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always the chance that the Reverend Spode, a bachelor, was not one who retired to bed early. But if the
clergyman had done so then he would have to be disturbed. It was a matter more grave than life or
death, the souls of many at dire risk, and now Sabat had the Archbishop's blessing to continue the case.
He would have done so even without it but it made it easier.
The drizzle had gone and the night was clear and dry, the moon reflected on the river as Sabat passed
through Evesham. Only twenty miles to go; he almost relaxed as he motored through leafy avenues that
were the pride of England, his acute sense of smell picking up the odour of extensive orchards of ripening
fruit.
Suddenly he was braking, the tyres squealing their protest as he hit an unexpected bank of thick fog. The
nearside wheels mounted the verge, slewed back on to the road again, and the DaimJer skidded to a
halt.
'Fuck it!' He stared in disbelief at the thick swirling white vapour, a cold clammy steam that was even
now drifting in through the open window, his body chilling instantly. The opaqueness threw back the
powerful headlight beams, dazzling him.
And in that instant he knew! Oh Jesus, the dark forces which had delayed him at the car while Miranda
was snatched away were now bent on ensuring that he did not reach his destination, that he did not
discover the whereabouts ofRoyston 's temple of evil!
He stiffened, closed his eyes, and only opened them again when the searing blindness was gone.
Silence. Darkness. The engine was no longer running and the headlights appeared to have gone out. . .
unless the fog was so thick that it hid them completely!
Sabat braced himself, waited for the mocking laughter which he knew would follow. 'You're beaten this
time. At our mercy!' Quentin's voice without a doubt, coming like a hammer blow to the jaw of a boxer
already reeling on the ropes.
But Sabat had been in tight corners before, had learned to control his rising panic. Around his neck was
the protective crucifix, garlic bulbs in his pocket; a comparatively safe defence, but there was an enemy
within the flesh and bones of his besieged fort - Quentin!
Maniacal laughter jarred his nerves, had him writhing as though in physical pain. Those cold fingers like
the hands of Death himself were touching his face, icy sweat running down his face. Then amid the terror
came an idea, loud and clear like the clarion call of a rescuing company of troops, a sliver of ingenuity
impinging itself in his muzzy brain. He had exorcised many places, people - why not himself'
He shuddered at the implications; that boxer again, pinned back on the ropes, swinging one mightly
knockout punch. If it landed, he won. If not, his defences were wide open. A last desperate throw!
Failure he dared not contemplate. Neither did he wish to dwell on his decision. Win or lose, it was made.
Quentin's voice, an incomprehensible babble that was wearing him down, opening up the gate to let the
enemy in.
Sabat was shouting, screaming, trying to pronounce each word clearly, frightened lest the mental
confusion might close in before he was finished. 'I command you, evil spirit, in the Name of God the
Father Almighty, in the Name of Jesus Christ his only Son, and in the name of the Holy Spirit . . . ' he had
to gasp' for breath, a kind of asthma constricting his lungs, threatening to collapse them. That . . . harming
no one . . . you depart from this . . . creature which is myself . . . and return to the place appointed you,
there to remain forever.'
He exhaled deeply, had to draw again for life-giving breath, the pain in his chest crippling. Noises inside
his head which threatened to dement him, clinging desperately to a cliff face beneath which a black chasm
yawned, a voice that threatened to suck him down.
He heard Quentin again. This time there was no laughter, just an obscene blasphemy. 'Damn you, you
won't rid yourself of me like that because I am you, Mark Sabat. You torture yourself.'
That much was true. Sabat felt the excruciating pain, screamed his agony but somehow held on to his
sanity. A duel was taking place within him, the same as it had that last time between Quentin and himself.
The chasm below was that grave, bigger, alive with evil. The .38 barked its hate, spewing his brother's
brains out like stringy phlegm.
Winning and yet losing, a stalemate once the powdersmoke had drifted away.
Sabat sank sideways across the front seat, closed his eyes and experienced an overpowering exhaustion.
He wanted to sleep . . . had to. Silence, the voice had gone, just a terrible stillness which left him
trembling.
'But you haven't won the day, Sabat!' Quentin's voice, vibrant with fury, but dying away, to an
unintelligible muttering.
And Sabat knew that he was alone at last. That last super-psychic effort had repelled the enemy, driven
them back into the darkness. He reared up on an elbow, glanced through the windscreen, saw that the
fog had gone. Silvery moonlight reflected on the hedges and a warm summer breeze was breathing its
fragrant breath in through the window.
Sabat made a supreme effort and struggled up into a sitting position. If he had not grasped the steering
wheel he would have slumped back. God, his whole body ached, his brain was numb the way it often
was after an exorcism when he had projected his entire mental strength at an opposing evil spirit.
The engine had stalled. He tried to start it, -barely had the strength to turn it over once. And that
remaining strength was wilting like an autumn flower. Totally spent, exorcist and exorcised, a combined
role that had sapped him.
Even as he felt for the starter again he sensed himself falling; that black chasm again but the evil had gone
from it. Just cool and welcoming, a place in which to drift and sleep.. .
Miranda had sat silent, staring straight ahead of her but seeing nothing on the roads that led away from
Warwickshire, a total lack of awareness so that when the big man behind the wheel took a sharp bend
too fast she was thrown against the door. A bang on her head that would normally have brought a cry of
pain from her lips did not so much as alter the glazed expression on her features. Yet she was aware of
her predicament, her terror, in the 107
same way that a hospital patient stirring in a deep coma knows but is unable to communicate. An
acceptance of her fate because she knew that she could not escape it. In a way she had already died.
At last the car slowed, the tyres crunching on thick gravel, crawling up a winding drive lined with
rhododendrons, coming to a halt. Royston switched off the engine, turned to his companion.
'So easy/ he murmured, his eyes narrowing, once again the hawk which had swooped and taken off again
with its helpless prey dangling in its talons, not even struggling. 'And in spite of Sabat's meddling we are in
time.' He laughed, an unpleasant sound, got out and came round to unlatch the passenger door.
Miranda's movements were jerky, a robot in human shape, her only feeling that one spark of terror
somewhere deep inside her. Her limp hand was clutched and she found herself stumbling along at the side
of her tall companion, wicked briars reaching out to clutch at her ankles, low branches whipping her face
as though the forces of Nature were eager for the torment to commence.
They skirted the large black and white timbered house, half moonlit, half in shadow, a place that seemed
to brood, its windows eyes that scrutinised her. Down paths that twisted and wound back on themselves
in places. Once Miranda would have fallen headlong had not Royston been gripping her wrist; he caught
her, pulled her roughly upright in the same movement. There was no time to linger. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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