them was another wall with a small gap in it; barely five feet high and three across, it formed a doorway into the last part of the exhibit. The Torture Chamber.
Donna advanced towards it.
There was a red light over the narrow opening. As she waited for Julie to join her, the light bathed her in crimson so that it looked as if she’d been drenched in blood. She looked down into the Chamber and saw that the same inky blackness awaited them. Only the models were lit, but this time by even weaker beams from hidden spotlamps in the low ceiling. This was the only entrance in
Burning out the eyes.
Driving needles beneath the fingernails.
Tearing off the nose with red-hot pincers.
The horrors came thick and fast, vying with each other.
A man being boiled alive in what looked like a massive metal bowl.
A man with a steel ring through his tongue, the ring attached to a metal ball by a chain.
The revulsion Donna felt was tempered by her recognition of the skill with which these monstrosities had been constructed. They were obscenely realistic.
The two women turned a corner and Julie groaned aloud.
THE MURDER OF SHARON TATE proclaimed the plate on the bars of the enclosure that housed one of the most horrendously realistic exhibits in the building.
In front of the tableau a newspaper of the day headlined the slaughter of the Hollywood star and four others by members of the Charles Manson family. The figure of Manson himself, eyes wild, hair flying behind him, watched over the scene. It showed the living-room of the Tate residence with the film star’s killers, armed with knives and guns, and the other people who died with her. Whoever had modelled it had certainly been painstakingly accurate in the depiction, anxious to show that Sharon Tate had been eight months pregnant when she’d been hacked to death, her blood used to write the word PIG on the wall.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Julie whispered, her attention drawn to the vile display.
Donna had her eye on something else.
Further down the corridor another, larger exhibit showed the Spanish Inquisition. It featured several hooded figures and a victim being racked, while another was being hung from the ceiling on chains, his glass eyes fixed on a cowled figure carrying what looked like a set of rusty garden shears. The intention was castration.
Another hooded figure sat at a desk, a book open before it.
A book of Latin phrases. An old book.
Donna looked round frantically for the entrance to the exhibit and found it nearby in the form of a metal door. She opened it and stepped inside, making for the book. She pulled it towards her and flipped it over, looking at the cover.
The crest showed a Hawk.
The cover felt cold and clammy, as if the book had been in a damp hole for months, years even. The pages were stiff with age, some of them split at the edges. Some of the writing was in Latin, the rest in the same quaint script she’d seen in the book in the library in Scotland.
‘Julie,’ she called.
Her sister hurried over.
‘I’ve found it,’ Donna said triumphantly. ‘This is the Grimoire.’
It was then that the hooded figure at the desk leapt to its feet.
The cowl slipped away to reveal the face of Peter Farrell.
Farrell lunged at her, his face contorted in an expression of pure hatred.
His grunt of anger mingled with Donna’s own shout of surprise and Julie’s scream.
Donna jumped back, pulling the book with her, allowing it to fall to the floor with a crash.
Farrell leapt over the desk, not sure which to grab first, Donna or the Grimoire. He launched himself at Donna, who managed to avoid his rush, seeing him crash into the figure holding the castrating irons. An arm broke off and the metal implement went skidding across the dusty floor. Donna snatched it up as she saw Farrell reaching inside his jacket, pulling the .45 free.
She swung the castrating iron with all her force and caught him across the back of the hand, the clang of metal on bone reverberating through The Torture Chamber.
The gun flew from his grasp, but instead of trying to retrieve it Farrell came at her again.
Donna swung the iron again. This time she caught him in the face with it.
The blow split his cheek almost to the bone and blood burst from the wound and ran down the side of his face. Grabbing the book, Donna dashed past him towards the door where Julie was waiting.
‘Get them,’ roared Farrell. As if from nowhere, Ryker and Kellerman appeared from the shadows. Like two spectres rising from the umbra they rose up before the women.
Donna pulled the .22 Pathfinder from her handbag, thumbed back the hammer and fired twice. The first shot carved a path through the shoulder of Ryker’s jacket without touching flesh; the second missed both men and blew the head off the model of Torquemada.
Ryker dived to one side but swung his foot at Donna and managed to trip her.
She pitched forward, the gun falling from her grasp and skittering across the floor. As she hit the ground, she fell on top of the Grimoire.
Ryker leapt on her, trying to wrestle the book from her grip.
Julie kicked out at him, catching him in the groin, but then she felt powerful hands fastening around her throat as Kellerman grabbed her.
‘You cunt,’ he hissed, squeezing until his fingers pressed deep into her windpipe.
White stars began to dance in front of Julie’s eyes; no matter how she scratched at his hands she could not break his grip.
She was helpless, supported by the hands but dying because of them.
Donna pushed Ryker off her and scrambled to her feet, seeing that Farrell was now about to free himself and join the fight, blood pouring down his face. But it was Julie she was concerned with.
Kellerman was tightening his grip on her throat, squeezing until Julie’s eyes bulged madly in their sockets as she fought for breath.
Donna looked around for the gun and saw it. She dived onto the floor, snatched up the Pathfinder and rolled over. She fired once, and more by luck than judgement the bullet hit Kellerman in the shin, just below the left knee. The sound of the pistol was deafening inside the chamber, but even above the roar she could hear the strident crack of splintering bone as the tibia was shattered by the bullet.
Kellerman shrieked and released his grip on Julie, clapping his hands to the wound. Blood ran through his fingers as he crashed to the ground, clutching the ragged hole.
Julie, too, had fallen to the ground, barely conscious. Donna tried to help her up but felt herself grabbed from behind by Ryker.
She pushed herself backwards and both of them went hurtling over the low chain that separated them from the exhibits. Donna landed on top of Ryker, winding him as he took her elbow in his chest. Again the gun slipped from her grasp.
Farrell was out of the cage by now, racing towards Julie, the .45 out and lowered at her.
He grabbed her around the waist and lifted her to her feet, the barrel of the pistol pressed to her temple.
‘No,’ Donna shouted, trying to struggle away from Ryker, ‘leave her alone.’
Kellerman was groaning loudly, his lower leg smashed by the bullet.
