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  He continued his vigil until finally, tiredness got the better of him, and he was forced to collapse onto the old mattress he used as a bed. Unable to sleep, he lay staring up at the cracked ceiling, hands clasped behind his head, trying to comprehend what was happening. His thoughts turned to his friend, Neil Henderson, who lay buried in the grounds of St Anthony’s Church. Dead like the rat. Correction—like the rat had been. Was this what the voice’s wanted from him, to charm the dead back to life? If so: why, and for what purpose?

  Later that night he stole himself to return to the shed, only to discover that the rat had gone.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  McGrath lay on the matted floor, breathing hard, his mind fogged from physical exertion. Having already jogged from his house in Earl’s Road to Grant’s Park and back, a total of five miles, he was taking a short breather before continuing with his daily workout. He saw physical fitness as being no less important now than during his service with the SAS, when peak physical condition was a prerequisite to keeping one’s job.

  The room he occupied, a converted basement, contained a multi-gym, free weights and a bench press. There was also a speedball and a heavy-duty punch bag he regularly worked out on. The former was good for keeping reflexes sharp whilst the latter helped build strength and stamina.

  By the door lay a discarded Bergen containing half a dozen bricks weighing about forty-five pounds, which he carried on his runs. The weighty rucksack helped keep the back strong and worked the legs harder. This was how he ran in the SAS, and old habits died hard.

  A sturdy electronic safe containing mementos from his military career squatted in one corner, which included a Swiss Army knife he’d used during the Iraq war, and a lethal looking jungle knife called a golak he’d picked up in Borneo years ago. Also under lock and key was an illegal snub-nosed handgun, a gift posted to him from overseas by one of his SAS buddies who’d gone to live in the States after leaving the regiment. The vet’s name was Frank Riley. He and McGrath shared a mutual passion for guns, Frank’s favourite being the 9-millimetre Browning high powered pistol originally used in the Gulf war, while McGrath favoured the classic snub nose Smith & Wesson Model 60, arguing it had more character than the semi-automatic. The snub nose in the safe was a Taurus Model 85 CH, the CH standing for “concealed hammer”, which Frank reckoned was the best little snubby McGrath was ever likely to see. Weighing in at twenty-one ounces, with a two-inch barrel and total length of six and a half inches, the Taurus was a combat snubby designed for close range work and contact shooting. McGrath should have handed the five shot cylinder gun, together with the ammo that accompanied it, into the relevant authorities in accordance with the gun laws imposed following the Dunblane massacre of ’96, but failed to do so, worried awkward questions might be asked.

  A firearms expert who could hit a twelve inch target at 600 yards without a telescopic sight, McGrath hoped one day to test the Taurus down at the local gun club to see if Frank’s assessment of the weapon was correct.

  The five-minute rest period over, McGrath sprang to his feet; donned boxing gloves and got to work on the heavy bag, pounding it with a succession of hooks, jabs and uppercuts, intermittently delivering power kicks hard enough to incapacitate the toughest of adversaries. McGrath was an accomplished kick boxer who had fought in numerous martial arts contests. On one occasion whilst stationed in the Iraq he was pitched against a Samoan. The Samoan was a Para and built like a gorilla. As the bell rang for the first round, the Samoan dropped McGrath with an illegal head butt that broke his nose. The ref turned a blind eye. There was big money on the Samoan to win. McGrath recovered, and went onto win the bout using speed and accuracy to beat his cheat of an opponent into bloody submission in the third round. McGrath valued work outs on the heavy bag greatly for it helped keep his fitness at a reasonable level, and allowed him to release pent-up aggression. By the time the ex-soldier had finished working on the bag he was buzzing. He finished off with a quick work out on the multi-gym before completing two hundred sit-ups.

  A healthy tiredness coursed through his body as he stripped off and used a towel to wipe himself down in front of the floor to ceiling mirror. He was of average build—the SAS preferred normal looking blokes opposed to robotic beef cakes that stood out like sore thumbs—with a lean muscular physique and a six pack a twenty year old would be proud of. He intended never to lose it unlike Wilkinson who no longer trained and was cursed with an unflattering paunch. McGrath had originally applied for selection to the Special Air Services because he wanted to be the best. He still did.

  Following five minutes of stretching to finish off the session he left the gym to go upstairs where he showered and shaved. The phone rang as he entered the kitchen to prepare breakfast. The fact it was barely 6.30am gave him cause to believe another catastrophe might have struck the West Arnos Square to Northwalk underground line.

  “McGrath speaking,” he announced into the mouthpiece.

  “Ah, g-good morning, Mr. McGrath,” said a hesitant male voice. “May I apologise for disturbing you so early in the day. Unavoidable I’m afraid. I would have waited till a more reasonable hour, but circumstances unfortunately wouldn’t permit. This is Steve Hanks, by the way.”

  “And who might Steve Hanks be?” McGrath inquired.

  “City Hall Security sir: we received a call from a lady by the name of Kate Marshall. She asked that you be contacted. Said it was urgent: connected with the underground accident: could you meet her down there a.s.a.p.”

  McGrath was perplexed. “Do you happen to know what it’s about?”

  “No sir. I’m afraid not.”

  “Why didn’t she call me direct if she has such important news?”

  Steve Hanks said, “Apparently, your mobile was switched off and she didn’t have your home number. Unfortunately City Hall isn’t allowed to give out private numbers of employees, so she requested I pass on a message. She tried last night: unfortunately my colleague wasn’t so obliging.”

  “You have no idea why she wants to speak to me?”

  “No sir. She just said to tell you that she’s at the underground, and could you meet her there.”

  McGrath groaned. “Okay Steve Hanks, message received, over and out.” He placed the receiver back down on the kitchen table, quickly switched off the oven grill and then phoned Kate’s mobile number, but she either had her phone switched off or was out of range, which made sense if she was already down in the underground. He dressed quickly, hoping that she had a good reason for disrupting his day.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The area was a hive of activity when he arrived. Within its shadowy confines workmen went about their business amid industrial scaffolding and heavy machinery. McGrath failed to spot Kate at first. She was just inside the tunnel remonstrating with one of the construction foremen.

  “What seems to be the problem?” he asked looking from one to the other.

  “Best ask her,” said the foreman and stormed off.

  Kate forced a welcoming smile and extended a hand, which McGrath shook automatically.

  “Thanks for coming so promptly,” she said, businesslike. She was wearing faded denim jeans, a donkey jacket and leather ankle boots. Her hair, mostly hidden beneath a safety helmet, was tied back in a practical ponytail. McGrath thought she looked about eighteen: a very pretty eighteen. Her femininity seemed completely at odds with the harsh backdrop of their surroundings. They regarded each other in silence, McGrath waiting for her to explain why she needed to see him so urgently, while she was at a loss to know where to begin. If the truth were known she found McGrath intimidating. He was a handsome man with a probing stare that made her feel strangely vulnerable.

  “What’s it to be?” he said when she failed to speak. “Are we to stand here staring idiotically at one another all day, or shall we attempt the age old art of conversation?”

  She felt herself blush. Did the guy have to look at her so intently, as if he was reaching into her mind, readi
ng her thoughts? She finally managed to find her tongue and explained that the Home Office had agreed to allow the Archaeological Society to continue excavating within the underground indefinitely, or until such time the Church gave its authority for the Society to excavate from within the grounds of St Anthony’s Church. “Hence the reason for the rude awakening,” she concluded. “I take it the call did wake you?”

  “As a matter of fact it didn’t,” McGrath said. “I’m an early riser.”

  Looking towards the tunnel entrance, she said, “As you can see, your workforce took precious little notice of yours truly when I informed them of the decision.”

  “Quite right too,” McGrath said obstinately, before heaving a sigh of resignation. “I presume you have some kind of written authority to back up what you say?”

  From her coat pocket Kate produced a faxed letter written on official Home Office stationery, the contents of which were brief and to the point. McGrath quickly scrutinised it, and handed it back. Their fingers brushed unintentionally and Kate experienced a shiver of—what exactly? Excitement, arousal, or was it a little of both?

  “Very well,” he was saying, “You win, at least this time.”

  “It isn’t a battle,” she pointed out, returning the letter to her pocket.

  “It seems that way to me.” McGrath started to move past her, but she restrained him by the forearm. “Listen,” she said, looking towards the tunnel.

  The underground was silent. It seemed work had come to a stop without intervention. They reached the tunnel entrance just as two men emerged from it, one supporting the other. The one being supported looked more shaken than injured.

  “What happened?” McGrath asked.

  “This guy needs a seat,” the helper said, leading his charge up the steps to the platform and over to a bench. The casualty spoke. “Up in the tunnel roof—more bodies.” His voice trembled. Plainly he was in a deeply distressed state. “One moment there was nothing there, the next there’s a bloody face staring down at me. Nearly gave me a heart attack, it did.”

  “You mean a skull,” McGrath said.

  “I mean a face,” the man insisted. “I saw it with my own eyes. And what’s more, the bloody thing spoke to me!”

  McGrath and Kate exchanged looks, both thinking the same thing, that the man must have hallucinated.

  “And what did this face tell you?” McGrath asked, humouring him.

  The man failed to answer. Shock seemed to be taking hold. McGrath tried one more time, before finally giving up. Instructing the other man present to get the casualty over to the medical room, he jumped down from the platform with Kate following quickly on his heels. They wound their way along a track strewn with minor debris and into the tunnel where more rubbish littered the floor, and where the construction team had gathered at the foot of a scaffold tower. All eyes were directed upward at the damaged roof. McGrath observed three men standing on a platform elevated high above, and climbed up to join them. It quickly became apparent why work had stopped. A skull protruded from the thick clay earth. Nearby a skeletal hand poked accusingly from the soil. “What gives?” he asked. One of the men replied, “We don’t really know. What would you suggest we do next, Mr. McGrath?”

  “The operation stops,” he said simply.

  Unaware of the existence of the Home Office letter, the man accused him of overreacting.

  “It’s official,” he explained, “orders from the powers that be. We have no choice in the matter. The bone diggers take priority at the moment.” He gazed at the partially unearthed skull. Black empty eyeholes stared back at him. Who the hell were you he wondered. The skull seemed to grin in silent answer. McGrath felt the temperature drop unaccountably. For a brief moment he thought he heard sounds, like voices. He refused to listen. He looked again at the skull.

  “You feel it too, don’t-cha, Mr. McGrath?” It was one of the workmen. “Feels like it’s watching you, don’t it?”

  The man was right, McGrath thought unwillingly. The bones looked sinister. He suddenly noticed something else in the soil, higher up in the aperture.

  A powerful flashlight was trained at the spot. Something glinted dully within the earth. A man to McGrath’s right used a hop up platform to reach whatever was buried there, engaging a trowel to free the object. It turned out to be another of the strange crucifix/daggers. Everyone stared. McGrath gazed into the dark void above wandering what else was up there. The exposed skull was like a sentinel guarding a grisly secret.

  The sound of activity came from below. The archaeological team had arrived, their number totalling maybe a dozen, with Professor Carrington and Chrichton leading the troop. They had with them an assortment of digging equipment. McGrath relieved his colleague of the dagger/crucifix and descended the ladder. He ordered his workmen to down tools and make their way directly to the ticket platform for a debriefing. Kate joined him.

  “Take this,” he said, placing the crucifix cum dagger in her hand. She made a brief study of the artefact, noting it was the same as the others found in the aperture. She cleaned it using a cloth and handed it to Carrington for safekeeping. The professor looked at McGrath. “Shouldn’t your men have vacated this area by now?”

  McGrath reminded him that London Underground Limited would continue to have a presence in the underground, regardless. “We can proceed with work outside of the aperture,” he explained. “Besides which, we have an obligation from a safety point of view. My people won’t interfere. They will however, make sure safety procedures are observed as much for your own sakes as anything else.”

  “We’re quite capable of taking care of ourselves,” Chrichton argued.

  “That being the case,” McGrath said, eyeing certain members of the archaeological group critically, “you might like to explain why half your number is without safety helmets.”

  Without waiting for an answer he walked off along the track at a brusque pace. Kate called him back. When he didn’t respond she hurried after him.

  “Will you wait!” she called again, clearly irritated.

  This time McGrath paused to allow her to catch up.

  She recovered her breath and apologised for the breach in safety regulations, promising it would not happen again. “Please rest assured, my people do know what they’re doing,” she concluded.

  McGrath looked unconvinced. “You do realise,” he said, “that excavation from below ground presents a safety hazard in itself? Even exploratory excavation is uncertain. Get someone up on that scaffolding who doesn’t know what they’re doing and it could be disastrous.”

  “We’ll be careful,” Kate assured. “Hopefully, you and your men won’t be inconvenienced for long. As soon as we get the go ahead from the Church, you’ll be able to resume work.”

  “Famous last words,” McGrath said glibly.

  Kate was thoughtful.

  “Something else on your mind?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Remember me telling you about the burial ground discovered in France?”

  “I remember,” McGrath said.

  “Well, the people who heard the voices suffered psychological problems.”

  “What kind of psychological problems?”

  “They became psychotic. In a number of cases they murdered friends or family mem

  bers. Most worrying of all is the fact that having killed their victims they then crucified them.”

  McGrath recalled the incident involving Bill Robinson.

  “They did so,” Kate went on, “in the misguided belief that their victims would be resurrected to eternal life. The town authorities were concerned enough by the incidents to have the burial site filled in, believing it exerted an unholy influence.”

  “Are you suggesting we may have a similar problem here?” McGrath asked.

  Kate glanced towards the tunnel. “The crucifixes that have been discovered in the roof,” she said concernedly. “They were also found in the French burial pit. A strange coincidence don’t you think, in light
of what’s been happening since the present one was unearthed?”

  2.

  Inside the tunnel, the first member of the archaeological team reached the top of the tower, closely followed by others including Chrichton, who worked industriously with a trowel and stiff bristled brush to wrestle the skull free from the earth. Assisting him was a student from the local university and an amateur archaeologist, while two other members of the team sought to unearth the bones that made up the skeletal hand.

  Eventually, the skull was loosened revealing more of the cranium: the parietal and occipital bones of which were damaged in a manner suggesting hefty blows had been dealt precipitating death. At first glance it reminded Chrichton of the skulls unearthed at Towton, all of which had received violent blows delivered by blade, axe and dagger. He pondered whether or not the occupants of this grave had died in an undocumented battle, or were executed following bloody conflict as he suspected those in the grave at Towton had been?

  As he wrested it from the earth he thought he heard someone call to him. The voice was a soft murmur. With surprise he realised that it came from the earth above. Others quickly joined it to form a morose lingering chorus. Chrichton listened, captivated.

  And then someone said, “Let’s get these objects back to the Foundation shall we?” and the spell was broken, almost.

  As the artefacts were transported to ground level, lowered by means of a container attached to a winch, which held sway at the side of the tower, Chrichton’s focus of attention once again came to bear on the aperture in the roof.

  He began to smile.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN