House of the Dead Read online

  ‘Come on, let’s have a look,’ said Tara, waving her phone at the opening.

  ‘Well OK, but go slow, we don’t know how secure this place is,’ responded Neil.

  The corridor they entered was about five feet high, obliging them to stoop, and not much more than three feet wide. Tara felt instantly claustrophobic but it wasn’t enough to dampen her curiosity. The stone walls were again carved and at one remove a large slab, at least ten feet long, had been used instead of the usual large boulders. It was made of slate not sandstone, and on its smooth face a riot of animation had been incised and painted. They stopped in awe, taking in the scene.

  There could be no doubt that the panorama had a highly specific meaning. One part of the surface was intensely pitted with dots and included two larger circles, one of which had radiating lines. To Tara’s eye it read like a skyscape of the stars, moon and sun. Deployed below were a series of quadrilaterals, with parallel lines inside them, and beyond them a series of circles. Could the latter be planets, Tara wondered?

  Examining one area more closely Tara recognised a repeated use of stars, discs, rayed suns and wheel-like figures that seemed to be inflections on a theme, although she had no idea what it might signify. Elsewhere, a mathematical logic was intrinsic to a repeated use of diamond shapes, linked diamonds and nested diamonds. These notations seemed much closer to an active, written language than the simpler, more abstract forms carved elsewhere on the wall stones. Perhaps they were younger?

  Beyond the slab their exploration of the passage ended abruptly. A roof fall blocked their way, comprising a large roof boulder and a chaos of soil and stone, much of it white in colour. It completely filled up the passage.

  ‘Well, there’s your answer,’ said Neil. ‘It’s not safe. We had better go back.’

  Returning to the chamber their phones this time lit up the rear wall of the chamber, which had been at their back previously.

  Tara let out a gasp. ‘Oh my God, look at that!’ Looming up, in the middle of the rear wall, was an enormous circular slab encircled by shiny white stones. In the centre, carved boldly, was the triple spiral motif that she had seen on Cormac’s shield, only this time writ much larger. Interlocking lines joined the three spirals into a single unison, like three entwined creatures. As Tara’s eyes followed the spiralling lines she started to feel dizzy and swayed on her feet.

  ‘Steady.’ Neil’s voice was close and his hand gripped her elbow to support her.

  Tara whispered back, ‘What is this place? What have we stumbled upon?’

  Her voice was low almost as though she feared someone or something might overhear them. It was Neil’s turn to feel spooked.

  ‘Yes, well.... do you feel a bit odd? I think it must be the air down here. It seems thin to me. Let’s just hope the others come soon,’ he said, struggling to sound normal and not addressing Tara’s questions.

  For once Tara was in total agreement with her cautious brother-in-law. Her heart was beating fast with the excitement of discovery, and that thrilled her, but something told her this place could kill them if they were not careful. She wanted to explore more but only with the paraphernalia of modern life to protect her. Being buried alive did not appeal. A gloomy mood overtook them, as they sat down, back to back, and waited for their rescuers to come. To save their battery lives they switched off their phones. The darkness was absolute and immense, only a faint occasional sound testifying to the existence of the upper world. The odd thing for Tara was that the silence had a presence that seemed to be pressing in on her. To her astonishment she found herself spontaneously praying, something she had not done since her mother’s death. It felt as if someone else, or more precisely some inner unknown part of her being, had taken control. Her inner voice prayed for protection from this alien environment and for their safe escape but it wasn’t enough to stem Tara’s rising anxiety. Memories of that other chamber of death, when her deceased mother had been laid out in mourning, flooded her mind. She rooted urgently in her pocket for the anti-panic attack tablets that her doctor had prescribed, and then realised. She hadn’t brought them!

  Chapter 28

  Weris, Belgium, May 2009

  Pascal was back in Weris. He had a piece of business to complete with Lieven. The murder of Le Maitre five years previously had prompted Pascal to renew the link with his childhood friend, who had taken over his father’s farm. Where better to dispose of human remains then at a pig farm? The creatures would devour anything including bones. Lieven had readily cooperated. Leopards didn’t change their spots reflected Pascal. Now he was back at Lieven’s door with another body to dispose of. It was all Jean’s fault; the man was such a fool. A political opponent had decided to run an exposé on Jean’s youthful involvement with a neo-Nazi party. Pascal had ordered Jean to work with Erik to remove the obstacle but Le Vache had dithered. Finally Pascal had intervened himself and slit the opponent’s throat.

  Pascal had pursued his youthful interest in the world of the ancient Celts into adulthood and that was how he came upon Le Maitre and the Celtic Reconstructionists. They were so-called because of their commitment to reconstructing Celtic culture using archaeologically robust evidence. They aimed to reinstate a Celtic world view, but Pascal intended to take matters a step further. He wanted to bring to the task the magical aspects of druidism, acquired from his mother’s strange world of rituals and invocations. It was true that much of druidism was invented mumbo-jumbo, but that didn’t deter Pascal. He knew it had the power to unleash uncharted agencies in the human mind and provide a bridge to the Otherworld. It worked - that was the point. By merging it with the scientific rigour of the Celtic Reconstructionists, he was certain he could use it to acquire dominion over the world around him.

  And that fool Le Maitre had provided the means: the Conference du Renouveau Celtique Internationale, or CRCI for short, was the exactly the sort of vehicle that Pascal needed. The reconstructionists in Europe and North America were so wedded to the notion of authenticity that each group was nationally distinct and autonomous. The genius of the CRCI was that it was the only Celtic Reconstructionist group that was overtly internationalist. It had pooled knowledge and networks without threatening the independence or integrity of its component national organisations. Le Maitre had been a canny operator. In 1968, when everyone else’s eyes were focussed on street politics, he had secured the CRCI affiliation to UNESCO, thereby opening doors to academic respectability and UN funding.

  After Le Maitre’s disappearance, Pascal had bribed and bullied his way into the post of President of the CRCI. It provided him with a public profile, and a veneer of bourgeois respectability, which privately he thought nothing short of hilarious. But it was useful in its way, opening doors that would otherwise have been closed.

  The CRCI was important for a further reason. It housed the Belgian reconstructionist group, the Parti du Renouveau Celtique, or PRC for short, which provided a vehicle for Wallonian separatism. With Le Maitre off the scene, Pascal made sure that Jean Le Vache became its leader, although in reality it was Pascal who pulled the strings behind the scenes. Pursuing a strong anti-immigration line, the party soon had three MEPs to its name, one of whom was Jean. For Pascal the PRC offered a political foothold in the EU and the potential to develop into a multi-national political force in the Low Countries. Pascal could see that even Evrard, his politically astute businessman father, was impressed by his manoeuvrings.

  Pascal’s thoughts returned to the reason he was driving towards the Ardennes. Le Vache was a disappointment to him. Yet again he had failed to show the backbone Pascal needed when it came to the use of violence. But Jean had other skills that Pascal valued. He was a patient administrator with an eye for detail and had a thorough grasp of accountancy. What’s more, Pascal knew he could rely on him. Coming from a deprived lower-middle-class background, Jean was desperate to improve his standing in the world and willing to cut corners to do so. He had started by squirrelling away some ill-gotten gains and
soon built up a respectable image as a worthy burgher in the business circle of Namur, which was where he had first caught Pascal’s attention. On balance, he concluded, Jean’s merits outweighed his shortcomings and, importantly, Pascal had dirt on him that he could use to make sure Jean toed the line.

  Pascal smiled at the thought. What would Monique, Jean’s wife, make of video footage he had of Jean fucking a teenage prostitute at the party he had hosted after they killed Le Maitre? The girl couldn’t have been any older than Jean’s own daughter, then aged thirteen, but that hadn’t held the lecher back. Pascal delighted in such opportunities to deprave others, for he knew that once they had a taste of illicit pleasures the chances were that they would return for more. Then they would be his, part of his clan.

  Chapter 29

  Tipperary, Ireland, 19 June 1649

  A reassuring silence of assent enveloped the magnificent room. Cornelius knew that now was the moment to draw his friends tighter into the Triskell secret and bind them there. It was time to make proper arrangements for the safeguarding of the Triskell and his guests all had key roles to play in accomplishing that goal. So he went straight to the point without further preamble.

  ‘When Saint Patrick first set foot in Hibernia he found in the beliefs of the Gaels much that spoke of the Holy Trinity. That is why these lands so readily embraced Christianity without the need of conquest or coercion. For their part, our monastic forefathers gained new knowledge in return. This concerned the thin places where this world and the otherworld meet and overlap. It also explained to us the revelation of God’s handiwork in the natural world and the journeying of the soul on this earth. This much you already know.’

  His audience nodded. Their adherence to the Celtic tradition in the Church was a core belief that united them.

  ‘A few of the Christians became so trusted by the Gaels that they shared with the Christians their most secret rite. As recounted in legend, this is the rite of Seeing whereby a seer may witness events from the future. The Seeing is an ancient ritual discovered by the Milesians who came to Ireland millennia ago from Galicia. They were a great sea-faring nation and they left mighty stone monuments along the Atlantic seaboard from Iberia up to Dal Riada. Their secret knowledge was passed down the generations, and in time it was entrusted to the Gaels.’

  Cornelius was in a hurry, so he paused only long enough to catch his breath.

  ‘For the Seeing to be possible, a seer was required - a person with a receptiveness of mind that enables them to become a channel for a revelation of the future. And that is why Sister Áine is with us today, for she is blessed with the gift.’

  The nun, a small woman in her thirties, nodded her head in acknowledgement and smiled, her eyes briefly meeting those of the other guests. Cornelius resumed his story.

  ‘The Gaels knew how powerful such a gift was and how men could use it for base and sinful purposes. This is why they never put it in writing. The knowledge could only be passed on by word of mouth and only then to the most trusted of druidic priests. But they did refer to it visually by using a sign of three interlocking spirals, what we now term a Triskell.

  ‘And here we come to the heart of the matter. The Gaels practised the art of forging metal and they created an object, also termed a Triskell, that embodies the power of the Holy Trinity and serves to reveal the Divine Will. By placing a crystal at the central point of this metal device they discovered they could make the vision of the seer visible externally for all present to witness with their own eyes. To work its purpose it has to be the most perfect yellow crystal, the form known to the alchemists as citrine.’

  Cornelius paused, looking up at the window. Clouds moving in from the west were obscuring the sun, casting the room into shadow.

  ‘The Triskell is so powerful, that the Gaels only ever created one of them, or so we are told. It travelled with the Druids around the Celtic lands, under conditions of great secrecy, for use in ceremonies on great Celtic feasts which, as you know, took place at times of astronomical moment such as the equinoxes.’

  Guion opened his mouth to speak but Cornelius commanded silence with a wave of his hand. He had more to say.

  ‘The Triskell was entrusted to Pelagius who intended to share the secret with the Holy Father himself, but he fell from favour and was unjustly condemned as a heretic. So Saint Patrick resolved to hide the Triskell for its own protection. At first it was stored on Skellig Michael off the south-west coast of Cork, but when the Danes attacked there, it was brought to Cashel, where over the centuries the secret has been passed down from Archbishop to Archbishop and the knowledge held safe. It resided there for eight hundred years until the dreadful events of the sacking of that town, two years ago. At the height of the onslaught, and with only seconds to spare, Donovan and I spirited the Triskell to a safe hiding place. And it is with us now in this Castle!’

  He paused for effect, watching with satisfaction the astonishment on his friends’ faces. He waved both hands before him.

  ‘But you have listened enough to me. Let us refresh ourselves with a little wine and some novel fruit bread I have brought for you. Then I will entertain any inquiries that you may have.’

  Chapter 30

  Sligo, Ireland, 15 September 2014

  The outside world burst in upon Tara and Neil in the form of Shay’s booming voice, followed a second later by his considerable bulk descending in upon them in a cloud of dust.

  ‘Jesus, Shay, would you be careful’ protested Neil as Shay’s incoming foot caught him in the side. ‘Do you want to try that again? You missed my head!’

  Shay’s loud laugh shattered the silence of the tomb.

  ‘Fear not, Superman is at hand!’

  There was no doubting that Shay was a man of action and before they knew it two of his friends dropped down alongside them, wielding powerful torches and ropes. Shay placed a protective arm around Tara.

  ‘You rang the right man. Sure we just raided the old man’s place,’ he said referring to the equipment they were using.

  Shay’s father ran a large petrol station, café and general stores on the N4, near the turning for the viewing point for Lough Arrow. It was a goldmine with a turnover that made the Healeys a wealthy family. Shay worked there for his father and, as the eldest son, expected to run the place when his father retired. He had no inkling, Tara discerned at that moment, of ever straying away from his home turf. As he manhandled her roughly to her feet, she felt suddenly repulsed by his combination of brute strength and parochialism and wished he would take his hands off. It was a mean-spirited response and reminded her of the old Tara, the American version, and she disliked herself for it. Not enough, however, to make her want to repudiate the feeling. In that moment of insight she realised that Shay would never understand her and she hated him for it. The sudden viciousness of her sentiments took her aback. It must be my fraught nerves, she thought.

  Distraction was close at hand. Before Tara knew it, she was hauled up and out of the tomb. Although the daylight was already fading – it was gone five p.m. – the light was dazzling compared to the enveloping blackness of the tomb.

  ‘Tara, Tara, you are OK!’

  Aoife hurled herself at Tara, who was delighted, and enveloped her in a hug that seemed to fuse their two forms. Tara was surprised at how pleased she was to see her niece. In many ways Aoife was the most significant companion she had at present. Who would have thought it! Six months ago Tara couldn’t have imagined a mere child playing an important part in her life.

  ‘Of course I’m fine, and just look at you – where did you get that coat?’

  Aoife was sporting a new burgundy coat with a hood, a present no doubt from Brown Thomas, on Grafton Street, courtesy of granddad. On impulse Tara grabbed Aoife by her arms and swung the child around in a circle at chest level. Both of them laughed infectiously. Tara felt truly exhilarated for the first time since the Boston debacle; elated to have found this extraordinary tomb and even more elated to be safely o
ut of it.

  Chapter 31

  Rotterdam, the Netherlands, July 2011

  Evrard de Waverin-Looz gazed out over the city of Rotterdam from the roof garden of his penthouse hotel suite. Freshly showered, he stood wrapped in a luxurious light towelling dressing gown, the night air ruffling the short, wet locks on his head and caressing the hairs on his legs. The July evening breeze had just enough of a chill to it to heighten his senses.

  Behind him a low thud sounded as the hall door to the suite closed upon the swaying hips of his departing escort. He had ordered her through an exclusive agency and she had not disappointed. A tall, heavy-set woman with Mediterranean skin and large brown fiery eyes and generous lips, she had arrived in a brown fur coat, which she had opened to reveal a gold lame wrap dress. That in turn, with a simple flick of a retaining chord, unpeeled to reveal a gold two-piece lingerie set comprising a v-shaped rope thong, that rose high up on her ample brown hips, and a matching tiny bra that just managed to clutch an outsize pair of breasts in its grasp. He had approached her silently, circling appreciatively, admiring the expanses of olive-skinned flesh, before unhooking the bra. Her breasts were marvellous to behold; large mounds that held up well under gravity, surmounted by large broad nipples big enough to suckle a giant. All just as specified, he noted with satisfaction. Cupping a breast in his hand, and closing his eyes, he sucked upon it lasciviously. He felt the woman unzip him and extract his cock from his trousers. Already engorged, thanks to two Viagra tablets, it hardened further at her touch. He marvelled at how a simple medication could strip the years away, making him virile again. The woman on cue fell to her knees, her ample mouth closing upon him, stimulating his tool. After a few satisfying minutes, not wanting to come too soon, he tugged her head by the hair, and withdrew himself. Without uttering a word he grasped her thong and pulled it down to her ankles. She stepped out of the garment and stood naked except for her glossy black, high heeled shoes. Silently and methodically she quickly undressed him. Then, again pulling her by the hair, he indicated to her to turn around. Pushing her forward and over he worked her back entrance, lubricating it with gel. Then guiding his cock with one hand he forcefully entered her, penetrating deeply, relishing the drawing in of her breath each time he renewed the thrust. The tightness of her back passage was exquisitely pleasurable. But he knew the conquest would not be long-lived; he didn’t have the stamina these days. Still, by moving slowly and deliberately, he could make it last as long as he could and it was a few minutes before he shot his load up into her. Grunting in satisfaction he slid off her buttocks and collapsed panting onto the floor. The woman almost immediately got up and, as though he wasn’t there, pulled her clothes to one side and began to dress silently, avoiding any eye contact. He rested on the carpet a few minutes, relishing the sense of release, before he rose and, without a parting glance, headed for the bathroom to shower.