Book of JUDAS

Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Sutton Dean, Oxfordshire

It was late morning as Simon finished his coffee and grabbed his jacket from the hook behind the door in the cloakroom.

It’s time to go, he thought.

In the background he could hear his brother reconfirming his ticket over the phone in the hall. Leaving through the back door, he immediately sensed the change in the weather. The past week had seen glorious sunshine with the odd intermittent shower but today the sky was grey and overcast. He pulled up the sliding door to the garage and jumped into the Mercedes. Twenty minutes later he was approaching the first of several roundabouts on the outskirts of Oxford.

As he drove, he contemplated some of the questions that were running through his mind. His priority was to find out more about the “Satanica”. If they were going to come looking for him then he had to know all about them.

He turned into the leafy avenue of Moorcroft Drive and parked the car outside number twenty-eight. The traffic had been relatively quiet on the way over and he’d made good time – a couple of minutes early for his twelve o’clock appointment. He walked up the stone steps to the front porch and, pressing the doorbell, heard its muffled buzz inside.

It was getting cold, he thought, pulling up the collar on his brown leather jacket. He stood there fidgeting from foot to foot waiting for the door to be opened but nothing happened. He pressed the doorbell again and turned around looking back down into the street. Again he waited but the professor didn’t appear. How strange, he thought, mentally checking the time that they had agreed to meet. He tried to lean over and peer into the bay window on his right but the grubby net curtains preserved the house’s privacy. Pressing the bell again, he leaned over the railing on the other side and looked down. Something instantly caught his eye – long fanlight window that supplied natural light to the basement was broken at one end. That’s odd, he thought. That’s happened since yesterday.

Another minute passed and it was clear that no one was going to open the door. He backed down the steps peering up at the façade of the house for any tell-tale sign of life at the windows. This is strange, he thought. It was the agreed time, and the professor had been quite insistent that he should arrive promptly. He stood on the garden path at the foot of the steps wondering what to do. Should I sit in the car and wait? Should I go home and try and arrange another appointment tomorrow?

He was about to turn around and leave when his eyes caught sight of the broken windowpane again. Following the path of broken concrete slabs that ran around the overgrown, knee-high grass in the front lawn, he crossed over to get a better look. On closer inspection, he could see that the hole in the window had been made near the metal catch that opened it from the inside.

It looks like someone’s broken the glass on purpose, he thought. Simon considered whether the professor might have done for some reason. He wondered whether he might have managed to lock himself out but he didn’t feel at all comfortable with the logic. The professor was an old man and he would have really struggled to get through such a narrow gap. Simon estimated that the window was only about twelve inches high by about five feet wide.

Curiosity got the better of him and, putting his weight on his knees, he tilted forward, pushed his hand through the gap and started feeling around inside. Keeping his arm fixed so that he didn’t touch the shards of glass around the edge, he released the catch and the window fell open.

“s**t,” he hissed sharply, wincing with pain.

The window was hinged at the top and the weight of the frame made it swing inwards. As the window fell, he tried to move his hand in time but it was too late. He cut the back of his hand on the glass shards and blood gushed from the wounds. Quickly, he pulled out a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wrapped it around his hand, using his teeth to hold one end and pull it into a tight knot. The cuts were quite deep but the cloth did the job and stemmed the bleeding for the time being.

Lying down flat, he quickly pushed the window open and slid his body through the small gap and onto the narrow ledge beyond. In one motion he then swung in his legs and dropped about seven feet to the stone floor. He cursed as he heard the window slam shut behind him. He stood motionless for a few seconds, listening for any unusual sounds but there was nothing. It was dark in the cellar and as his eyes became more accustomed to the light he saw that the room was empty apart from some wooden packing crates in the corner. Moving forward towards the door he noticed a rock on the ground. He assumed it must have been the one used to smash the window in the first place.

Simon cautiously walked through the cellar towards the stairs, trying to get his bearings. The steps must lead up to a door in the kitchen, he thought, trying to remember the upstairs layout. He grimaced with the sharp pain from his hand. It was aching like mad and, glancing down, he saw the blood was beginning to soak through the handkerchief

Ignoring the throbbing, he climbed the staircase in the dark, until he reached the wooden door. Light filtered in from the gaps around the doorframe. Slowly, he turned the handle and pushed the door open. Nothing − he could hear nothing at all as he pushed his head out. There were no lights on in the house and bearing in mind how grey and overcast it was outside, the house felt eerie and deserted.

This could be called breaking and entering, he thought to himself. He was about to call out Professor Palanski’s name when something stopped him – an eerie, morbid sensation that he recognised immediately from his days working for the UN in the poorest parts of Africa. It was the smell of death.

Quickly but quietly he entered the corridor, stepping closer to the door of the drawing room where they had been served coffee only the day before. The disturbing sense of trepidation grew stronger as he slowly pushed the door open and stepped in.

Terror shot through him like an electric shock. Convulsing, clutching his stomach, he felt as if he was about to pass out. He had found Professor Palanski and the cause of his alarm. High above him was his rotting body nailed to the wall and splayed in the shape of a crucifix. The sight was gruesome and macabre. Palanski had been mutilated almost beyond recognition.

Am I alone? Is the killer still here? His immediate thoughts were for his own safety as he tried to steady himself. His eyes frantically swept the room. He was alone. His heart pounding, Simon went closer and saw that the body had been attached using large masonry nails through the neck, feet and hands. Blood was smeared over the walls and dripping from the points where the nails had entered. The professor’s arms were outstretched, his clothes had been removed and a single nail pierced both feet, completing the image of Christ’s crucifixion. Whoever did this was sick, thought Simon, barely able to keep his eyes on the disgusting spectacle. Fighting the urge to just turn and run from the building, he forced himself to look again. “Whoever did this knew no limits,” he muttered to himself. The professor’s tongue had been cut out and his head lolled forward, the eyes bulged and Simon just couldn’t imagine the pain he must have suffered in his final living moments.

What should I do next? he contemplated? Should I phone the police? He knew that would be a mistake and, besides, how on earth would he be able to explain this? They would never believe him and he quickly decided against it. His thoughts turned to escape and he wondered whether the killer could still be watching the building. He felt the panic rise as he suddenly sensed the danger he might still be in. He tweaked aside one of the net curtains and peeked furtively, trying to make up his mind what to do. I’ve got to get away, was his overriding thought. Reaching the door, he stopped to look around one last time – and noticed two tell-tale signs that confirmed his worst fears. Firstly, although the room had been ransacked, it was comparatively empty… all of the professor’s books, papers and research documents had been removed and secondly, on the back of the door, were daubed the initials “MM” in blood.

Simon wasted no time. Scared he’d been seen coming through the front door, he rushed towards the back door to see if there was another avenue of escape. He was in luck. The path through the back garden led to a gate into an alleyway beyond. The walls of the garden were high enough for him to dart unseen past a timber garden shed and slip out of the garden gate.

What do I look like? he thought, suddenly very conscious of his own appearance. Apart from feeling hot and sweaty, his bandaged and bloody hand was sure to make him stand out from the crowd and attract the gaze of any innocent bystanders. Furtively, he looked over his shoulder before hurrying down the alley towards the path that would take back to the main road.

As he got to the corner, three youths in their mid-teens came around the bend laughing and chattering and faltered into shocked silence as their eyes fixed on the Simon. They abruptly sidestepped him as they noticed the blood soaked handkerchief. Averting his eyes from their curious gazes, he hastened past them, painfully aware of them watching him until he was out of sight. .

Out in the street, he crouched low and walked as quickly as possible to avoid anyone getting a good picture of who he was. He already had the keys in his hands as he reached the Mercedes. Jumping in as fast as he could, he turned on the ignition and pulled away.

“Damn those boys,” he muttered under his breath.

Driving slowly so as not to raise any undue attention, his mind raced. What the hell could he do next?

The body will be found sooner or later and when it is the police will come looking for me. He looked down at the central console and saw his mobile phone. There’s no choice, he thought.

He dialled Felix Bairstow and waited for him to answer.

“Felix, it’s me, Simon,” he said urgently, as he heard his familiar voice.

“What is it Simon? You sound as if there’s a problem.”

“There is, Felix, a big problem but I can’t talk about it now. I need you to do something for me.”

“Go ahead; I’ll do whatever I can.”

“I am going to be leaving the country today – so can you organise cash and any documentation I may need?”

“Where are you now?” Bairstow responded sharply.

“About twenty minutes from Tudor Hall.”

“Ok, I’ll be there within the hour,” he replied and signed off.

Simon drove through Oxford city centre and into the country lanes beyond that wound their way to the village of Sutton Dean. His mind kept replaying the horrific image of Professor Palanski’s desecrated carcass; his mutilated body crucified to the wall.

He turned the Mercedes into Tudor Hall’s drive and tried to focus on the present. He wasn’t sure what his next move should be but one thing was for sure: he had to get the hell out of the country.

Where should I go? he wondered. The professor’ death had not deterred him from fulfilling the mission of his grandfather’s legacy but now he really knew what he was up against. Maybe I should try and meet up with the girl first, he thought. Philip, please be here, he implored to himself, as the car pulled to a halt.

Marching quickly through the back door to the kitchen, he found Mrs. Vines.

“Where’s Philip?” he asked, not stopping to wait for an answer.

“What’s happened to your hand?” she replied, seeing the blood stained hankie.

“It’s Ok,” he said, continuing through the door to the corridor and the tiled hallway beyond.

“If you see Philip, can you tell him I need to see him now. It’s urgent,” he shouted over his shoulder. Reaching the hall, he swung round the banister, and raced up the imposing staircase two at a time.

“Philip!” he yelled, as he got near the top but there was no response. He rushed into his brother’s bedroom but he wasn’t there – only his packed suitcases sitting alongside his bed. Simon turned on his heels and entered his own bedroom to haul out his own suitcase from the depths of the wardrobe. Wincing at the sharp stab of pain in his hand, he realised he could ignore gash no longer – so he paused in the en suite bathroom to gingerly peel away the gore-encrusted cloth and douse the wounded area in cold running water.

Downstairs, Philip put his head round the back door. He’d been out in the garden when Simon had arrived. Strange, he thought as he saw the Mercedes speed up the gravel path. There’s something wrong. Although some distance away, he watched as his brother dashed inside the house quickly started hurrying back to investigate what was going on.

Philip briskly entered the kitchen.

“He’s upstairs,” said Mrs. Vines not waiting to be asked. “Something’s wrong. Philip. He’s cut his hand somehow.”

She had just been preparing to go out into the garden herself and try and find him.

“Ok, thanks,” said Philip firmly, and quickly, he traced his brother’s footsteps down the corridor and up the stairs.

“What’s happened?” asked Philip, marching into his brother’s bathroom.

“Palanski’s dead,” replied Simon, eyes wide in the mirror. “Murdered… His body had been nailed the wall in a crucifix… The letters ‘MM’ were scrawled on the wall.”

“Christ!” said Philip, shocked by the revelation he was hearing. He looked down at the running water in the basin. “What happened to your hand?”

“I cut it on some broken glass breaking in to the basement,” he replied, taking his hand out from under the tap and patting it dry with a towel. Philip could see that the gash really needed a few stitches. Briefly leaving the room, he was about to shout down to Mrs. Vines for some bandages when she appeared on the landing holding a medical box. She looked worried.

“Perfect timing,” said Philip, holding the door open for her.

She entered and immediately set to work on Simon’s wound. After cleaning it with some cotton wool and iodine, she wrapped it in gauze before covering it with a bandage.

“Thank you,” said Simon gratefully, rubbing his hand over the dressing. “That’s much better.”

With a taut smile, the elderly Mrs. Vines left the room. She sensed the tension in the air and knew the brothers were keen to be left alone.

“I have to leave immediately,” said Simon. “I was seen leaving the house by some kids.”

He threw his suitcase on the bed and lifted the top.

The events conspired against Philip’s better judgement. Seeing his brother’s plight, he couldn’t just walk away. At that moment, Philip made a split second decision.

“I’m coming with you.”

Simon looked up and saw his brother’s smile.

“Thank God – at last,” he replied smiling broadly back at him.

“Someone’s got to look after you,” quipped Philip reassuringly. He put his hand on his shoulder as Simon returned in earnest to the task bundling his clothes into the case.

“It was incredible… They’d cut his tongue out and cleared the room of all his research,” he said, shaking his head.

“Do you think they’d have interrogated Palanski before they killed him? Do you think he’s told them about us? About what we’re doing?” asked Philip.

This was a thought that Simon forced to the back of his mind. Reluctantly, he knew he had to accept the fact that there was a strong possibility that the “Satanica” were on their trail.

“I think we have to assume they know,” said Simon.

“In which case we need to get going now!” replied Philip. The doorbell sounded in the background and he glanced out of the window overlooking the front drive.

“That should be Felix, I called him on the way back,” said Simon.

“It is,” confirmed Philip, seeing his Jaguar parked at the front.

Simon swung his case off the bed and they hastened downstairs to meet him, Philip making a brief detour to collect his own things.

Felix was waiting in the drawing room holding a dossier under his arm.

“Philip will be coming with me,” said Simon, entering the room.

“That’s good news– your grandfather would be delighted… It’s got to help your chances of success,” he said, nodding at Philip.

“For reasons I can’t explain now, we need to leave right now,” stated Philip curtly.

“I understand. I’ll be quick,” said Bairstow, sitting down and opening the folder on the coffee table in front of him. “In here is everything you’ll need. You have details on the whereabouts of Anna Nikolaidis, information pertaining to the fragment of ‘arkheynia’ discovered off the coast of Thailand, and of course, access to the actual hidden Judas Scrolls themselves. I’d suggest you think about regaining possession of these first.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” interrupted Simon. “Am I right in saying that the whereabouts of the other bone fragments are stored with the scrolls?”

“That’s right – they’re in a safe deposit box at a bank in Switzerland… You’ll need to travel to Basle first − all the instructions are in here but I need your signatures on certain formalities that need to be processed.” He lifted some forms from the folder, which they duly signed and handed back to him.

“That takes care of it…” Bairstow stated with heroic understatement, closing the file and handing it over to Philip. “Oh, one last thing I failed to mention… I’ve organised a joint bank account in both your names with a large credit balance – the details are inside.”

He nodded at the file.

“It sounds like you’ve thought of everything,” replied Simon gratefully. He looked up at his brother. “Time we were going.”

“Felix, your life could be in danger as well,” said Philip, stretching out his hand to say goodbye.

“I know,” he replied. “I’ve put notes on the file in case you need to contact me.”

He shook their hands and left. Minutes later, the brothers said their farewells to Mrs. Vines, loaded their cases into the back of the Mercedes and sped out of the drive. Fifteen minutes later they were on the M40 motorway, heading for Heathrow Airport.

While Philip drove, Simon used his phone to make enquiries about the next departures to Basle.

“Find out if there are any direct flights to Athens as well?” asked Philip.

Simon looked back at him curiously while speaking into the phone.

They were in luck. There was a direct evening Swissair flight to Basle that departed at five-thirty and another flight leaving from the same terminal to Athens an hour and half later.

“I think we should split up,” said Philip. “I’ll go to Basle and you go and find Anna Nikolaidis in Greece. I’ll give you the information on her whereabouts when we get to the airport. Anyway, I’m pretty sure that getting the scrolls will only take a day.”

Although Simon was reluctant to separate from his brother so soon, he knew that in the circumstances it was the wisest decision – it would mean getting to Thailand all the sooner. Nodding in agreement, he checked his watch and confirmed their reservations with a credit card over the phone.

The journey to Heathrow took just under an hour. They parked the car in the long-term car park and twenty minutes later they had both checked in and were sitting in the Business Class lounge waiting for their flights to be called.

An hour later the last call for Philip’s flight to Basle was announced over the loudspeaker.

“Are we doing the right thing?” he asked as he stood up and collected his bag.

“Yes,” replied Simon emphatically. “Remember, it doesn’t matter what decision we make, they’ll be coming after us now!”

“I guess you’re right,” said Philip.

“Call me when you get to your hotel.”

His brother nodded.

A short time later Philip was staring out the window, thumbing absently through a picture brochure of recommended hotels in Basle town centre as the plane climbed up over the Surrey countryside. What on earth have I let myself in for?

A little over an hour later, Simon’s flight took off for Athens. He tried to force himself to think of the job that lay ahead but it wasn’t easy. Again he visualised the terrifying scene that had greeted him in the Professor’s drawing room. The whole episode had left him feeling exhausted and emotionally drained. Just one thought gave him some comfort – that he was not embarking on this quest alone. For better or worse they were in this together.