Black Cathedral

‘Is he dead?’ Bennett was worried about getting too close.

‘Yes, I think so.’ Jo studied Lomax’s face. The skin was white and pasty, eyes closed, lips clamped together in a thin line. His head was slumped forward, almost touching the flagstones. Tentatively she reached out and touched the stone. ‘It’s solid,’ she said. She inched her fingers forward until they reached the point where flesh and stone merged. There was no gap, not even a millimeter. The join was seamless. ‘This is too weird,’ she said, and then threw herself backwards as Lomax opened his eyes. ‘Jesus Christ!’

The thin line of his mouth split and opened wide. The scream that emerged was deafening and harrowing. And as the scream ended Lomax sunk another six inches into the ground so that only the top half of his head and one hand was visible. Seconds later he disappeared altogether, the flagstones rippling slightly before becoming solid once more.

Jo looked up at Bennett. ‘Mike, this isn’t right. We’ve got to get out of here,’ she said, and tears started to trickle down her cheeks.

Michael Bennett’s face was a pale, frightened mask. He nodded his head in a jerky, marionette-like movement, and helped Jo to her feet.

‘Okay,’ Andrew Johnson said. ‘We need a plan.’

They had gathered together in the bar once more. Both he and Eddie were nursing large vodkas. Jo was sitting in the corner, hands clasped around a brandy snifter containing a large measure of the spirit. She halfheartedly put the glass to her lips but the sickly smell of the brandy made her gag and she lowered it and stood up quickly. ‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ she said and ran from the room.

‘I’ve checked all the phones in the place,’ Johnson said, ignoring the interruption. ‘None of them work. The same goes for my cell. As Eddie said, no network.’

‘So we’ve got no way of contacting the mainland?’ Sheila asked.

‘Not unless you’ve got a radio transmitter stashed in your hand luggage. No, we’re stuffed. So, any ideas?’ He looked from face to face. They all stared back blankly at him. ‘Great,’ he said. ‘Just great!’

Jo Madley wiped her mouth on a paper towel, cupped her hand under the faucet, filled her palm with cold water and splashed it over her face. It helped, a little. She felt hollow inside, as if her guts had been reamed out. She couldn’t rid herself of the image of Lomax, screaming as he sank beneath the patio. She knew the sound of that scream would come to her in the nights ahead, invading her dreams, waking her; and in her dreams she would again see Lomax’s face, contorted in unimaginable agony, his hand flopping uselessly from side to side until it too was swallowed by the ground.

There was a knock at the door. ‘Are you okay, Jo?’

Sheila’s voice jerked her back to reality. ‘Yeah, fine. Just puked, that’s all.’

‘If you need anything…’

‘I’ll call you if I do.’

Actually, being alone in the bathroom was something of a relief. She was wondering now why she’d volunteered for this course. Being holed up on a remote island with a bunch of people she didn’t really care for was not her idea of Heaven. Bennett was all right in a wimpy kind of way, pleasant but harmless. But Andrew Johnson was an asshole, and Eddie Farrant wasn’t much better, content to hang on to Johnson’s coattails and bask in his reflected glory. Of the other two women she preferred Sheila. There was a kind of no-nonsense aura around her that commanded respect. Casey, on the other hand, was a fairly weak character with no hard, firm opinions of her own, and the possessor of a tabloid mentality who got her kicks from reading about the bedroom exploits of the rich and slightly famous. Jo had nothing in common with her, which made conversation all but impossible.

And then there was her, Jo Madley. Twenty-six, single, fairly pretty, if she looked at herself objectively, but unable to sustain relationships with the opposite sex for little more than a few days. Her problem was that she really didn’t like people very much, and trusted them even less. And that applied especially to men. She knew the fault was with her, and blamed her father who had run off with his secretary when she was just eight years old, leaving her mother to bring up Jo and her two brothers alone. To her credit her mother did a fine job. David, her eldest brother, was now a solicitor, whilst Ian, who was two years younger than her, was a professional pianist, earning his living providing mood music for the diners aboard various luxury ocean liners. If anything it was she who was the underachiever, flitting from one job to another, unable to settle into anything that could vaguely be called a career.

She poured water into her hands again and ran them through her hair, slicking it back from her face. She couldn’t languish in here forever, no matter how tempting it might seem. But she really didn’t want to go back and sit with the others. What she had witnessed on the patio had left her badly frightened. She just wanted to go home.

As she stared at herself in the mirror a movement behind her diverted her attention. The wall was moving, rippling slightly, white tiles starting to buckle and lift. As she watched, one came loose and fell, but instead of crashing to the floor it seemed to float down like tissue paper in an almost endless descent. It finally reached the stone floor and then exploded into a thousand jagged white pieces. But the explosion was silent, gentle.

One by one the tiles dropped from the wall, each taking a balletic eternity to land and smash. In falling they exposed a rough brick wall, russet red and dusty. She turned away from the mirror and went to investigate, her feet crunching over broken tiles. She traced the line of mortar between the bricks with her fingertip. It was powdery, insubstantial, crumbling away under her touch. As she prodded one of the bricks it wobbled slightly. The place is falling apart, she thought.

As if to echo her thoughts, the brick she was prodding slid backwards and fell into the cavity behind the wall. Again, like the tiles, the sound of the brick falling was muffled, as if it had dropped onto a cushion of foam rubber. She peered through the gap left by the brick but could see only blackness. She pressed against the surrounding brickwork and felt it give under the pressure. As more bricks started to tumble, a white hand thrust out through the gap and grabbed her around the throat.

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘She’s been in there for ages,’ Sheila said. ‘I’m going to see if she’s all right.’

‘You only checked ten minutes ago,’ Johnson said, lighting another cigarette and blowing smoke in her direction. ‘Yes, and now I’m going to check again. Or do you have a problem with that?’

Johnson shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’ Sheila glared at him. ‘Don’t worry, I will.’ Asshole! She thought as she walked along the dimly lit corridor to the bathroom. Andrew Johnson was starting to get on her nerves and she wondered now how she had once found him attractive. Thoughts of last year’s Christmas party insinuated their way into her mind and she shuddered at the memories of hurried sex behind the photocopier in the machine room; his hands inside her blouse and down her pan ties; fumbling fingers trying and failing to bring her to orgasm. Her lips wrapped around his…Stop it! Stop thinking about it. She’d been drunk; one too many Tia Marias, and the hangover of a blazing row with her husband, making her act out of character. Andrew Johnson was a chancer, an opportunist whose sexual radar had locked in on her vulnerability. Andrew Johnson was a slug and she forced herself to push him from her mind.

‘Jo? You’ve been ages. Are you sure you’re all right?’ She tapped on the bathroom door again, pressing her ear to the wood, listening for the reply and getting only silence. ‘Jo?’ She curled her fingers around the door handle, ready to turn it. Still nothing. Perhaps she’d passed out. She turned the handle and pushed the door open.

The bathroom was empty. Sheila frowned. Maybe she’d gone back to the bedroom, but it didn’t seem likely given what had happened. This was not the time to be anywhere in this house on your own. She could still hear conversation buzzing in the bar, drawing her back. She closed the bathroom door and hurried back along the corridor.

‘She’s not there,’ she said as she entered the bar.

‘Where is she then?’ Eddie Farrant said. The attention he was giving to his drink showed how deep his concern went.

‘How the hell should I know?’ Sheila snapped. She was beginning to feel real impatience with Andy and Eddie, not to mention the bloody island.