can one attain the secret of immortality. Take heed of her instruction on the preparation of an innocent. The transference. The defiance of death. Darkness must reside in darkness. Evil must make its home in evil. Only then can the veil be lifted.”

  Mathers turned the page to reveal an illuminated image of a man lying on a large stone slab. A woman stands on one side of him and an old man on the other. In the old man’s raised hand is a dagger that has two dragons wrapped around its handle.

  “I’ve seen that place,” Schaefer said suddenly. “In a dream.”

  Mathers closed the book and turned to face Schaefer.

  “Thomas,” he said sadly, “You are caught up in a great evil. Legend has it that an ancient queen discovered the secret to immortality. She came to be known as Astranger. It is clear that the Collective regard her as their leader. Her name is only spoken in connection with terrible evil. The utter corruption of good. The destruction of the innocent. If they have taken Amber in her name…”

  Tears filled Schaefer’s eyes as Mathers trailed off. He looked at the bookseller, choked by his emotions. Unable to take the horror, and desperate for revenge, Schaefer nodded at Mathers and headed for the exit.

  “Be careful, Thomas,” Mathers called after him. The horror of what they’d found had marked the bookseller’s voice so that it was cracked and scratched like an old record.

  THIRTY FOUR

  If Amber had been sacrificed, there was no reason for Obsidian to live. Schaefer would avenge his daughter before he handed himself into the police. He drove out to Dalston, to a pub called the Red Lion, where he knew of a man who sold guns. The mention of a few underworld names who would vouch for Schaefer, and the exchange of money and Schaefer left in possession of a CZ75 pistol. Hundreds of thousands of the old Czech guns had flooded out of Eastern Europe, making it a common but effective weapon.

  By the time Schaefer arrived in Streatham, the afternoon sun was hanging low. He parked on Hilldown Road and walked towards the First Church of the Eternal Light. The front door was open, but Schaefer was surprised to find no one outside. He clasped the pistol, which was concealed in his jacket pocket, as he entered the building. The lobby was also deserted, and all signs of the previous night’s mayhem were gone. Schaefer could hear the sound of chanting coming from the auditorium, and stepped towards the double doors that led into the theatre. He inched one open, slowly and quietly and saw forty or so men stood facing the stage. They stood in a large open space were the stalls had once been and were all in some kind of trance. They were chanting softly in Latin. On stage, disfigured Obsidian ministered the ceremony. He sat in an ornate, gilt chair and read Latin incantations from a large book on a lectern. Schaefer stepped forward and quietly closed the door behind him. He moved towards a pillar and took up a firing position. He lined Obsidian in his sights and steadied his aim.

  A sound. Behind him. Schaefer turned and saw four men upon him. A baseball bat caught him in the face. The sound of a wild gunshot, as everything went black.

  *

  Life was catching up with him. The slightest movement triggered tremendous pain. Schaefer came round to a stabbing pain in his neck. The complex web of ligaments had been twisted and torn by the force of the baseball bat’s blow, and the gentle slap Obsidian delivered to rouse him caused the nerves in his neck to signal searing pain. Schaefer snapped back to the misery of life, the agony making him even more alert than usual. He found himself on the stage, with Obsidian’s disfigured face directly in front of him. Two sets of strong hands holding his arms, and a third on his shoulders, keeping him on his knees. Behind Obsidian, a mass of faces, some of which he recognised from the previous night – battered and bruised, eyeing him with the satisfied anticipation of impending vengeance.

  “Thomas, you do not disappoint,” Obsidian said, his voice distorted by his missing teeth and swollen lips. “You came back exactly as he said you would.”

  Schaefer ignored the pain and tried to get to his feet, but the heavy hands pushed him down and someone delivered a punch. Schaefer heard a cry, and realised it had come from him.

  “What did you do with my daughter?” Schaefer asked through the agony.

  “We give thanks to the great darkness,” Obsidian announced to his congregation.

  “We give thanks,” the men replied in unison.

  “What did you do to her?” Schaefer asked again.

  Obsidian drew close, “It is not your daughter you should be concerned about; her fate is sealed. You should turn your thoughts to your ex-wife and your son.”

  Schaefer’s stomach dropped into a pit of despair as the terrible significance of Obsidian’s words took hold.

  “What have you done to them?” Schaefer demanded.

  “Did you think you could invade the sanctity of my church and go unpunished?” Obsidian countered. “Your fate is ordained, Thomas. As is theirs.”

  “I’ll kill you,” Schaefer yelled. He struggled against the men holding him. Pain coursed through his body, but it only served to agitate him further. Suddenly there was another punch, this one a hammer blow to Schaefer’s skull that sent him spinning to the edge of consciousness. Somewhere in the distance he heard Obsidian’s voice saying, “Take him to them.”

  Schaefer felt himself flying. Hands lifted him, but he was no angel; his feet remained connected to the mortal, imperfect ground and dragged along behind him as he was carried onwards.

  Remember this.

  Those words. Those painful words came unbidden and tormented him in his hazy, painful dream. He had failed, and his failure was about to be visited upon the only two people left in his life who he truly loved. They would suffer at the hands of evil men … Snap out of it!

  The voice in his head was insistent.

  Save your pity for later. Wake up!

  There was no room for negotiation. Schaefer recognised the uncompromising tone that had driven him on in the face of insurmountable adversity for years. It was the rock solid core of determination that forced him to do things others would balk at.

  Schaefer came round to find himself being carried down a set of dark, dank stairs into a miserably lit, derelict corridor. Schaefer could hear footsteps behind him, but was unable to see who or how many followed. He was dragged into the monochromatically tiled men’s toilets where a huge man with a machete stood in front of Sarah and Oliver. His wife and son cowered in the corner of the room, and huddled together against the black and white tiles. Terror, shock and the horrible realisation that they were in real danger were all writ large upon their wide-eyed faces. They looked over as Schaefer was dragged towards them. Schaefer saw that his son was crying.

  “Tom,” Sarah said, her quivering voice betraying her fear.

  “The Collective took your daughter, Thomas,” Obsidian said, leaning over Schaefer’s shoulder. “Now we have the rest of your family, Papa Boya will grant us the gift of eternal life.”

  Schaefer could feel the man’s hot breath against his ear. He looked up and held Sarah’s gaze. Full of despair, his ex-wife’s eyes told him everything he needed to know – he had to get their son out of that room. Sarah was counting on him. This was going to hurt, but Schaefer was no stranger to pain, and consoled himself with the knowledge that his pain would be a shadow of theirs.

  Schaefer brought his foot up and kicked down with all his force, snapping the shin of the man to his left. The screaming man tumbled to the floor and let go of his arm, which allowed Schaefer to swing his left fist into the face of the man on his right. Ignoring the searing pain, Schaefer snapped his head back into the nose of the man directly behind him. Someone tried to grab him, but Schaefer had already moved out of reach. H
e sprinted towards the huge man with the machete, who turned to face him. The machete whistled through the air. Schaefer dropped to his knees and slid along the tiled floor. The wild slash had caused the huge man to overbalance, and there was nothing he could do to protect himself from the punch that Schaefer delivered to his groin. As Machete doubled over, Schaefer jumped up and drove his forehead into the man’s chin. The blade clattered to the floor, as the huge man fell. Schaefer picked it up, and in one fluid movement turned to confront those behind him. Obsidian rushed forward, closely followed by the three men who had dragged Schaefer into the toilet. The machete was a slashing weapon, engineered to hack through thick jungle. Schaefer put it to good use, and swung at Obsidian, who tried to back away. He was too slow, and the blade sliced through his left forearm, which had been raised in a protective gesture. Obsidian’s hand fell away just below the wrist, and the screaming man dropped to the floor clutching the gushing stump. Schaefer could hear Sarah and Oliver screaming behind him, but had to ignore their cries – the three men closing in on them needed to be dealt with. There was a new hesitancy to the men’s movements as they considered their screaming leader and the bloody blade in Schaefer’s hands. Schaefer didn’t wait. He rushed forward, slashing with determined clarity at the men’s legs. One of them lost some fingers in a vain effort to fend off the blow, but within moments all three were lying on the floor clutching at terrible wounds in their legs.

  “Come on!” Schaefer yelled at Sarah and Oliver. He grabbed Sarah’s hand and pulled her forward. She held on to Oliver, and the three of them hurried from the toilet. Schaefer could hear footsteps coming down the stairs, attracted no doubt by the chorus of screaming men.

  “This way!” Schaefer said, pulling Sarah and Oliver away from the stairs. There was terror in their eyes, and Schaefer knew they had one chance at escape. After what he’d done to Obsidian and his men, recapture would be an ugly and horrific experience for the three of them. Schaefer pulled his ex-wife and son along the corridor towards a dark, unlit area. He slowed, trying to give his eyes time to acclimatise to the darkness.