October skies

Ben stared down at the white snow, criss-crossed with fresh and dark splatter marks.

‘Now!’ shouted Preston.

Keats turned to face the others. ‘Let’s go.’ Broken Wing nodded, echoing the command to Three Hawks and the other Paiute. They began a slow retreat across the clearing, Hussein and Ben keeping their loaded guns ready, Bowen, McIntyre and Weyland attempting to clumsily pour powder from their horns as they walked backwards, spilling it in dark trails.

‘Save it, you idiots,’ muttered Keats, ‘you’re wastin’ yer powder.’

We’re going to need it, thought Ben.

Ben kept his eyes on Preston and his men. There were more of them mustering, spreading out in a long line, muskets being loaded — the metallic clattering of ramrods and rolling lead shot filling the air.

Shit, they’re going to fire a volley at us.

Ben counted about two dozen of them, spreading out either side of their leader in a scruffy, irregular line that looked chillingly like a firing squad. Ramrods being tucked away, several of the muskets were levelled out ready to fire once more.

‘My God, they’re going to fire!’ Ben cried.

‘Goddamn it, keep moving!’ Keats shouted, turning and breaking from a steady plodding retreat into a jog. ‘Keep moving!’

Most of Preston’s men had levelled their muskets by now and patiently awaited his say so to fire. Instead Preston raised his hands and cupped them around his mouth.

‘Be gone from this place!’ His words echoed off the tree line around them.

As they retreated around the lumpy carpet of snow-covered bones in the middle of the clearing, Keats slowed down, satisfied they were far enough away that most shots would fall wide.

‘We ain’t leaving, folks.’

Ben turned to him. ‘But we have to.’

Keats ignored that. ‘We have work to do — every man, woman an’ child.’

CHAPTER 60

Thursday

Notting Hill, London

Dr Griffith turned the hot water off and settled back in the bath, enjoying the tickle of bubbles against his skin and the soothing sound of water gently sloshed by his movements, echoing back off the expensive granite tiles.

His home was modest; a nondescript terraced house in a quiet mews in a village-like enclave a minute’s walk from Notting Hill High Street. He had considered moving to something more prestigious, but he’d made the place comfortable over the years, particularly his bathroom, on which he’d spent at least fifteen thousand pounds getting it exactly how he wanted it.

He spent a lot of time in there. His asthma, aggravated by the airborne particles of city life, meant every day ended in a hot and steamy bath to settle his chest, his inhaler resting on the soap tray at the side along with the TV remote and his cordless phone.

It would be fair to say this bathroom was the most used room in his home.

He picked up the remote and muted the small plasma TV hanging on the wall and then picked up his phone. Since speaking with Julian earlier in the week and reading further into the journal, there were some more thoughts he wanted to pass on before he got sidetracked with other things.

He dialled and Julian answered almost immediately. ‘Hi.’

‘Hello, Julian it’s Tom. Listen, I thought I’d talk with you a bit more about this story of yours. You got time?’

‘Sure. What’s on your mind?’

‘Well, I’ve read a little more of that journal and I’m increasingly certain that Preston’s a — sticking strictly to medical terminology — a monster. A very dangerous individual capable of, well, frankly… anything.’

‘Yeah, I think we’re both agreed on that.’

‘Anyway, there’s something worth taking a moment to consider here.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Whose toes you might be treading on.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that there may be descendants of Preston’s who might not take too kindly to having their great-great-granddad portrayed as some kind of Charles Manson figure, a serial-killing cult leader who, very likely, murdered his entire parish. You could quite easily find yourself in some legal tangle over there on the grounds of defamation. Apart from anything else, you’ll want to be careful that you define a very clear line between the Church of the Latter Day Saints and whatever Preston was preaching to his people, otherwise you’ll have them on your back pretty quickly. And believe me, they have money to burn on lawyers.’

‘Yes, that’s true.’

‘Seriously. For example, I would be careful in your use of the word “cult” in favour of the word “faith”. There are significant implications over in the States, least of all tax implications, which faith groups will defend with a certain… ferocity. You quite often see that kind of issue being fought aggressively in court by very expensive lawyers on behalf of the Church of Scientology.’

‘Yes, I can do without that kind of hassle.’

‘Something else.’

‘What?’

‘Just something I was theorising about in a column recently.’

‘Go on.’

‘That sociopathic tendencies are a Darwinian strong suit.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning, it’s very likely a hereditary hand-me-down, like being left-handed, artistically inclined, having a musical ear.’