‘Yes, Master.’
Thuribles of incense swing behind him, slowly releasing their sweet and spicy aromas. The Henge Master spreads his arms again. ‘Bring him who wishes to Follow to the Slaughter Stone.’
Gideon is led through the ring of candles into the circle. He remembers Draco’s warning to keep his eyes averted from the Master. Before him is the terrifying slab they call the Slaughter Stone. He freezes. Unseen hands push him to his knees and then to the floor, securing his wrists and ankles. Fear runs wild inside him.
‘Do you believe in the power of the Sacreds and all who follow them?’
Gideon thinks of his father lying in this exact spot. Chained as he is now. About to have his blood spilled so his son might escape the agonising death suffered by his wife.
The Master raises his voice, repeats the question. ‘Do you believe in the power of the Sacreds and all who follow them?’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘Do you trust unquestionably and unhesitatingly in their power to protect, to sustain and to heal?’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘Do you dedicate your life to their service?’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘And do you swear upon your life and the lives of all members of your family and those you hold dear never to speak of the Craft outside of your brotherhood unless given permission to do so?’
‘Yes, Master.’
Members of the Inner Circle swing their thuribles over him and then step away. The Henge Master produces the stone blade that was fashioned from the first trilithon. ‘I draw the human blood, flesh and bone in the hope that you will accept him as one of your servants and will afford him your protection and blessings. Sacred Gods, I humbly beg you to find a space in your affections for our brother.’
He slashes a deep cut from each of Gideon’s wrists up to his shoulders, from each ankle to the top of each leg. Finally, from the neck to the base of the spine. Gideon chokes back a scream. He sees his mother before him, memories of her putting him to bed, kissing him goodnight, smiling at him. Then comes a flash-frame of her in Venice on the film his father made. Then the message she taped for him. The awful secret she revealed to him.
He feels a violent blow to his head. Knows what it is. The brutality of the hammer and the chisel. He hears the Henge Master’s voice far away. Black ness steamrollers him. The only words left ringing in his head are those his mother spoke to him from beyond the grave.
114
Megan uses her hands-free device to call Jimmy from her car as she returns to Devizes. ‘Are you alone?’
‘Give me a sec.’ He steps away from his desk and into the corridor outside CID. ‘I am now.’
‘How did you get on with the check on Sean Grabb?’
‘Good. Security firm were very cooperative. They knew about his previous criminal record, he’d told them. They gave him a chance. Say he’s turned out to be a model employee. Always punctual and to the best of their recollection, he’s never had a day off unless for a holiday.’
‘That’s because he’s never had a day’s illness in his life,’ says Megan. ‘Neither has his father or his grandfather, who lived to be almost a hundred.’
‘Good genes by the sound of it.’
‘It’s more than that.’ She glances at her handbag on the passenger seat. In it are the notes she made when Lillian Cooper finally cracked. ‘Dave Smithsen, our builder friend, has also never been sick. Not so much as a day off school. And it’s the same with Matt Utley, the butcher cum burglar at the Chase estate.’
‘They’re healthy people. What does that prove?’
‘Gideon Chase said the stones had healing powers. Claimed they’d cured him of his childhood cancer and protected people in his father’s cult. Remember how quickly his face healed after the fight with the intruder?’
‘Boss, you’re not from round here but believe me, Wiltshire’s a very healthy place to live,’ says Jimmy, not sure of what she’s driving at. ‘Good healthy stock — no big city pollution, not many fast-food restaurants, lots of country walks and healthy living from when you’re a kid.’
‘Jimmy,’ she interjects. ‘Everyone gets sick sometimes. Food poisoning, hay fever, genetic disorders, whatever. Country air and a walk down a farm lane don’t stop you getting ill or injured. But these people had none of it.’
‘That doesn’t prove anything. My father is strong as a bull and has never been injured or ill to my knowledge. Neither has my mum or me for that matter.’
They both fall silent as they realise the implication of what he’s just said.
115
Megan lets herself into her house, heads straight to the fridge and a half-finished bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. She kicks off her shoes and flops on the sofa, brimming glass in hand. She and Adam are supposed to be having a romantic night. Her parents have taken Sammy so they can go out for dinner and be alone. If ever she wasn’t in the mood for pressured sex, it is now.
She has done a lot of hard thinking on the drive home. About Gideon. About Jimmy. About Jimmy’s father — her Deputy Chief Constable. Jesus.
She hears a key in the door and shivers.
Adam calls her name from the hallway. ‘Meg, you upstairs?’
‘In the lounge, getting pissed.’
He appears in the doorway and smiles. ‘Are you all right?’
She nods, then says, ‘No. Not really.’
He goes to her. She’s clearly tense and he thinks he knows why. She’s worrying. Stressing unnecessarily. ‘Sweetheart, don’t get worked up about tonight. I’m fine if you just want to stay in and watch a movie. We can curl up on the couch, like we used to when Sam was a baby.’
Tears brim in her eyes and now she feels embarrassed. Awkward but grateful.
Adam goes back to the fridge and finds another bottle of wine to top up her glass. He grabs himself a beer as well and goes to sit with her. Sit where he used to sit. The way things used to be.
Megan puts her head on his chest, closes her eyes and starts to cry.
116
Gideon can’t tell if he is regaining consciousness or is still in the middle of a nightmare. Waves of trauma crash in his head. So much pain. So much shock. Torrid images sweep him back and forth like a child in a rolling sea. An underground Stonehenge. Black eyes beneath sackcloth hoods. A giant ring of burning candles. His mother’s face. An ancient stone blade and ceremonial hammer. His father’s diaries. The Henge Master’s raised hands. His naked body chained to the Slaughter Stone. The burning stab of the knife in his wrists and legs and back. The taste of his own blood as it runs into his mouth.
Now he sees a boy. An eight-year-old with dark hair and big hopeful eyes. He is holding the hand of his father and they are standing in a swirling mist in an open field. Stonehenge. Only it isn’t. They are inside a circle of tall, spectral figures. The vaporous shapes keep shifting, becoming wider then stretching thin like smoke rising from lamps in the ground, then gushing higher like black jets of oil, burning red like the fires of hell, turning gold like the strings of some massive harp.
Now Gideon sees only a waterfall of stars. Galaxies of stars pouring into the centre of the henge, swirling in a vast, bottomless cosmic pool. The stars begin to fade. Rocks are falling behind him. Rumbling like an earthquake. The Stone Gods on the edge of the pool are moving, crossing the darkness of his mind. Closing in on him. One grasps his ankle chains. Another lifts the metal restraints around his wrists and then drops his limb like the arm of a rag doll. His heart hammers in his cold, naked body. The giant Gods lean over him. Then they shift. Drift away. Vanish like the mist he remembers around Stonehenge.