before she was eaten up by the night mist. She didn’t look back.
The village of Elldale was a sombre scattering of cottages constructed from Derbyshire stone; it boasted only two street lamps that failed to puncture the night. Not a single light burned in any of the cottages looming darkly out of the mist, which appeared to absorb all sound. Not that there was a great deal to hear. Beyond the single road that connected the cottages and ran like an artery through the village there were only high, heather-strewn hills criss-crossed by miles of dry-stone walls.
She approached Pipistrelle’s cottage cautiously. As far as she could tell there wasn’t any sign of parked cars near it. The place was in darkness, but that wasn’t unusual given that most of the time the curtains were drawn against the sunlight. At night, sometimes, he had been known to open the curtains to let in the moonlight. She skirted the high trees that surrounded the cottage, flinching at seeing the darting, ghostly forms of bats flitting in and out of the branches. She headed for the rear of the cottage, drawing the gun and crouching low. She could smell wood smoke and came across the still-smouldering pile of ash in the centre of the garden, a wheelbarrow close by, smashed pieces of computer motherboards nearby. She guessed immediately what he’d been doing; he must have been really spooked to have been driven to destroying everything, all his books, his notes, his life’s work.
The rear door that led directly into the small kitchen was ajar. She paused beside it, ear close to the opening, listening intently. Her left hand reached out, pushed open the door very slowly, her breath held till it became painful. This doesn’t look good, she thought, glancing quickly behind her to make sure no one was sneaking up on her. But all was deathly quiet and still, the mist swirling languidly over the darkened garden.
‘Come on in,’ said a voice that made her start. A light clicked on in the kitchen and she jumped back in alarm. ‘I know you’re there, Caroline.’
She hesitated, then kicked open the door violently, rushing inside at a crouch the gun held out in two hands before her. A man was sat on a chair, his feet up on an old pine table in the centre of the room.
‘Such theatrics,’ the man observed calmly.
‘What have you done with him?’ she demanded firmly. ‘Where is Pipistrelle?’
‘He’s alive, I can tell you that much. But for how long depends upon you.’
‘He’d better be!’ she warned, moving closer, covering him with the gun.
The man held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘I’m not armed,’ he admitted. ‘You can frisk me if you like.’ He gave a smirk. He had icy blue eyes that marked her as she came forward.
‘And who the hell are you?’ she asked. She noticed a mobile phone on the table.
‘I’m Gabriel.’
It was her turn to scrutinise him. He looked to be in his thirties, had all the appearance of a man who relied more on muscle that intellect, but she knew that could be deceptive.
‘Just for the record,’ she said, ‘you’re not half as attractive as the old Gabriel.’
‘Just for the record, I’m twice as alive,’ he said. He indicated the phone with the flat of his hand. ‘I need to make a call.’
‘Where is Pipistrelle?’ she urged.
‘The reason for the call,’ he said. ‘May I? It’s in your interest.’ She nodded and he picked up the phone. ‘She’s here.’ His voice was unruffled, his movements unhurried, cool and deliberate. He put the phone back onto the table. ‘So, you want to see him?’
‘Don’t mess with me.’
‘We’ve got a bit of a hike. I hope you’re wearing sensible shoes.’
‘Cut the crap and take me to him,’ she ordered. ‘If you’ve done anything to harm him you’ll pay for it.’ She watched him closely as he slid his feet off the table. ‘Keep your hands where I can see them,’ she warned.
‘I bet you say that to all the boys!’ He went to the door, the gun covering him all the way. ‘Follow me.’
At the door she lunged forward and grabbed him by the neck, putting the gun to his temple.
‘Hands against the wall, legs splayed!’ she said, her eyes wide, a fleck of spittle flying out to land on his cheek. ‘One wrong move, just one, and I’ll take the side of your skull out!’
He did as he was told. She started at the top of his body, moving swiftly down to his legs. She made a point of bringing the gun up hard between his legs so that it crashed heavily against his balls. He flinched and gave a tiny groan.
‘Was that really necessary?’ he said, trying not to screw his face up in pain.
‘I was making sure you weren’t packing anything solid in there. Turns out you weren’t.’
He gave a sneer.
They went out into the cold night air, the mist beginning to thicken perceptibly. In a few minutes they reached the edge of the village and took a narrow country path that headed off into nowhere, rising steadily upwards.
‘So who are you with?’ she asked, keeping a close eye on his back, watching his hands by his side.
‘God,’ he returned, and meant it.
‘Does God pay well?’
‘I get by,’ he said. ‘The true rewards will come later.’
The path now began to rise steeply. They walked for some time till they reached a style and he clambered over, waiting for her to do the same. The track on the other side disappeared into a faintly luminescent mist.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked, realising they were headed up a considerable hill.
‘This is Mam Tor,’ he replied. ‘Apparently they say it’s one of the most accessible of the peaks, but I guess that depends which way you climb it. Not going too fast for you?’ he said with a leer.
‘Keep the jibes to yourself,’ she said, ‘or I’ll ram this gun down your throat.’ Visibility was now limited to but a few craggy yards. Her senses honed sharp she detected an overwhelming sweet smell of wet heather. ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘what kicks do you really get out of all this? Why the Church of Everlasting Shit and not Al Qaeda or some other fucked-up bunch of religiously motivated thugs?’
He laughed and it sounded dull and faraway in the mist. ‘Other people are just too self-serving. We work for the good of God’s creation. The others are products of Satan’s desires, though they may believe otherwise, because they are fooled by him. He threatens to destroy, we seek to restore, and that’s the difference.’
‘To wipe the world clean as if it were a computer hard-drive. Restore it to its factory settings.’
‘Crudely put, but if it helps you understand these things.’
‘You can’t really believe all that shit Doradus spouts, surely? You really think there’s a place for your kind in this New Eden? You’re being used like everyone else. You’re no better than a bunch of mindless Moonies without the weddings.’
‘If that’s supposed to tempt me from the True Path I’d forget being a missionary and stick to your day job,’ he said sardonically. ‘If you had one.’
‘Yeah, well, one wrong move from you and I’ll show you where the True Path really is. How far?’
‘Quite a distance yet.’
‘Why here? Why Mam Tor?’
‘Because Doradus wishes it,’ he said, as if she were stupid to question it.
They clambered steadily uphill along the snaking, narrow track till the ground started to level out, and not soon enough, thought Caroline. The air was decidedly chillier, the mist being shifted along by a stiffening breeze. Something dark and squat loomed menacingly out of the gloom and she realised it was a stone cairn marking the summit of Mam Tor. Some yards beyond this marker another barely recognisable form emerged.
‘That’s far enough,’ she said, and the man stopped dead in his tracks.
‘She’s here, Camael,’ the man called.
Caroline squinted against the dark, her eyes looking furtively around her. She took a step or two closer. The mist thinned and the shadowy blob separated out into two distinct figures. Charles Rayne was on his knees, his head bowed, and all but naked save for his underpants. He was shivering uncontrollably. Behind him a tall, lean figure became visible, a deathly pale face framed by long, dark hair.
‘I’d be very careful, Caroline,’ said Camael. ‘Little more than two yards to your left, and a mere three feet from my right, there’s a drop of a few hundred feet. You wouldn’t want to lose your footing, would you?’
