The Messiah Secret

‘Who are you?’ Wendell-Carfax demanded again, his voice made harsh by pain and fear.

The stranger bent down and picked up a leather whip from the floor. It was a handle with about a dozen thongs attached to it, and at the end of each was the glint of steel. He walked across to the suspended figure, stepped slightly behind him and swung the whip at the old man’s back.

The pain was shocking, sudden and overwhelming, a red ribbon of agony that stretched the whole width of Wendell-Carfax’s unprotected back. He howled in pain, his body arcing forwards. He felt a sudden dampness as he lost control of his bladder.

The stranger swung the scourge again, sending a second bolt of pain lancing through the old man’s thin frame. Then he walked back, resumed his seat and waited until Wendell-Carfax stopped screaming.

‘I’ll ask the questions,’ the stranger said, his voice still soft and controlled. ‘The scourge will encourage you to speak the truth, as it has done through the ages.’

Wendell-Carfax nodded.

‘I want the parchment,’ the man said. ‘You know the one I mean.’

‘I don’t have it,’ Wendell-Carfax gasped.

‘Don’t play games with me. I know it’s here. Somewhere.’

‘You don’t understand—’

‘No, you don’t,’ the man said, raising his voice very slightly. ‘I will have that parchment, wherever it is.’ He took two swift strides forward and again swung the leather scourge.

Wendell-Carfax shrieked in pain, then sobbed his agony.

The man stepped in front of Wendell-Carfax again. ‘I can do this all night. The scourge will cut you to shreds unless you tell me what I want to know. Where’s the parchment?’

‘I don’t have it,’ Wendell-Carfax whispered. ‘It’s gone.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It fell to pieces. It was two thousand years old. My father didn’t know how to look after it. It discoloured, then it just fell apart years ago. It’s gone for ever.’

For the first time the stranger’s expressionless face changed. It was as if a cloud passed across his eyes, to be replaced by a kind of cold fury.

‘You stupid, stupid old fool. Didn’t you know what you had in your hands?’

Once more he stepped behind Wendell-Carfax and swung the whip, again and again, the old man’s thin pyjamas turning deep red as the skin of his back split open.

The assault stopped as suddenly as it had begun, leaving Wendell-Carfax dazed and barely conscious, bleeding from dozens of wounds, his back flaring with the agony of ripped skin and torn flesh. Then Wendell-Carfax felt a new pain as a hand grabbed what little hair remained on his scalp and pulled his head up.

‘But you copied it?’ the stranger demanded. ‘Your father must have made a copy of the parchment?’

‘Yes.’ Wendell-Carfax’s voice was slurred and faint, his eyes virtually closed. ‘Yes, he did.’

‘Where is it?’

Wendell-Carfax’s mouth moved but no sound emerged.

‘Where is it? Say that again.’ The stranger stepped closer to Wendell-Carfax, turning his head so that his ear was virtually touching the old man’s lips.

Wendell-Carfax’s eyes flickered open, and in that instant he knew what he should do.

‘It’s . . .’ he began, the words scarcely audible, and the stranger leaned closer still. Then Wendell-Carfax bit down on the stranger’s ear with all the strength he could muster. Blood spurted into his mouth and he felt his teeth meet through the thin flesh.

The stranger howled his own agony. He dropped the leather scourge and jerked away involuntarily and, as the flesh of his ear tore further, the pain reached a new crescendo. He reached up to Wendell-Carfax’s face, trying desperately to force the old man’s jaws apart, but he couldn’t reach, couldn’t get a purchase.

But he had to get free.

He swung his fist, hitting Wendell-Carfax in the stomach, but the blow was badly aimed and weak, and had no apparent effect. So he hit him again, and again, until at last he managed to land a solid punch on the old man’s solar plexus.

Wendell-Carfax gasped with the pain, and his jaw muscles relaxed, allowing the stranger to escape.

‘You bastard,’ the stranger snapped. He grabbed the whip and swung it savagely against Wendell-Carfax’s body, lashing him mercilessly.

But even as the first blows landed, Wendell-Carfax’s face changed. A kind of spasm, a rictus of agony resonated through him, and a sudden gripping, clenching pain exploded in the centre of his chest. And in that instant, at the very last moment of his life, Oliver Wendell-Carfax knew he’d achieved a kind of victory, knew he’d defeated the violent psychopath facing him.

He gasped a breath, grunted once and his head slumped to one side. Finally he hung motionless, his eyes wide open, the grimace on his face slowly softening.

Cursing softly, the stranger stood still, his gaze locked on the body of the elderly man he’d travelled so many thousands of miles to find. Then he shrugged, swung the scourge once more across Wendell-Carfax’s chest – a last, pointless act of violence – before folding it up and putting it into his pocket. He needed to refocus.